Somewhere along the Coast, near the Northern Marshes.
1014.
The Fourteenth Year of the Golden Age.
Asura.
Asura woke in the early hours of the morning, before the sun had risen, to the astute feeling of something watching her. That prickling at the back of her neck, like cold breath against bare skin. It was instinct, sharp and ancient, the kind that had kept her alive long before she'd worn armour or carried steel.
The camp was silent.
Too silent.
Not even the natural hush of sleep, but something heavier – wrong.
They were still wrapped in night, thick and smothering. Only the faintest hint of pre-dawn touched the horizon in distant, cool tones of grey. The fire was little more than a ring of fading embers, their dull orange glow casting twisted, leaping shadows against the trees. Asura sat up slowly, hand slipping soundlessly to the dagger beneath her pillow.
She listened.
No guards. No murmured conversation. No shifting from the other tents.
Only silence.
Unease tightened its grip on her chest. She rose carefully, every movement deliberate, trained. She stepped out into the brittle hush of the campsite. Her boots were near soundless against the damp earth as she moved between the sleeping forms of her companions. Edmund's tent, undisturbed. Peter's. Arianna's. None stirred. The horses were restless, nostrils flaring, hooves stamping soft warning into the dirt.
The air was sharp with something metallic. Faint.
She turned toward where the last watch was meant to be kept.
Vorea and Calim.
The name's were already on her lips as she moved through the dark. The young fauns had been assigned the final watch, but neither of them were at the fire. The embers crackled as if protesting their abandonment.
And then—
Asura's foot caught on something in the grass.
She looked down.
Her breath stilled.
Vorea's body lay slumped half-hidden behind a rock, her delicate limbs twisted unnaturally, and her eyes – those warm, laughing, eager eyes – were glassy, wide, and staring into nothing.
Her throat had been slit cleanly from ear to ear.
No struggle.
Just death.
Asura dropped to her knees beside the faun, pressing a hand to her chest, though she already knew. Cold. Still. Gone.
She lifted her head, eyes scanning the dark perimeter of the camp.
They were being watched.
She could feel it.
Not just in the prickling on her skin, not just in the instinctive tightening of her gut – but in the way the trees themselves seemed to lean inward, as though sheltering secrets, hiding them. Shadows moved unnaturally in the undergrowth, slipping between trunks like whispers. The air felt thicker now, weighty with the presence of something unseen and hungry. Stalking.
Asura rose from Vorea's body, quiet as a whisper, one hand curled around the hilt of her dagger, the other steadying herself on the earth. She turned her back on the trees only long enough to move – careful steps back toward the heart of the camp, where the others still slept unaware.
Then—
A cold edge kissed the side of her throat.
Stillness slammed into her like a wall.
"Do not move," came the voice.
Low. Controlled.
Cold.
It was not the frigid clarity of ice, but something older, deeper – like the dark beneath the sea in midwinter. It settled into her spine like a hook.
The blade pressed more firmly against her neck, enough that she felt a pinprick bead of blood bloom beneath it.
She couldn't turn her head, couldn't see the one behind her. Their body was too close, breath non-existent. But she heard the strange lilting of the accent, slippery and sharp at once. Not Narnian. Not Telmarine. Not even from Archenland or Calormen.
Her fingers tightened minutely on the hilt of her sword. She measured her breath. The intruder was tall—she could feel it in the way their chest hovered near her shoulder blades. Light-footed. Silent.
A shiver slid down Asura's spine.
From the corner of her vision, movement stirred at the edge of the camp. Shadows solidified into figures – dozens of them. Cloaked and hooded, their faces hidden beneath layers of cloth and ash-grey veils. They moved with a silence that spoke of training, of discipline honed in blood and secrecy.
Two of them emerged from the darkness dragging a figure between them.
Arianna.
Her wrists were bound, her shoulders stiff with fury and indignation, the gleam of her daggers nowhere to be seen. One of her captors shoved her forward into the clearing and she caught herself with feline grace, chin lifting defiantly as if daring them to strike her. Her eyes glowed emerald in the gloom, more furious than afraid.
Another pair of shadows emerged moments later, and this time—
"Edmund," Asura breathed.
Her liege stumbled slightly as he was forced into the circle of dying firelight, blood at his temple, though his eyes were sharp and alert, taking stock of every face, every angle. He met her gaze across the camp and something dark passed between them. Not now. Not yet.
And then—
Peter.
He fought his captors even as they dragged him forward, fury alive in every line of his frame. His bare hands were bloodied – he'd fought – but he, too, had been overwhelmed. He surged forward a step, only to be struck in the stomach by the hilt of a blade. He collapsed to one knee with a grunt, the breath knocked from his lungs.
Asura's heart thundered in her chest.
Her guards – Calim, Teshan, even Gorrick the Centaur – were on their knees, blades at their throats. Fauns and dryads forced into submission, their expressions a tangle of shame and helplessness. Vorea's blood had barely dried and already her company had been crushed beneath shadow and steel.
