To the Far North, beyond the edge of the map.
1008.
The Eighth Year of the Golden Age.
Asura.
She was going to die.
She was going to be frozen once more, trapped in winters unforgiving embrace.
She was a child of the north, a child of the cold frigid waters that were still as much as they flowed.
But the blizzard that swelled was no natural blizzard, the frost falling in angry, violent sheets.
And so, she ran.
She stumbled.
The snow beneath her feet had iced over, slick and treacherous. Her knees buckled, and she hit the ground hard – palms scraped raw even through the thick lining of her gloves. A gasp left her lips, one that turned instantly to frost in the frozen air.
She could feel the bite. Not just on her skin, but in her blood. Creeping, curling cold sinking deep.
The Everwinter didn't just freeze the land.
She forced herself up, boots scrabbling for purchase. There was no time. No time to think about the stories whispered by firelight – of wanderers turned to ice sculptures, of the ghosts said to walk among the storm.
She had seen it before, once.
Long ago.
A flicker of silver light shimmered just beyond the ridge.
Branches swayed and groaned in the wind, their great trunks protesting the storm that raged as it steadily grew darker – silver fading into the deep blue of night.
Through narrowed eyes she surveyed the trail once more, raising a leather-covered arm to protect her eyes from the icicles that threatened to pierce, to tear at any exposed flesh. It was the Everwinter, she knew.
An old and dangerous magic that transformed the land.
A cursed winter.
Another one.
Terrified, she had fled when those first clouds had appeared in the sky, her friends had not been so lucky, caught unawares on the banks of the river and snap-frozen where they stood. She'd known what was coming and though her magic pulled her north, the memory of her mother forced her to flee to the south. She had been running for what felt like days, but the forest stretched before her still, the trees were thick and old, with twisted trunks and twisted roots that had once been filled with birdsong and laughter in the brilliant sunshine.
And so, she pressed on.
One foot in front of the other, she pressed forward—driven not by courage, but by the sheer refusal to be taken by this cursed cold a second time.
Not again.
Another swell in the storm sent another shudder through her.
She stopped, crouched low.
She should not have left her small river.
But she could not stay frozen beneath the ice for another hundred years.
Not when the witch had come again, pulling at her mind with the sirens-song that was her magic.
She would not, she could not serve a tyrant.
In the darkness devoid of birdsong, there was a musky scent – it was an acrid stench, it burnt through the scent of pine and snow. And then she heard them, the low, reverberating growls. Wolves, stalking their prey – servants of the Ice Queen. The number, she couldn't place, trying to discern one growl from the next. But she could not, not with the wind howling just as much as they did.
She knew the moment they were aware of her, for those growls changed. Were-wolves, half-shifted with glinting talons and gnashing maws. Silver eyes, cursed eyes, glowed in the dark, each set locking on her form as they moved. They did not look Narnian, crouched low and snarling. With bodies so thin she could see the outline of their ribs and with blood dripping from their chins, they looked like something out of a horror tale.
It was as if the night stilled around them as river-blue met silver.
There was no awareness in those silver eyes, nothing but hunger, nothing but instinct. There was no recognition – as if it was moon-lust that gripped them, though the moon did not yet shine in all its glory.
Six of them.
A hunting pack.
Asura growled again. A warning. One she knew they would not heed.
Lightning flashed.
The wolves did not flee, their teeth bared and dripping, eyes flashing. And she waited, waiting for the wolves to press the attack, her balance perfect on the balls of her feet.
Snow crunched.
The wolf leaped at her.
And when she finally found her way out of the snow, battered and bleeding it was by four figures on horseback. Each of them younger than herself.
The storm howled behind her like a wounded beast, but just beyond the gnarled edge of the forest, the air calmed. The snow softened. A quiet fell over the clearing, as if the blizzard itself dared not touch these four.
They sat astride their mounts like a vision torn from the old tales – cloaks rippling, gold-edged armour catching what little light remained. No crown adorned their brows, but the weight of kingship rested in their posture, in the way the snow bowed to them without falling.
The Kings and Queens of Narnia.
And as the warmth spread down her throat, as the cold began to release its claws from her spine, she felt something she hadn't dared feel in weeks.
Safe.
For now.
…
The Shuddering Wood.
1014.
The Fourteenth Year of the Golden Age.
Asura.
The mist hung low in the Shuddering Wood, silver and spectral, coiling through the trees like something sentient. Twisted branches clawed at the dim light above, and even the birds had long since gone silent. The only sound was the soft jangle of the merchant wagons – until it wasn't.
A howl split the air—jagged and low, like the tearing of cloth.
