Life, much like the dense forests of Narnia, is brimming with brambles and thistles. The wisest course is to traverse these swiftly. For if we linger too long amidst our woes, their shadows grow.

Thornsnout, Badger philosopher, The Golden Age, 1002.

~O~

I, High King Peter the Magnificent, Emperor of the Lone Islands, Lord of Cair Paravel, and Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, make the following decree:

Reminding all realms and creatures that honouring the Great Charter of Narnian Law is fundamental to the peace and prosperity of our lands, and that all, be they small as mice or great as Giants, must abide by the principles of justice and equity;

Deeply concerned by recent reports of unwarranted aggressions and encroachments by the Giants of Ettinsmoor against innocent travellers and Narnian citizens;

Insists upon the cessation of any construction of Walls or Barriers that have not been agreed upon and ratified by the Narnian Assembly, in accordance with the Treaties of Old;

Bearing in mind that any realm engaging in further hostilities that undermine our collective values will face sanctions approved by the Assembly of Talking Beasts;

Further recommends the Giants of Ettinsmoor to engage in dialogue with the court of Cair Paravel, through the impartial facilitation of Narnia's High King, to resolve the current disputes in a manner honouring the enduring spirit of Aslan.

~O~

Peter sighs, rolling up the scroll. He could not count how many iterations of the resolution he had written.

"Is it necessary to list all these titles at the very beginning?" he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

"It is customary to assert your authority, Your Majesty," Phillip responds.

Peter hadn't expected a reply; the question was meant to be rhetorical. But the noble Horse had taken his role as the ever-present advisor quite seriously, staying steadfastly by Peter's side, even inside the private confines of his tent.

His gaze drifted towards the entrance, where a Centaur, Cheetah, and Lynx are all roving, seemingly mirroring his own restlessness. "Phillip, this level of security... it's almost suffocating. Surely, no one would dare an assassination attempt under such a watch?"

"Precaution is never excessive, Sire," Phillip counters. "And I dare not face King Edmund's ire should any harm befall you on my watch. Again."

"The fault was mine. I was the one who chose to hunt alone."

He had been hunting that day, clad in hunter's garb chasing the trails of deer, and he had gotten carried away. In that moment, for one brief instant, he forgot that he was king; instead revelling in a wild freedom behind which all thoughts of duty had dissolved into nothingness.

As the night grew darker, he had kept chasing the animal further and further into a cave, exhaustion creeping up on him from all sides like an encroaching mist, before something else had materialised and seized him.

He still could not believe the Prince of Archenland had tried to kill him. He loved King Lune like a father, and that respect extended to his family. But how far could his forgiveness stretch?

Still, Peter knew that the gravity of such a treason cannot be overlooked. Corin himself offered no explanations nor sought to defend his actions. As far as it could benefit the dignity of a royal subject, Peter had him silently dispatched to Narnia for trial. There, he would entrust the matter to his siblings.

Susan would lend reason well, and Edmund would surely be able to adjudicate the matter and follow it through to its most just conclusion. However, for Lucy, the ordeal might strike a far more personal chord. She had always harboured a special fondness for Prince Corin, and Peter fears she would not be impartial and far too sympathetic to preside over such a matter.

He trusts his siblings will see justice served. Peter did not have the wherewithal to think about all of the manifold consequences—not with literal Giants on his radar.

Phillip brings him out of his musing. "Shall we send a letter to update your siblings, Sire? I'm sure Queen Lucy has been waiting."

Peter stops pacing. It should be a simple task.

He looks at the blank parchment, envisioning the words spooling out from the quill. But it lay motionless and without grace in his hand.

Though he was not wearing his crown, all of a sudden, he feels the weight of it.

"No, not yet," Peter says.

"But they need to know what's happening."

Peter leans back on his chair with a growing sense of frustration. If only sending letters sufficed. "I have made no progress with the Giants, Phillip. Not a single step forward."