"Lower your weapon," the voice beside her murmured again, still low and cold and composed. "Or we start cutting throats."
Asura clenched her jaw. Her grip on her sword trembled only slightly as she slowly lifted her hand away from the hilt. She let it drop with a soft thud into the dirt.
"Good," said the voice. And the blade withdrew from her throat.
She didn't move.
Her breath came slow, measured, her senses screaming.
"What do you want with us?" It was Arianna who spoke, somewhere above her, her voice hard.
Slap.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Asura did not lift her head. She remained still – waiting, breathing, calculating. But the sound echoed in her ears, slap – metal on flesh, sharp and brutal. It had been a strike meant to humiliate, not incapacitate. She could feel it in the tremor that followed, the way the camp seemed to hold its breath.
She dared a glance upward.
Arianna was still standing.
Blood trickled slowly from the corner of her mouth, a single rivulet staining her chin before falling in delicate drops to the dirt. Her head was turned, a red bloom already rising on her cheek, but her posture remained proud, statuesque. Her eyes glinted with something molten – rage, or pain, or power held in check.
She did not wipe the blood away.
"I said," she repeated, her voice level despite the blow, "what do you want with us?"
A hush fell over the campsite – deep, dense, and suffocating. The kind of quiet that came before the snap of a predator's jaws.
Then one of the figures stepped forward – taller than the others, his cloak edged in silver thread. He moved with the kind of deliberate grace Asura had only ever seen in seasoned generals and assassins. His hood remained up, but a gleam of ocean-blue eyes caught the firelight beneath the shadowed fold.
The man's voice slithered through it, cruel and low, every word laced with venom.
"I've heard of you," he said again, his curved knife of bone catching the firelight as he pressed it to Arianna's throat. The blade was wicked – serrated at the edge like a shark's tooth, made for pain rather than efficiency. "You're the green-eyed ice-bitch they call the Great Queen of Narnia."
Arianna didn't flinch. Not even as the blade pricked the skin beneath her jaw, drawing a thin crimson bead that slid down her throat like a teardrop.
Her silence was her defiance.
"You don't speak now?" the man hissed, pressing in closer. "But the stories say your voice is poison. That kings fall at your feet. That even the wildest creatures bow when you pass. What a disappointment."
Asura's fists clenched behind her back. These were not ordinary mercenaries. Their movements were too precise, their formation too well-disciplined. And their leader – the one with the silver thread – spoke with the weight of a grudge that had been nursed for years.
It was personal.
Still on her knees, she scanned the others. Peter remained unnervingly still, jaw tight, eyes locked on the blade at Arianna's throat. Edmund's gaze darted between their captors, assessing, waiting. Calculating the odds, just like she was.
"I've slain better men than you for calling me that," Arianna finally murmured, voice calm, lethal as a drawn bowstring. "And they begged in the end."
The man let out a low chuckle. "Oh, I hope you fight. I hope you do."
Asura shifted slightly, testing the tension in the ropes that bound her wrists. The knots were seafarer's knots – firm, low-slick, designed to resist wriggling. Tied by someone with a sailor's precision.
They had to be seaborne. Or at least trained by someone who was.
Arianna didn't flinch as the man pulled her closer. She stood still, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, her hands bound behind her back. Asura had always seen Arianna as a woman of control, one who never showed weakness. Her usual composure was gone, replaced by a kind of stillness – like an animal waiting for the kill.
It made Asura's stomach turn.
The man who held her sneered, his grip tightening around Arianna's waist as he tilted his head back, as though savouring her helplessness. The firelight danced across his features – sharp, angular, with eyes hidden in shadow. His attention turned fully to Arianna, and Asura couldn't look away, even as she wanted to.
"Beautiful, aren't you?" the man murmured, almost tenderly, though his voice was coated with malice. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "I wonder if the Just King of Narnia will still want you after we're done with you." His words were low and mocking, a twisted game that only he seemed to enjoy.
Arianna's eyes flashed – like twin emerald daggers.
"If you think you can break me," she said coldly, "you're mistaken. I'll take your throat before you see it coming."
For a moment, the man's grip faltered, a flicker of uncertainty passing through his hooded face. But then, he laughed – a low, menacing chuckle.
"Oh, we're past that, your Majesty," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "I'm not here to break you. I'm here to show you your place."
Asura's blood boiled at the sight of the queen, she wanted to lash out, to tear through her captors like the wolves of her homeland, to taste blood and vengeance.
But she could do nothing.
Edmund, however, wasn't quite as restrained.
The sound of his struggles broke through the air – his voice muffled by the gag in his mouth but unmistakable in the raw frustration it carried as he tried to reach his wife. He writhed against the men who held him, the strength of his limbs straining against their iron grip. Then, with brutal efficiency, one of his captors lashed out, his boot connecting with Edmund's stomach.
