Cair Paravel.
1010.
Eve of the New Year.
The Tenth Year of the Golden Age.
Asura.
"I came out here to get away from the dancing," she murmured, folding her arms. Snow dusted her bare feet, but her boots that lay discarded – they were practical and worn, far removed from the silken slippers of the courtly ladies inside. "If you wanted a partner, you could have asked any one of your admirers inside."
Peter offered her a lopsided grin – the one that made him look far more akin to his age than his kingly expressions that he normally wore. "But they would simply smile and agree with everything I was saying, even if I were to say the sky was red and the sea was purple," he replied, his voice low and teasing and despite herself, Asura felt an answering smile tugging at her lips. "Where's the fun in that?"
She shook her head, at the same time trying to shake off the sullen feelings that had overcome her. "You'd be wiser to duel me than risk your toes."
Peter laughed, loud and heartily, his head thrown back so far his crown nearly toppled from atop his brow. "Asura, I know I would lose if I were to cross blades with you. This is the safest option for me." He stepped closer, his presence filling the space between them – a force that she could never quite ignore. "Trust me."
Hesitation worried through her. She could wield a sword with precision, her movements fluid and deliberate, yet the thought of dancing—the vulnerability, the closeness—felt like a battlefield she wasn't sure how to navigate. But something in his gaze, in the softness of his insistence, disarmed her in ways a sword or dagger never could.
Reluctantly, she placed her hand in his, her calloused fingers brushing against his larger ones. He grinned, triumphant but not mocking, and pulled her gently into the open space. The snow swirled around them like an audience of ghosts, silent and approving.
"See? Not so bad," he murmured, guiding her with a grace that seemed effortless. His movements were sure, and though her steps were hesitant at first, she found herself falling into rhythm with him.
"It's not a duel, but it's still a fight," she muttered under her breath, glaring down at her bare toes as they crunched in the snow, peeking from beneath the hem of her gown.
He laughed, the sound echoing in the stillness. "Then let's call it a draw, Captain."
The tension in her chest eased. For a moment, the weight of duty, the burden of titles, the reflections of the year passed, and the constant vigilance faded into the snowfall. She allowed herself to meet his eyes, and they danced—not as a king and his captain, but as two people stealing a fleeting moment of freedom.
They were both alive.
When the final notes of their imagined song faded, she stepped back, her breath visible in the icy air. His eyes were such a different blue to her own – naiad blue met the sweet clear blue of a summers sky. Warm and open. And searching her own.
She took another step back, reclaiming her boots.
Reclaiming her solitude.
Peter was a king.
High King Peter the Magnificent.
And she could not forget that.
No matter how her heart fluttered when he smile at her.
"Let us return to the celebrations, your majesty," she said as she tightened the laces, her gaze dropping from his.
…
Peter.
That quiet, morose solitude had settled over her again and he found himself at a loss for words – for once wishing he had Edmund's talent for witty quips. But the silence fell between them and settled.
The snow crunched underfoot as they walked side by side, his breath forming a faint cloud in the cold night air. The trees, bare of leaves, stood like sentinels draped in frost, and the distant hum of music from the castle was muffled by the quiet stillness of the garden.
Peter knew she was not at ease – she was ever-watchful, her eyes scanning the shadows cast by the moonlight, her hand resting lightly on her hip where her sword would usually be sheathed.
And still the silence stretched between them.
"You know," he began, his voice low. "Susan once told me that there were secret passage hidden in the walls of the castle. She swears to Aslan they're real, but we've never found one."
Asura glanced at him briefly, her expression unreadable. She said nothing, but the faintest tilt of her head suggested she was listening.
"She used to weave all sorts of tales about them," he continued, his tone light. "Hidden staircases leading to forgotten towers, narrow tunnels winding down to the catacombs. Lucy and I spent months tapping each stone we could reach, hoping to hear a hollow sound." He laughed softly, shaking his head. "Never found a thing, of course. Just scraped knuckles and bruised pride."
Asura's lips twitched.
They reached the door, its heavy wooden frame flanked by two guards in royal livery. Neither man noticed their approach, too engrossed in their hushed conversation. Their heads were bent close, their laughter soft but clear in the crisp night air.
The king raised an eyebrow, pausing a few steps away. He glanced at Asura, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but she was already stepping forward, her boots crunching sharply in the snow.
"Gentlemen," she said, her voice cutting through the night like a blade.
The guards jolted upright, their faces flushing as they snapped to attention. One of them fumbled with his spear, nearly dropping it in his haste to salute.
"Forgive us, Captain," stammered the taller of the two, his voice trembling slightly. "We—we didn't hear you approach."
"That much is obvious," she replied, her tone cool and measured. Her eyes narrowed, sharp as steel and unerringly bright. "You're stationed here to guard the door, not to gossip like fishwives. If we had been enemies, you would both be dead by now—and so would everyone inside. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Captain!" they chorused, their voices loud and panicked.
"Good." She stepped back. "See that it doesn't happen again."
Peter watched the exchange in silence, his lips quirking into a faint smile.
Together, they passed through the door, the warmth of the castle spilling out to meet them. Behind them, the two guards stood stiff and silent, their embarrassment palpable in the frosty air.
