Small village near the Cauldron Pool.

Edmund.

There was fury in her eyes.

And icy fury that he knew was cutting.

The man had been foolish to try to harm the dryad.

And even more foolish to not heed his wife's words to leave.

She would not ask again.

…

Arianna.

The borrowed blade was heavier than her own, but those she'd left in the nondescript room in the inn, beneath her travel leathers. So, she adjusted her grip ever so slightly and it was as if it became an extension of herself.

She saw nothing but the hunter before herm though she knew Edmund was moving the dryads back.

The leaves rustled in the slight wind and the May Day celebrations continued on – the villagers unaware of what happened in the dark bowers just beyond the bonfire's lights.

Cyrus's eyes darted between her and Edmund – questioning the validity of her words, realising perhaps that they matched perfectly the descriptions from the songs of the bards. He'd felt her magic; and idly she wondered what he had heard of her. For though her heritage had not been made common knowledge, they did not hide that it had been she who had been their enemy in the north.

Had he heard the tale of her beheading the giant king?

Or the tale of her flooding the villages for a swift and easy defeat against the Pevensies?

Had he heard how the frost fae had sworn their allegiance to her and her only?

He had heard of something, for fear flickered in his eyes for the barest of moments before they hardened.

"Are you going to kill me, Great Queen?" He slowly drew his own blade; eyes never leaves hers. His voice turned soft and musical, as if he were trying to hypnotize her. The edge of his sword shone malevolently as he twirled it with careless abandon. His bone white hair was in disarray from what she assumed had been the dryad's hands.

She said nothing – she was not a fan of the moniker, though it had been given to her by Aslan himself.

She was nothing great.

But she was a queen.

And in marrying Edmund, the dryad who he had attacked had become one of her people.

And more than anything, she would always protect her own.

Then Cyrus's foot twitched.

Arianna leapt forward in that time that he had blinked; his sword slashing uselessly through the air where her body had been but a moment before. His growl coursed through her, her veins alight with the thrill as she landed deftly, rolling and leaping backwards as he slashed again.

His was not a fighting style that she had encountered before.

But the thought had barely registered when he pressed forward, a series of slashing and downcutting strikes that forced her to defend. She tumbled backwards, springing onto her hands – her foot lashed out, connecting with his jaw with a satisfying crack. He stumbled backwards as she landed in a crouch, the dagger held before her.

It was shorter than her own, so she needed to get closer, well within his swords reach.

She could use her magic; but the heat of the fires was slowly draining her and she did not want to leave herself and the dryads defenceless.

He snarled again, charging for her. She turned on her heel, launching herself onto one of the lower branches of a nearby tree.

His grip on her ankle was painfully tight, and with barely any effort he tugged on her leg at the last minute, swinging her violently through the air. Her breath left her, and her face twisted in pain as her side burned, feeling her ribs crack under the pressure.

She hissed, black dots swimming before her eyes.

…

Lia.

She let out a startled cry, grasping Lina's hand as the queen's body hit the tree, there was a sickening crack and she stepped forward to help the woman.

But the handsome man – King Edmund – held out a hand to stop her, his eyes focused upon his wife. And to Lia's extreme surprise, or perhaps even shock (if she could get any more shocked), there was nothing overly concerned that she could glean from his face.

Did he not think Cyrus a threat?

Or did he have that much faith in his wife?

…

Arianna.

She barely ducked in time to miss the swing of his sword. She flipped to the side, bringing her dagger up once more. Their weapons clashed, metal against metal. The sound matching the beat of her heart as they moved, almost melodious. His snarl was wild, feral. There was no madness in his eyes, only the wish for her blood.

She met his blow, bringing them hilt-to-hilt. There was nothing cocky in her eyes as she landed her foot on his chest and kicked him forcefully.

He coughed; the blood like ink in the moonlight as it dripped from his mouth. He smirked, striking again. His blade grazed across her thigh, slicing through fabric and flesh, blood welling and falling to the ground.

Not a sound left her lips as she pressed the attack, ducking to evade his kick. She rolled along the ground, pivoting quickly to meet his blow, her arm stopping the blade before it struck her face, biting deep into her flesh, scraping the bone. He grinned.

And her blood splattered across the ground, pain sparking through her.

Before he could blink, she slashed, calling upon her magic at the same time.

His moan of agony pierced the air as she jumped backwards, the blood flowing freely from her wound as she gripped her borrowed dagger, encased in the ice made from water she'd pulled from his body. His face was twisted into shock as he fell forward, his legs standing for a moment before they too crumpled, severed from the rest of his body.

"You look just like her you know," his voice uttered with those last breaths before his chest stilled, his blood pooling around him.

She hoisted herself up, wincing in pain. Pinpricks shot up her side with each movement, with each breath, as if someone were sticking knives into her body. She wiped the blade on the grass, letting the ice that had made it longer turn back into water, returning to the soil; mixing with the blood that flowed from her arm.

She spared his body but a cursory glance before turning to the three dryads that huddled behind Edmund.

The oldest one – the one who had been attacked by him – was staring, unblinking.

Then Edmund was moving, covering the body with his cloak so the dryads would not have to look upon his mutilated form, or to watch as his blood fed the ground below them.

"I think he was going to kill me."

Arianna blinked, looking at the dryad who spoke. The dryad who had coveted her husband, who had been so haughty. She looked shaken to the core, trembling and pale, and looked far younger than what she had acted.

"He needed me for something. He needed a dryad for something."

"Shhh, Vela, do not think of him," it was Lia who consoled her, stroking her ashen hair.

"Are you okay?" The middle sister – Lina, she thought it was – asked.

And then Arianna blinked, realising that the question had been addressed to her. Oh. She looked down at her arm, where the blood flowed freely, recalling the pain that she'd pushed to the back of her mind.

"She needs water. A river or a stream," Edmund was at her side, holding her up as her legs became weak. The heat of the fires was permeating her mind, the thrill of the fight gone and all at once she was so very tired, her eyelids so very heavy.

"There is a river…" the dryads voice, she wasn't sure which, sounded so far away.

"No, I will take them to the Cauldron Pool."