Phillip, ever the voice of reason, asks cautiously, "Your Majesty, I do not wish to overstep, however the soldiers are growing restless with uncertainty. Our encampment here has extended beyond a lunar cycle. Might it be prudent to consider a return home?"

Peter pauses, his hand hovering over the scroll and considering the implications if he were to come back to Narnia with such a resolution. How could he face his subjects if he cannot get the Giants to bend to his will? What kind of King would be deserving of those numerous titles that span the heights of mountains to the lowest levels of seas?

Peter stands with his feet planted firmly on the ground like a stone statue, unflappable and solid. "You're right, Phillip. You're overstepping."

Phillip stands still, his nostrils flaring and eyes widening. Then with a resigned whinny, Phillip merely responds, "Understood, Sire," before turning away and trotting off, his deep chestnut neck drooping down.

Peter turns back, reading the beginning of the resolution once more.

High King Peter. The Magnificent, it follows. As if, somehow, to make up for the fact of him.

~O~

Edmund was thankful that Calla obliged to accompany him to Tashbaan. Aside from her somewhat better knowledge of Calormen's geography, she seemed well versed with the culture and knew how to communicate well with locals, enough to find their way to Tashbaan by nightfall.

He isn't quite partial to the southern region's sun, an oppressive and ever-present glare beating down on his skin. However, the night brought forth a chilling wind that was just as harsh and nipping.

He wraps the headdress closer around him. Specks of sand keep getting into his eyes, rising unexpectedly with the wind before settling down again but precisely where he does not want them to be.

Meanwhile, Calla is marching forward with undiminishing effort, and Edmund wonders whether she's walking with confidence towards a goal or running away from something behind.

The imposing gates of Tashbaan loomed ahead, emerging from the dusty horizon like a formidable wave about to crash onto a shoreline. A multitude of travellers converged towards the entry point, forming a meandering line that snaked its way to the city's heart.

As they fall in order with the rest of the visitors entering the city's gate, it's only then when Edmund notices each person stopping as they are approached by guards.

He feels his heart lodge in his throat. "There are checkpoints?" Edmund whispers to Calla.

"And?"

"And if I am to be recognized?" He swallows hard, feeling the dryness in his throat.

"They will if you keep acting important," she replies, tone indifferent. "Just stay close and keep your head low. Most people can't spot a wolf in sheep's clothing if it danced the jig in front of them—or so I'm told."

Edmund, deciding to follow her instead of moving backwards and disrupting the line, hunches his shoulders. He watches as the woman in front of them, carrying a child, approaches the checkpoint.

The guard looks at her. "You have no chaperone?"

"My husband is dead."

Edmund could not see the woman's eyes from the hooded garment on her head, but he could tell she was tired and desperate.

The guard's expression remains impassive. "You are not permitted. Leave," he dismisses her unceremoniously.

"O Wise Master, I have a trade. Look," she shows the baskets wrapped around her person. "See? Goods to sell. Please, I have nowhere else to go, and my child—" the woman pleads, voice cracking.

Just then, Edmund hears the clopping of hooves before turning around to men approaching on horseback, adorned with the trappings of wealth on their person. They skirt effortlessly through the crowd, bypassing the inspector without so much as a notice.

The guard turns his attention once again to the woman.

"Leave now, or you'll regret holding up the line." His hand moves threateningly to the hilt of his sword—a weapon that curved to a gleaming point.

At this, the woman's shoulders slump in defeat. She whispers a word of apology to the little boy on her shoulder—no more than five, if he had to guess—and lets a silent tear trace her cheek as she retraces her steps back to the desert.

Edmund watches the exchange with his jaw clenched and an undercurrent of heat surging through his veins like molten steel. He's about to step forward and give him a piece of his mind when Calla stops him, grabbing his upper arm with the striking precision of a desert snake.

Leave it, her eyes command.

Before he could argue, she had already stepped forward to make her case. "We are here for the Temple of Tash."

The guard gives a sceptical once-over, his gaze lingering on Edmund. For a moment, Edmund holds his breath, but the guard nods and gestures to their safe passage.