…
Asura.
The door swung open, and the Captain of the Guard stepped back into the noise and revelry, the sounds of music and laughter enveloping her like a heavy cloak. She glanced around, her heart still heavy from the moments she had spent in the shadows and snowfall. The high, melodic notes of the strings still rang in her ears as if the music clung to the air itself.
The court was as it had been before they slipped away—a flurry of silken gowns, polished boots, and glittering jewels. The nobility had returned to their laughter, their whispered conversations floating through the room like dandelion seeds, carried away by the night's pleasures. No one had noticed they were gone. The king and his captains's absence had gone unnoticed amidst the swirling chaos of a celebration that demanded attention.
The captain let her eyes roam over the hall. It was as it always was during these nights: a masquerade of joy, a dance of fleeting moments. She knew that many of the couples slipping off into cozy alcoves would find solace in each other's arms, sharing stolen moments of intimacy and warmth. The thought of it stirred something in her chest—a strange mix of longing and resignation.
She could never be part of those stolen moments. No, her place was exactly where she was—at the fringes, where duty called and hearts desires went unspoken.
A servant passed by, bearing a tray of delicacies—golden shortbread dusted with fine sugar, their buttery scent tantalizing. The Peter reached out passed her, plucking one from the tray, and held it between his fingers, inspecting it with idle curiosity.
"You stand like a statue," he said softly, his voice pitched so only she could hear.
Her gaze flicked to him, then back to the room, ever watchful. "It's my duty, Your Majesty."
His lips curved into a faint smile. "Even statues deserve a moment of indulgence."
Before she could respond, he turned towards her. He held the shortbread aloft, its sugar catching the light like a dusting of frost. The motion was slow, deliberate, a king accustomed to being obeyed.
"Open," he murmured, his tone low but insistent, his eyes fixed on hers.
Her breath hitched imperceptibly, her composure wavering for the briefest of moments. She hesitated, the weight of their surroundings pressing against the tension now hanging between them. But there was something in his gaze—something that burned quietly beneath his calm exterior—that made refusal impossible.
And no one was paying attention to them in that moment.
She parted her lips, her breath warm against his fingers as he placed the piece of shortbread in her mouth. His fingertips brushed against her lower lip, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through her. The moment was brief, barely more than a heartbeat, but it lingered in the air between them, charged and undeniable.
The sweetness of the shortbread melted on her tongue, but it was the weight of his gaze, the unspoken challenge in his smile, that left her truly undone.
Around them, the celebration swirled on, oblivious to the moment that had passed in the shadows of the dais. But she could feel it, lingering in the air between them, a spark that neither the noise nor the crowd could extinguish.
"Peter!" Queen Lucy's voice, bright and eager jolted her back to the present and she took a step back. "Peter, come dance with me!"
And then he was offered her another lopsided grin as his youngest sister tugged at his hand as he was pulled into the throng of dancing couple by his youngest sister, the weight of the crown resting heavily upon him once more.
For a moment, the captain allowed herself a flicker of something—an unspoken wish, a fleeting hope that she might find herself as free as they were, if only for a single moment. But the thought passed as quickly as it had come. She knew her role too well.
Many things in the year passed had changed.
But that had not.
The grand hall was alive with music and laughter, the candlelight from the towering chandeliers casting a golden glow over the polished stone floor. Nobles in silks and velvets twirled in intricate patterns, their jewels catching the light like shards of starlight. It was a night of celebration, and at the heart of it all, the High King stood with his youngest sister.
Lucy was radiant, her deep auburn hair braided with ribbons of gold, her cornflower blue eyes sparkling with unrestrained joy. When he extended his hand, she took it with a laugh, her youthful exuberance infectious. The crowd parted for them, the music swelling into a jubilant melody as they took to the centre of the hall.
Asura took another step back into the shadows.
She had always known her place. He was the High King, a symbol of the realm's strength and unity, bound to alliances and obligations far beyond her reach. And she? She was a soldier, a shield, nothing more.
As the king and his sister whirled across the floor, her joy a reflection of his, Asura felt a bittersweet warmth swell within her. He was happy, and that should have been enough. Yet the truth pressed against her like the edge of a blade: she would never be the one to share his laughter in a moment like this, never be the one to stand beside him in the light.
Peter needed a queen.
And Asura would never be a queen.
She could not be.
She tore her gaze away, her heart heavy even as she straightened her shoulders. The music soared, the crowd cheered, and the king's laughter rang out once more, bright and unburdened.
For him, she would endure. She would stand in the shadows and guard him from harm, carry her heart in silence, and let it fade into the quiet corners of her heart. It was enough to see him like this—alive, joyful, and free—even if she could never be a part of it.
And as the dance ended in a final flourish, the hall erupting into applause, the captain allowed herself one last look. Her lips curved into a small, bittersweet smile before she turned away, melting back into the background where she belonged.
The countdown to the turning of the year began.
The Guard protected the kings and queens.
It was their oath.
She would protect them with everything she had. She had to be stronger. To repay them.
Peter had taken up residence in her heart, but she knew that was a notion she could not entertain. He needed a queen.
She would be satisfied with simply staying by his side, protecting him.
That year would be different.
She would be different.