The force of the kick knocked the breath from Edmund's body, and he doubled over with a sharp grunt. The impact sent a shiver of sympathy through Asura, but there was something else too – a fear. She had seen Edmund fight many battles, had trained beside him countless times, and yet in that moment, he seemed small, helpless beneath the grip of these masked strangers.
The man who kicked him didn't show any remorse. Instead, he grabbed Edmund by the shoulder and forced him upright, sneering in his face.
"So, what does that make the rest of you Narnian trash?" he sneered, his voice laced with venom. "Her royal highness's guards?"
Asura's stomach churned at the insult, but she bit back the urge to respond. Confusion simmered beneath her skin – how had the man recognized Arianna but not the others? Peter and Edmund were no strangers, not even in the farthest corners of Narnia. Yet they were treated as if they were invisible to these attackers, overlooked for reasons Asura could not fathom.
They recognised Arianna but not the High King of Narnia and his brother?
Who were they?
Arianna, blood dripping from the jagged gash on her cheek, seemed entirely unbothered by the man's crude words. In fact, her lips curled into a slight, almost amused smile despite the pain. She was bleeding, the crimson streaks marking her golden-brown skin, but her eyes remained unwavering. The only indication of the pain she must have been feeling was the faint trickle of blood from the cut, following the curve of her chin like a dark trail.
"You merpeople are so unimaginative," Arianna said, her voice as cold as a glacial wind, the words sharp enough to cut through the tension.
The man paused, confusion flashing across his face. Arianna, undeterred, gave him a languid glance as if she were speaking to a child who didn't comprehend. "You really are a fish out of water."
It was a challenge, a taunt that carried far more weight than just the words. Asura blinked, still reeling from the audacity.
Merpeople?
On land?
Surely, she jested.
Had the situation been less dire, Asura would have snorted.
The man pressed his blade deeper, and another trickle of blood emerged – slow, deliberate, like the slide of oil over stone. It crept down Arianna's skin, carving a path from her throat to the hollow at the base of her neck, then down further still, slipping between her breasts and vanishing beneath the neckline of her leathers.
"You're as pretty as a rainbow fish," he murmured, voice thick with something cruel and mocking. His lips hovered just beside Arianna's ear, and though his tone was low, Asura heard every word. Her hearing, trained and sharp, caught the slither of syllables like a predator detecting the rustle of prey. She did not move. Could not move – not without putting their lives in greater danger.
Still, Asura's mind raced.
She could not tell who they were. Not slavers – there was no hunger for coin or commerce in their eyes. No mention of trade or markets. They wanted something else. Something darker.
The men walked the land too well. Their limbs were not too long, their gait was natural, and their movements were calculated – grounded. They could not belong to the sea.
Surely not.
"Why don't you dance for us, little queen?" the man said with a sneer, clearly enjoying himself, though his voice was quiet as poison. "We've travelled far this night and are in need of entertainment."
Asura's hands clenched where they lay tied behind her back. Her fingernails bit into her palms.
The knife moved again – slow, purposeful. It slid down, resting on the crisscrossed laces of Arianna's vest. Then with one firm push, there was a sharp snap. The leather gave way, one tie after another, until the edges of the garment hung looser against her form. Beneath it, the deep crimson of her tunic stood stark and striking – the same hue as the blood now smeared mercilessly across her collarbone and cheek.
The man leaned back, as if admiring his work.
But Arianna… Arianna did not flinch. She did not tremble. It was as if someone had painted a mask of cold indifference across her face, and now she wore it with regal finality. Her green eyes, hard as emeralds, stared past her captor with a detachment that almost seemed inhuman.
Asura knew that look.
She had seen it in warriors before battle. In victims before death. It was the gaze of someone who had already prepared themselves for the worst. Who had sealed themselves in ice so thick that not even the flames of fear could touch them.
Always so cold.
Even in the face of degradation. Even with a knife pressed to her heart.
The others – Peter and Edmund – were watching too. Held back, bloodied, gagged. Peter's eyes had gone murderously still, wide with fury, his entire body shaking with the effort to break free. Edmund, still doubled over from the earlier kick, was struggling harder, teeth bared behind the gag like a wolf enraged.
The entire camp was silent, a breath away from eruption.
But Arianna did not react.
And that was more terrifying than any scream or cry could have been.
Asura felt something cold rise in her chest. It was something older, something darker. The same cold that lived in the rivers of her home. The kind of cold that didn't burn – it hollowed.
She felt Arianna's magic begin to gather.
"A rainbow fish?" one of Arianna's eyebrows rose, something akin to amusement. But there was a flash in her eyes that Asura did not miss. It was the darker part of the queen that Asura had seen many, many times.
"What the fuck d–" the bandit's snarl was lost in the low growl that filled the night air. Low, wild and feral. Arianna's lips curled back to reveal her sharp canine teeth, in a grin or a snarl, Asura could not tell.
But her eyes widened as she realised that the growl had not passed through the woman's lips.