Brenn. Redhaven.
1014.
The Fourteenth Year of the Golden Age.
Arianna.
The room was small, but not unpleasant.
The scent of cedarwood clung to the air, rising from the fire that crackled low in the hearth. Outside, the rain beat steadily against the windows, wrapping the inn in a grey cocoon. Inside, it was warm. Quiet.
Edmund's arms were wrapped around her from behind, a silent anchor. His chin rested atop her head, his breath steady, comforting. She leaned back into him, letting herself soften, letting the tension in her shoulders melt away into him.
It wasn't the hearth that thawed her.
It was him.
She and Edmund had been made for each other.
Not in the way poets sang of, with grand declarations or love at first glance. No, their bond had been forged in fire and steel, mistrust and confrontation. They had been enemies once – on opposite sides of a battlefield, blades drawn, ideals clashing.
They had seen the darkness in each other – and had not shied away.
She did not need to explain herself to him, not really. He understood what it was to make hard choices. To carry the weight of them in silence. He had always understood. And that had been the beginning of everything.
Her hand found his where it rested over her waist, and she laced their fingers together. He shifted slightly behind her, not asleep, just still, just there.
Arianna tilted her head back to look up at him, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw, the quiet strength etched into his features. He looked down at her, his gaze warm, familiar. Deep and dark and hers.
"As beautiful as Narnia is," she murmured, her voice barely louder than the whisper of rain on glass, "it is not a land made for peace."
Edmund didn't speak right away. He didn't need to. He knew what she meant. He had seen the same battles, made the same choices.
They both knew the cost of keeping a kingdom whole.
And he had no reason to doubt her when she had said their attackers on the mainland had been mer.
Enclosed with the Merpeople's invitation had been a map – carefully inked, marked with a point deep in the Bight of Calormen. Too far from any shore. Too deep into treacherous waters.
It reeked of a trap, dressed up in diplomacy.
"I don't trust it," she said, voice sharper now, gaze fixed on the parchment that lay folded atop her satchel. "Why ask for a meeting in open sea? It could be an ambush, an attempt to divide us – or worse, pick us off one by one."
Edmund gave a soft, amused huff of breath behind her and tightened his hold slightly. "You worry too much."
"I worry just enough."
"I'll protect you," he said, and she could hear the grin in his voice.
She rolled her eyes, leaning her head back against his shoulder. "You always say that."
"And I always do, don't I?"
She let her eyes drift shut, just for a moment, listening to the steady drum of rain against the shutters. The sound was soothing, like distant waves pulling across stone, like lullabies sung beneath the sea. But she knew better than to be lulled.
The Pevensies did not know the merpeople the way she did.
They had not watched them drag the wounded from the shore like prey. They had not seen the glint of shark-like teeth behind charming smiles, the way a spear could slip soundlessly through water before finding a target. They had not heard the battle-songs that were not sung in joy, but in triumph over death.
They hadn't seen what she had seen.
To the Pevensies and most Narnians, the merpeople were still creatures of legend, fabled allies that had once danced at the coronation of Narnia's kings and queens.
Noble, beautiful, graceful.
But Arianna knew the truth behind those stories. The ones no minstrels sang. The sea was a battlefield, and those who lived beneath it were as ruthless and blood-bound as any warlord above.
She hadn't told Edmund all of it.
She'd told him enough – enough to earn his trust, enough to justify her caution—but the whole truth? That was a different matter. Not out of deceit, but because some memories still rose too sharply, jagged and salt-stung.
Arianna opened her eyes and looked at him, the man who had once been her enemy, now her anchor. Edmund was watching the fire, his profile limned in gold and shadow, his expression unreadable to anyone who hadn't learned to see the flickers behind it. She had. She could always tell what he was thinking.
He trusted Peter. And trusted that this mission could end in peace.
"Edmund," she said softly, not turning. "If something happens out there, you protect your brother."
He blinked, surprised. "Something will happen out there," he said, not flippantly, just matter-of-fact. "And I'll protect all of us."
She nodded once, jaw tightening. She wanted to believe him.
But it wasn't just the storm or the sea that threatened them.
…
Brenn. Redhaven.
Asura.
The inn had grown quieter as the evening wore on, the low hum of conversation fading into the background. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting long, flickering shadows across the room. Asura leaned back in her chair, eyes still scanning the map in front of her, though her mind was elsewhere, running through the plans once more.
She had always been one to anticipate every possibility, but that night... there were too many uncertainties weighing on her.
Calim stood, stretching his arms above his head, above his curlicue horns. "I'll see to the others, make sure everyone's set for the night. You should get some rest, Asura," the faun said with a little grin.
She looked up at him, offering a brief nod. "Thank you, Calim. I'll rest soon."
He hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking to the table. "I'll make sure the others are ready. You know where to find me if you need anything."
Asura didn't reply, but her eyes softened as she watched him walk away, his hooves tapping softly on the wooden floor. The faun had always been reliable, his loyalty unquestionable. She felt a slight pang of gratitude for the stability he provided.
Her thoughts were interrupted when a familiar figure settled into the chair next to her with a soft groan. She glanced up to find Peter, his broad shoulders filling the space beside her. He wasn't wearing his usual regal air, though she could still see the High King in him in the way he carried himself – his bearing and the intensity in his eyes.
"He's right, you need to get some rest," Peter said, his voice a low rumble. "We don't know what tomorrow will bring, and you'll need your strength."
Asura didn't answer immediately, her gaze drifting to the fire before her. She wasn't tired. She couldn't be. There was too much at stake. But even so, Peter's presence beside her had a grounding effect.
His words were like a steadying hand on her shoulder.
Asura sighed, running a hand through her white hair, the strands glimmering faintly in the firelight. "It's just... it feels like we're walking blind into something we're not prepared for."
Peter didn't say anything for a long moment, and for a brief second, it felt like they were alone in the world. The noise of the inn, the rain outside – it all faded into the background, and she could almost pretend they were back in Narnia, where the weight of the world didn't press down on them every day.
He finally spoke again, his voice quiet but resolute. "None of us are ever fully prepared for what's ahead, Asura. But we face it together, and that's what matters."
She swallowed, trying to push down the tightness in her throat. The weight of his words hit her harder than she expected.
"Fine," she said at last, her voice softer. "I'll rest. But only for a little while. We have too much to do."
Peter nodded, his blue eyes glinting with a hint of amusement. "I'll hold you to that," he said, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Asura allowed herself a small smile in return, though it didn't reach the depth of her thoughts. She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes for a moment, the sound of the fire and Peter's presence providing a rare moment of peace amidst the chaos.