He stopped for one last glance over his shoulder; the woman had settled onto the curb of the road, cradling her child in her arms and gently rubbing their sides to create some semblance of warmth. The gesture was as simple as it was heartbreaking.

Only then does Edmund observe the rest of the crowd, the sight of the woman framing his observations of them more intimately: how each person trudging towards the gate bore the weight of their livelihood on their backs—hundreds of bags, bundles, and baskets laden with their goods and hope.

The scene before him is a far cry from his home, where gates did not exist, only the welcoming Trees, their canopies offering comfort and shade to weary travellers.

Edmund stands frozen, unable to leave the old woman looking as she is, but Calla had grabbed his arm and he was pushed further by the people behind him impatient to enter the gates.

He resolves silently to find a way to help the mother once he's inside the city. Even if it is a small gesture. Even if it is a huge risk.

The lack of an effective state could be singled out as the root of Tashbaan's ills, Edmund notes, his gaze lingering on the rubbish strewn along the streets and the guards passing by, nonchalantly holding ale in their hands.

"Do you know of a place to stay?" Edmund asks as he scans the surroundings. The market square is alive with the din of merchants and townsfolk, the air filled with the clamour of overlapping voices, scents of a dozen different spices, and mule bells clanking.

"There's an inn," Calla responds, pointing towards a modest building nestled between two bustling stalls.

Upon entering the establishment, Edmund and Calla are immediately enveloped by the crowd taking up the space so much so it was difficult to pace around without bumping into somebody. The air is thick with the aroma of cooked meals, mingling with the sound of laughter and the occasional clink of glasses.

Edmund follows Calla as she navigates through the crowd with ease, cutting between two men in chequered headdresses arguing over cards at a round table, and skirting another group gathered around tankards. It almost seems her familiarity with the inn's layout and the casual nods she exchanges with a few regulars suggest that this isn't her first visit to such a place.

Reaching the innkeeper, Edmund taps her by the shoulder. "We've not the money."

"Do not worry about it." Calla flashes him a few silver crescents.

"Where did you get that?"

Calla only grins, and Edmund only has to retrace Calla's movements in the inn before realising he had been paying more attention to the back of her head than he did her hands, how expertly they had plucked pockets and coin bags.

Turning towards the innkeeper, Calla engages in a brief but efficient conversation. She turns with a proud smile and lets Edmund know she has gotten them two rooms.

As they receive their keys, Edmund can't help but feel unease. A king should be above such indiscretions, but principles were only ever easy to follow with a full stomach. Even still he could not help but feel thankful for what she had managed to provide: the small comfort of a roof over their heads, even if it was procured through less than legal means.

"You should eat first. The Tisroc's court will not be seeing anyone this late. So best to gather your strength for tomorrow," Calla advises. "Order anything you like."

Edmund slowly turns to look at the barkeep in front: an old man, seemingly half blind, turns with deep set, exhausted eyes.

"Well?" He asks.

Edmund clears his throat. "Beer," he says.

The barkeep, however, does not attempt to make any move to serve him, as though not understanding him.

"One… uh… one beer?" He tries again, his request sounding more like a question.

"We will be having four glasses of arak," Calla corrects with much more confidence. "And flatbread please. Slightly charred on the edges. "

As Calla slips him a silver crescent, the barkeep reacts immediately, turning to retrieve something from the under cabinets. Everything about her body language mirrored those around her, like she belonged here. Laid-back, unkempt, uncaring.

When the barkeep slides four glasses and a smoky plate of the flatbread, Calla takes them and gestures to a semi-secluded table on the other side of the inn. Edmund, taking the warm plate, lets his shoulders relax slightly, eager to eat.

"Try it," she encourages, pushing a glass filled with an amber liquid towards him, her fingers brushing the rim.