Then another.
And another.
They came from the fog. Shadows that should not have moved, peeled from the trees and the ground, all fangs and hunger and too many eyes. Shadow-wolves.
"Shields up!" Asura's voice cracked through the clearing like lightning, sure and sharp, no fear in it. Her tone brokered no argument. "Circle the wagons!"
Steel hissed free of scabbards as the guards obeyed, forming a ring around the cowering merchants. Asura moved through them like a blade through water – checking lines, correcting stances, steadying hands.
She kept her own sword low and ready, her movements practiced, deliberate.
Calm.
A wolf lunged from the haze – its body rippling like oil on black glass. She met it with a sidestep and a clean strike, slicing through its midsection. It howled, dissolving into vapor.
"Do not chase them!" she barked as a younger guard began to break formation. "Hold. The line."
They listened. Of course they did. There was something in her presence – cold as the northern river of her birth, unyielding, unshakable. Even the wolves seemed to pause, circling, waiting for weakness.
But there was none.
Not while she stood.
Another wolf broke through. She moved first – stepping into its path, angling her blade up in a precise, practiced motion that left its body in ribbons of mist before it even touched her.
One of the wagons groaned under the sudden weight of a wolf landing atop it, snarling. The guards hesitated – Asura did not. She hurled her dagger with surgical precision, striking the creature's eye. It screamed, tumbling into ash.
A boy cried out – one of the merchant's sons, separated, frozen in fear. Asura's boots hit the earth hard as she sprinted to him, slicing down another beast mid-stride. She placed herself between him and the oncoming threat, feet planted, sword held like judgment.
The wolves charged.
She didn't flinch.
She moved like the river – fluid, sure, merciless.
When it was over, the fog hung heavy with ash. The wolves were gone, nothing but vapor in the cold air. Her breathing came steady, even as blood trickled from a gash on her shoulder. Her white hair had slipped free of its bun, falling in damp tendrils against her cheeks. She looked like something carved of marble and memory – beautiful and terrible.
The guards slowly lowered their weapons.
None spoke.
They made camp where the forest began to thin, just beyond the reach of the wolves' haunt. The fire crackled low, its light casting long, flickering shadows across the damp earth. Smoke curled upward, mingling with the mist that still clung to the trees like old ghosts.
The guards moved efficiently under her command – pitching tents, checking weapons, tending to the wounded with hushed voices and practiced hands. The merchants, pale and shaken, huddled around their own fires, still glancing nervously at the tree line.
But the shadow-wolves did not return.
Asura stood at the edge of the camp, where the light met the dark. Her arms were folded across her chest, posture loose but alert. The cut on her shoulder had been cleaned and wrapped, though the sleeve of her cloak was still torn and darkened with dried blood.
She watched the woods.
The trees here breathed differently. The Shuddering Wood was not a place that forgot intrusions easily. It would remember that day. As would she.
A figure approached – Elwen, her second-in-command. Older, stouter, but loyal to the bone. He cleared his throat before speaking.
"The merchants wanted to thank you. They've offered coin."
Asura didn't turn. "Tell them to keep it. We were doing our duty."
"Aye." A pause. "You saved that boy."
"He was in my charge." Her voice was low, tired, but sure. "They all are."
Elwen hesitated again. Then: "You fought like death itself today, Captain. You held us together."
She finally turned then, pale eyes like frost-glass, not unkind. "We don't win with panic. We win with discipline. Unity." Her gaze returned to the woods. "And clarity."
Elwen nodded and stepped away.
She remained, listening to the woods, until the sharp flap of wings broke the hush.
A raven descended from the trees, sleek and silent. It landed before her on a rock, head cocked, and she recognized it immediately – black feathers gleaming, ring of white around one eye.
A royal bird.
She extended her arm, and it hopped on, unfurling the tiny scroll bound to its leg.
She read the message once. Then twice.
Her jaw tightened.
Urgent summons. Return to Cair Paravel immediately.
No explanation. No preamble.
Only one word underscored, twice.
Merpeople.
Her blood went cold.
She lowered the scroll and turned back to the camp.
"Elwen," she called. He was at her side in seconds.
"Captain?"
"Escort the merchants safely to the pass. Then double back to East Watch and reinforce the Cair."
His brow creased. "What's happened?"
She handed him the scroll. "Urgent summons."
He read it, his face darkening. "You'll go alone?"
"I move faster alone." She was already shouldering her pack, strapping her sword across her back. "Tell the others nothing yet. Not until we're sure."
Asura didn't wait for argument. She turned, stepped into the mist once more, and was gone before the fire's warmth could leave her cloak.
