A/N:The battlefield is quiet for now, but Edmund is fighting a very different kind of war—and let's just say, discipline has never felt so complicated.

As always, I'm so excited to hear your thoughts.

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

Chapter 31 - Resisting Temptation

Edmund's POV

Edmund had never been so aware of someone in his entire life.

The morning air was cool, but he felt too warm, his tunic sticking uncomfortably to his back as he stood in the secluded clearing where he had been training Eleanor every morning since their return. Since that day in the woods.

He should have been focused on her form, on her technique, on fixing the countless mistakes she still made. But all he could think about was her.

The way the early sunlight caught in the loose strands of her hair, making them glow like embers. The way she bit her lip in concentration when trying to mimic his movements. The quiet huff of frustration she made every time she fumbled a step. The way she smiled, just slightly, when she got something right.

And then there was the way her damp locks clung to her skin, sweat beading along her brow and tracing along the curve of her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her tunic.

She wasn't even trying to drive him mad. And yet, she was.

Eleanor swung clumsily, the wooden sword slicing through empty air, missing the angle entirely.

"Stop," he said, sharper than he intended.

She stilled, blinking at him, slightly breathless.

He swallowed, exhaling slowly before stepping forward. Don't touch her. Don't touch her.

"You're still too tense," he muttered, circling her, trying to focus on her stance instead of the way she smelled faintly of lavender and herbs. "If you keep locking your shoulders like that, you'll tire out before you can land a single proper hit."

Eleanor rolled her shoulders back, trying to relax. She failed.

Edmund sighed. He couldn't avoid it.

Before he could stop himself, he reached out, hands skimming over her forearms as he adjusted her grip. He tried to be clinical, impersonal, but his pulse betrayed him. Her skin was warm. Soft. Too distracting.

Eleanor didn't move. Didn't breathe.

For a second—*one fleeting, torturous second—*he thought about how easy it would be to close the distance between them. To let his fingers trail from her wrists to her waist. To pull her close like he had in the woods.

His hands dropped as if burned. He stepped back. Fast.

"Again," he ordered, voice rough, avoiding her gaze.

She hesitated before obeying. He felt her confusion like a weight between them.

The rest of the lesson passed in silence, tense, unbearable silence.

Eleanor didn't ask why he was keeping his distance. But he knew she felt it.

She just didn't know why.

And he wasn't ready to admit it. Not yet.

Edmund had barely spoken at the war council meeting. His mind wasn't on Narnia's strategies or diplomacy.

It was on Eleanor.

As the meeting adjourned, he made for the door, but Peter's voice stopped him. "Walk with me."

Confused, Edmund followed his brother through the halls of Cair Paravel.

Peter didn't speak right away. They walked in silence until they reached one of the open corridors overlooking the sea.

Finally, Peter turned to him. "Something's bothering you."

Edmund clenched his jaw. Damn him for being so observant.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Peter didn't buy it. "Edmund." His voice was level, patient, but edged with that older-brother authority Edmund had grown up resenting. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

Edmund exhaled sharply. Peter wouldn't leave it alone.

"I was in the woods the other day," he admitted. "And I felt—no, I'm positive—someone was watching."

Peter's expression sharpened. "First, what were you doing in the woods?"

Edmund hesitated, then muttered, "Walking." Maybe too quickly.

Peter's brow lifted. "Walking," he repeated, unimpressed. "You expect me to believe that?"

Edmund sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I was with Eleanor."

Silence.

Peter exhaled slowly. "I see." His voice was unreadable. "Should we be worried about what you could have been seen doing?"

Edmund tensed. Too much. Too direct.

"No," he said quickly, too quickly.

Peter's sharp gaze flickered over him, assessing. He didn't fully believe him.

"Edmund." His voice softened—just slightly. "You know how dangerous this could be."

Edmund nodded, but his fists curled at his sides. He knew. He knew all too well.

Peter sighed, watching him for a long moment before speaking again. "Do you regret it?"

Edmund stilled. "What?"

Peter's gaze didn't waver. "Whatever happened."

Edmund swallowed. He should say yes. He should lie. He should make this easy.

But instead, he held his brother's gaze and said nothing.

Peter sighed. "That's what I thought."

Edmund turned, ready to walk away. But Peter's voice followed him. "Be careful."

Edmund didn't look back.