Edmund looks at the murky white glass with trepid eyes. It smells rancid compared to his drink of choice: Narnian Stout is a deep black ale with an off-white foam, famous for its dark malts and hints of hop spice—a staple even for the Centaurs who drink it for breakfast.

Tentatively, he takes a sip, his expression morphing from scepticism to surprise as the alchemy of water and grapes unfolds in his mouth, burning through his throat like liquid fire, but a pleasant, smoky sweetness lingers in his tongue.

It's strong. He reckons that Peter would collapse after three servings. Susan would not like the astringency, as she's always partial to the mellow fruit flavours of Narnian red wine.

Lucy, on the other hand, will like it very much. She's always had a more daring palate, and she would surely ask the water nymphs to try and replicate the arak's flavour in time for the next ball.

"This… it's quite good," Edmund admits.

Calla smiles, pleased with his reaction.

Edmund puts the glass down, the strong taste still lingering in his mouth. "You seem to know your way around here."

"Travelling. You learn a lot," she replies, clipped and to the point.

"Did you journey often with Bane?" Edmund attempts on a more personal vein of conversation.

Instead of answering, Calla's gaze hardens and she pushes another glass in front of him. "One more?"

"I'm good, thank you," he declines, deciding it prudent to keep himself sober and alert, especially in a place where he does not memorise the streets.

"May I speak freely?" she asks.

Edmund raises a brow, but he nods, gesturing for her to continue.

"You are the most dull creature I'm forced to accompany."

"That's… that's quite rude."

"Is being factual rude? I hadn't thought so," Calla laughs. "Yesterday, I had to trick you into showing your teeth just to get a smile out of you."

Edmund knit his brows. She spoke of his humour as if it were a tangible thing that had to be extracted from his organs.

She continues. "You should learn to enjoy yourself. This city, the villagers, the food, the drinks—it's a very beautiful place if you give it a chance."

"There is a great deal going on at the moment," he replies, to say nothing of the actual gravity of the situation. He tries not to think too much of Peter or Susan, knowing all he could do was worry on their behalf. "To indulge in such merriment while many are facing adversity would not only be unbecoming, but would also undermine my pledge to be a better king. Isn't that what you had told me last time?"

"Not exactly. It's important to remain present with tragedies, but I am of the opinion that constantly thinking about hardship—without giving oneself a moment's respite or care—can only wear you down." Calla's voice had turned to the kind of conviction he thinks he hasn't heard before, as though it was a truth she truly believed.

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it," Edmund says, unable to agree.

"I believe we have to grab whatever pleasures we can find in front of us, lest we end up living our lives just waiting for the next tragedy," Calla adds, something dark passing in her eyes for a brief moment before all traces of it vanish into an otherwise pleasant expression. "And speaking of the next tragedy, do you have a speech for your marriage proposal?"

Edmund balks, his composure momentarily slipping. "I… no."

"Oh, goodness." She reaches for Edmund's glass, downing one in a fluid motion. "A proposal at best is well-prepared spontaneity. At worst it's an ambush."

"My sister never told me I should—"

"I do not think she should be held accountable for the glaring gaps in your general knowledge." Her frustration is clear but restrained in one raised eyebrow. "You at least know her name?"

"I will be swift to remember once I make my way to Anvard."

"Could be worse," Calla sighs. "I dare say if you don't desire to murder each other at first sight, that is a luckier marriage than most."

"I shall make the most of whatever situation befalls upon me," Edmund insists, although he thinks he isn't asking much to find a lady without the vapours every time he says something. But he steels his nerves and remembers that his own needs are second to that of Narnia.

As long as Edmund's marriage meant that Susan did not have to be forced into one, he would gladly accept it.

But why should it take all of that to make that point clear to Rabadash? Why can't her own refusal be enough for him?

Edmund thinks about the woman outside the gate, still cold and hungry, without a husband of consequence to intervene for her.

"Are you all right?" Calla asks. "You haven't touched your food."

Edmund grabs the flatbread, still warm from the plate. He stands up, less wary about the people around him. "I'll be right back."