The Shuddering Wood watched her go. But it did not follow.
Something far colder waited ahead.
…
Cair Paravel.
Peter.
The light through the war chamber windows danced like waves – refractions of sunlight rolling over the walls and floor in a shimmer of gold and blue. Cair Paravel was still, hushed, as if the castle itself were holding its breath.
Peter stood at the long table, the Merking's missive unrolled before him.
The parchment shimmered faintly, tinged with salt and sealed with a crest made of pressed coral and shell – delicate, elegant, and sharp enough to cut if handled improperly.
Merpeople.
His eyes scanned the flowing script again, the letters fluid and looping, like tidewater.
To the Sovereigns of Narnia, from the Coral Throne,
You are formally invited to attend the Summit of the Bite, where the fate of our waters and yours shall be sealed in salt and oath. The time for silence is over.
Come beneath.
He read the words again: an invitation. A summons. A request wrapped in poetic language and written with care – an overture from the Merking Tidequest himself, inviting the sovereigns of Narnia into his undersea realm.
Not a demand.
Not a threat.
But still... strange.
The Merpeople had never asked for audience before. Never reached out.
They were known to most as elusive, yes – but joyful. Wild. Spun of moonlight and song and foam. Creatures who laughed with dolphins, who played among coral reefs, who vanished beneath the waves before mortals could even be sure they were real.
Diplomacy, treaties – they were not part of their story.
Peter's brow furrowed as he traced the Merking's seal with a finger. A nautilus shell pressed into coral wax.
Not fear. Not yet.
But curiosity. Confusion.
And perhaps... a sense that the world was changing in ways even they, the Kings and Queens of Narnia, could not predict.
Peter paced a slow circle around the table, fingers brushing the carved edges. The ocean had grown restless in the past year – storms that never ended, tides that pulled strange things ashore. Entire fishing villages abandoned without a trace.
And now, suddenly, an olive branch from the depths?
He glanced toward the western windows, where the sea glittered in the distance like a blade's edge. Where are you, Asura?
They needed her. Not just as Captain of the Royal Guard, but as a voice grounded in reason and honed instinct. She had trained under the ice-blown banners of the north, fought beasts of night and cold without flinching – and more importantly, she had diplomacy in her bones, even if she didn't claim it. Asura had a way of reading a room – be it court or battlefield – that Peter had come to rely on.
He turned as footsteps echoed down the hall.
A page hesitated in the doorway. "Still no sign of Captain Asura, Majesty."
Peter gave a single nod, folding the missive with care and tucking it into a leather case beside the table.
"Have the council summoned by dawn," he said.
He paused, gaze drifting back toward the sea.
"And have the sorcerers briefed. If we're to go beneath the waves… I want to know exactly what we're stepping into."
The boy bowed and ran off, cloak fluttering.
Peter remained, alone again in the echoing chamber.
King Tidequest.
The depths were stirring. Old currents shifting.
Peter remained at the window long after the page had gone, the weight of the Merking's invitation heavy in his hand. Far below, the sea moved like a sleeping beast, glittering and dark. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay the Kingdom of the Merpeople, where marble palaces grew from coral reefs and the merfolk whispered to the stars.
They would be expected to descend into that world – an alien kingdom of pressure and prophecy – and treat with beings who did not forget slights or favours, no matter how many centuries passed.
And for that, he needed her.
Many had questioned the wisdom of naming a naiad as Captain of the Royal Guard. Openly, some. In court, it had been couched in flowery language – concerns of decorum, of hierarchy, of propriety. Behind closed doors, it was uglier: whispers of instability, of old loyalties to those beyond the monarchy. A water spirit in command of land born steel?
To some, it was heresy.
But Asura had silenced them the only way she knew how.
With action. With precision. With the unshakable calm of still water just before it drowns you.
And she'd done it all without fanfare. Without asking for acknowledgment.
Edmund had seen it in her early. Had named her as his successor before leaving to wed his queen.
Peter had trusted his brother's decision – and once again, that trust had proven sound.
Because when Asura moved, the guard moved with her. And when she stood on the battlefield, even the most unruly noble son in silvered armour fell in line.
He turned back to the long table as footsteps began to echo in the outer corridors – members of the royal council arriving, voices a low murmur of robes and armour and uneasy speculation.
He could already hear the questions forming in their throats.
Why now, after years of silence, did the Merking reach out?
Why request all the sovereigns?
And who would walk beneath the sea and come back changed?
But he would not answer yet. Not until she arrived.
Not until the woman they had once doubted stepped into the chamber once more.
And reminded them all why they had been wrong.