A/N: Okay so... I wasn't planning to post again today, BUT I'm too anxious, my week's been a mess, and honestly? Why isn't it Friday yet. So guess what? You're getting Chapter 8 too. Because if I'm going down, I'm taking you all with me.

Let me know your thoughts, theories, screams, and suspicions. And as always:
Posting continues every Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday.
Comments and reviews = love and serotonin.

All rights to the world and characters of Narnia belong to C.S. Lewis and his estate.

Chapter 8 – Morning Light and Hidden Blades

Edmund's POV

The first thing I noticed was the light.

A thin sliver of golden sunshine crept between the heavy curtains, landing directly across my face. I groaned, shifting onto my side, but the warmth followed me. It wasn't worth the fight.

With a sigh, I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My body was stiff from yesterday's battle, my arm dull with a lingering ache. I rotated my shoulder, testing the bandages Eleanor had wrapped, and found them firm.

Morning. Definitely morning.

I pulled myself out of bed and made my way toward the window. As I pushed the balcony doors open, a warm breeze swept in, carrying the scents of the garden below—jasmine, lilies, and the faint salt of the sea.

The castle gardens stretched beneath me, bursting with color. Flowers swayed in the gentle wind, dryads slept beneath their trees, their delicate fingers curling against the bark. And beyond it all—the cliffs, the sea, and the endless horizon.

Cair Paravel.

The same, yet different.

My eyes drifted toward the farthest part of the garden—an orchard, where the old apple trees stood tall and strong, their branches heavy with fruit. A memory surfaced—the moles planting them long ago, their small, dirt-covered paws patting the soil as they muttered that one day, we'd be grateful.

Funny how things turned out.

I dressed quickly, splashing cool water on my face to chase away the heaviness of sleep. The castle hallways were quiet as I stepped outside my chamber. Morning light streamed through tall windows, casting long shadows across the stone floors. The smell of candle wax, parchment, and polished wood filled the air, mingling with the distant aroma of baking bread from the kitchens below.

I walked without direction, letting instinct guide me.

The castle was awake.

Not in the way it had been the night before, with the frantic rush of battle. This was the hum of a kingdom at work. Servants moved through corridors, knights conversed in hushed voices, and somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of music—likely a lone bard easing the morning quiet.

And then, my feet led me to a familiar place.

I stepped into a circular chamber, the scent of old parchment and dust settling around me.

Paintings covered the walls.

Scenes of Narnia's past and present—forests alive with dancing dryads, fauns playing their flutes, armies standing together, great battles won. My gaze swept over depictions of kings and queens long gone.

And then, I saw us.

A portrait of Peter, Susan, Lucy, and me—standing in regal attire, crowned and sovereign. We were frozen in time, our faces young but bearing the weight of years spent ruling.

Beside us, another portrait.

Caspian.

A familiar face.

He stood tall, clad in the armor of a king, his eyes sharp yet kind. His hair—dark as the night sea—framed his face, a face I could still picture so vividly outside of this painting.

It was strange. In a world where centuries had passed, where Narnia had moved forward, here was proof that he had once lived. Proof that our time with him had not been a dream.

I studied his face a moment longer before my eyes drifted past him.

And then—the Great Lion.

Aslan's golden mane glowed, his eyes deep and knowing.

I took a slow step forward, my pulse steady but alert.

A breath. A whisper of wind that hadn't been there before.

I froze.

There were no windows in this chamber.

And yet, the air shifted, warm and alive, as if something unseen had stirred. My heart pounded as my eyes locked onto Aslan's painting.

His eyes twinkled.

A trick of the light. It had to be.

Hesitantly, I reached out, brushing my fingers against the surface.

"We are going to help them. Narnia won't fall. We won't fail these people. I won't fail you."

The moment the words left my lips, a gust of warmth brushed my face—gentle but deliberate.

I stepped back sharply.

Aslan's eyes had gone still.

The painting was just a painting again.

My pulse hammered, but strangely—I felt lighter.

I had barely left the Painted Room when I spotted a familiar figure walking down the corridor.

"Erasmus."

He glanced up, blinking as if pulled from deep thought. Dark circles under his eyes. He had not slept.

"Edmund," he greeted, his usual warmth present—but beneath it, concern. "Up early?"

"So are you," I noted. "You look like you haven't rested."

Erasmus let out a breath. "Too much to process. Too much happening all at once."

I studied him for a moment, then made a decision.

"Take me to the prisoner."

Erasmus paused. "Now?"

"Yes," I said simply.

He didn't argue.

Without another word, he turned, leading the way.

Diácano and two wolves from the royal guard accompanied us—Accalia and Amaruq, their sleek fur bristling as they walked.

The air turned damp as we descended.

When we reached the iron door, Bavra, the faun on duty, quickly unlocked it.

The prisoner's cell was dark. Too dark.

I stepped forward.

"Get up," I commanded.

Silence.

Diácano tried next, his voice sharper. "Get up."

Nothing.

Something was wrong.

"Open it," I ordered.

Diácano hesitated before galloping back for the keys. I grabbed a nearby torch, holding it up. The cell flickered into view—

The prisoner lay motionless.

His eyes were wide open, lifeless. His skin pale. Too pale.

The air grew thick.

Accalia stepped forward, her nose twitching as she sniffed the air. Her ears flattened. "Poison," she confirmed.

My jaw clenched.

Diácano crouched beside me. "His wound—it wasn't deep enough to kill him."

Slowly, I lifted his shirt.

A thin, shallow cut ran along his abdomen. Its edges blackened.

Deliberate. Calculated.

"Someone got to him first," I muttered.

A sharp tension settled in the air.

I turned to Amaruq. "Find King Erasmus. Tell him the council is happening now."

The wolf nodded, sprinting off without another word.

Diácano met my gaze.

Neither of us spoke.

We didn't need to.

Someone inside these walls wanted us blind.