~O~

When Edmund left, Calla felt a small worry growing inside of her.

She could sense his suspicions, and it sent a cold chill down her spine. The second half of the plan was coming soon; all that was left to do now was get him in position. Sure, she could kill him in his sleep later. But it's not exactly low profile to haul around a dead body.

How was she supposed to get his trust in such a short time?

Edmund's return seems to be taking longer than expected. She worries perhaps he had truly seen through her and made a break for it.

Frustrated, Calla gets up from the table and heads out, elbowing locals as she pushes open the creaking door. The night had grown quieter and more peaceful. Shadows loom large and reach deep into crenellated walls and pointed archways that make up Tashbaan's city.

She glances up for a moment at one tall building: the Temple of Tash, an impressive structure of countless clay bricks stacked together that seemed to reach right up into the sky, as though trying to reach where the god himself lives.

"What is a woman doing out alone?" someone demands from behind, voice like gravel.

Calla turns around. A guard has come out from the shadows. "Where is your chaperone?" he asks, gaze sweeping over her without any effort to conceal the way he looks her up and down.

She frowns. Some moons ago, she was able to walk freely around Calormen or any southern region on her own without anyone questioning it.

"Surely, this is a jest? In all my travels here, I've never encountered such a rule."

"It is by the direct command of the Tisroc (may he live forever). The edict was proclaimed by none other than the Crown Prince Rabadash himself (may he conquer with his infallible wisdom), right here in this very square. It is not for us to question but to obey."

Calla tries to think. Now that she did not have the protection of the Guild, she could not threaten or intimidate her way out.

She reaches for the dagger at her hip. A small crowd of onlookers have stopped their trails to look at what imminent punishment she might receive from the guard.

Before she could do anything, a new voice cuts through the noise.

"Step away from her at once."

The guard turns his head and Calla follows suit, landing at no one else but the Just King himself, his eyes with his usual sternness as he approaches, putting himself between her and the guard.

Calla, feeling an inexplicable relief at being spoken for, remains silent, almost worried breathing would invoke a brawl.

She takes a second look at the guard, gauging his proclivity to fight or let it stand. "Is she yours?"

"She is my wife," Edmund declares, tone brooking no argument. But the shock of his false claim is overridden when he steps beside her and she feels his grip around her shoulders. Almost possessive, if only for show. "I am indebted to you for locating her on my behalf. She has but a sordid penchant for wandering without my permission. But her conduct is mine to correct, not yours."

She noted how the man raised eyebrows at his tone and his accent, which definitely marked him as an outsider. "You're not from around here."

"No, we are not. But ignorance of your customs is not a crime," he says, standing his ground the same way a boulder stands on a river. "We seek no trouble and will be on our way."

The man and seemingly the leader among them, gave a nod of discreet satisfaction with his answer. "Put a leash on her if you need to," he says as he walks back, muttering to himself.

As the crowd disperses, Calla strains to look down at Edmund's grip, tight on the crook of her neck and shoulder. But when she turns around to face him, his eyes briefly soften before returning to its previous vigilance.

"You will not turn from me again," he says gruffly, more for the benefit of any lingering onlookers than for her. "Or I shall not be so forgiving."

Then, shifting his stance, he leans closer to her, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Stay close. Keep your head low. Now, quickly."

Calla nods, falling into step behind him.

As they make their entrance towards the inn and up the stairs, Calla keeps her gaze fixed on Edmund's back, feeling a strange sense of security in his presence. Whether that was because she had just narrowly escaped danger or the simple fact that he seemed the kind of man that did not have a malicious bone in his body, she was not in the headspace to distinguish just yet.

"I had it under control," she tells him as he keys one of the doors to their rooms open.

Edmund nods in mock seriousness. "Looked like it."

Calla scoffs. "And you? Where did you disappear to?"

He responds by walking to the door across Calla, the other room she reserved for him, and knocks. The door swings open, revealing the mother they had seen earlier being turned away by the guards.

"Is everything alright, O Kindest and Most Honourable Master?" the woman asks, the lines on her face a telltale sign she aged with worry and concern.

"Nothing, my lady Zohra. But I insist you simply call me Edric," Edmund responds. "Is little Hisham asleep?"

She nods gracefully. "He is."

"I trust the room is warm and comfortable."

"It is."

Calla watched the exchange with a growing sense of irritation, her forehead creasing with each polite inquiry Edmund made. She couldn't understand why he had gone out of his way to retrieve a poor woman outside the gates. He could have risked his identity, his life, even. For a king, he seems to have his priorities misplaced.

"I cannot thank you enough for this generosity," Zorah adds.

Edmund throws Calla a glance. "It was she who paid for it."

"O, you are very, very generous, my lady." The woman throws herself at her feet, thanking her profusely. "May Tash the Inexorable, the Inimitable, bless you abundantly."

Calla remains silent, unsure how to react to thanks she didn't deserve, and more importantly, for an act she wouldn't have thought to perform herself.

Her eyes then land on Edmund, slightly critical. How could he so nonchalantly throw resources at someone who couldn't offer any tangible reward in return?

Edmund instead offers a hand to help the weary mother to her feet. "My deepest apologies for this untimely disturbance. I simply wanted you to meet her. That is all."

He bids her goodnight.

"Tash keep you," Zorah responds before shutting the door.

Turning back towards her room, Calla tries to hide the scowl in her face. Edmund stays by the doorframe, polite as always.

Does he expect her to offer the room for him? A room that was all but a modest-sized stone bed, a small table, and a window with a view of the starlit sky.

In fact, she's a little annoyed. Crescents are spent for their potential return, not doled out on whims of pity. Now she has to recalculate. The innkeeper below had mentioned she was lucky to grab the last two rooms.

It seems this "Edric" is a lot more difficult to manage than she anticipated.

"I suppose I was wrong," Calla says.

"About what?"

"Perhaps you're not the dullest creature I have met," she replies, a grin breaking through her seriousness. "Tonight's theatrics must surely count for something. But really. Marriage? You could not have thought of a better ruse?"

"I was under duress and did not have time to strategize, not in the time allocated," he says. "But it did spare us both more complicated explanations."

Calla nods. "Not for your Archenland princess if she finds out. But I suppose travelling together like this was always bound to questions."

"Considering the circumstances, it's best if we stay close together from now on."

Calla tilts her head, not sure if she had heard correctly. "Together?"

"I mean, not necessarily in your room of course," Edmund hastily clarifies. "As I'm sure you must be wanting privacy." He bites his lip, cheeks and ears noticeably more flush.

Beneath that nobility and kingly upbringing was a man same as all men. Imprisoned by their flesh. The strength of their body that easily becomes its own weakness. The flush in his cheeks prove how human he truly was, and equal parts noble and fallible.

A realisation clicks into place. Perhaps in order to achieve her goal she must in some small way seduce him, to entice and lure him further with each smile and glance, to unearth certain feelings in his gut, whether real or imagined. That is how she can earn his trust in the quickest time possible.

"Well, you were gallant to give your room to someone more in need. I would not mind if you stayed," Calla says, voice velvet and eyes keen, conscious of the strange pull such a gaze could do. "Besides, it would not be so strange. We are married, after all."

Edmund's hand reaches for the door knob, his movements slightly jerky, as though he is desperate to reallocate his attention elsewhere, anywhere. "I shall grab a little bit more of the arak downstairs. Let me know if you need anything."

He closes the door as a small, knowing smile plays on her lips.


Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I'd also like to thank my boyfriend for very lovingly beta reading this and helping me flesh out the characters where I get bogged down by the world building and plottery.

We talked about how Peter would struggle with his title of being Magnificent, and how we would both quite feel challenged to be in his shoes. We also particularly enjoyed writing more banter from Edmund and Calla.

We hope parts of this chapter resonated with you. Until then, see you next chapter!