A/N: ️This chapter puts James at the center of the storm.
Your reviews, theories, and emotional spiral notes are always welcome.
See you on Wednesday!
All rights to the world and characters of Narnia belong to C.S. Lewis and his estate.
Chapter 20 - The Trap
James' POV
James had imagined battle before.
The stories made it sound… different.
Glorious. Thrilling. A place where heroes were made.
But this?
This was monotony—hours of riding, mud clinging to boots, damp cloaks heavy with the morning mist. The company had been traveling for nearly two days now, winding their way deeper into the mountains. The air had turned thin, sharp with the bite of lingering winter. The towering cliffs pressed close, making him feel small.
He had fallen into step easily, blending into the group as though he had been chosen for the mission all along. He kept his head down, listening rather than speaking, watching how the others carried themselves.
Diácano rode ahead, his massive centaur frame making him impossible to miss. He was a warrior through and through, eyes constantly scanning the cliffs, posture rigid as if he expected trouble at any moment. The others followed his lead.
James, on the other hand, had no idea what he was doing.
But he pretended. He adjusted his saddle, nodding along when the other men talked. He forced himself to match their confidence—the way they held their weapons, the ease with which they sat their horses.
"First time on a mission?" a soldier beside him muttered.
James' breath caught. "What makes you say that?"
The man grinned. "You've barely blinked since we left. Trust me, lad, this ain't the first fight you'll see, nor the worst."
James tried to laugh. It didn't quite land.
Ahead, the dwarven outpost loomed in the distance, just barely visible through the fog. It looked like something cut from the mountains themselves—dark, jagged stone, blending seamlessly into the cliffs. Smoke curled from a firepit near the gates.
For a brief moment, James felt a rush of pride.
He had made it.
He was part of this.
And then—
Everything shattered.
It came without warning.
A sharptwang—then a scream.
James barely had time to register the arrow embedding itself into the man beside him before all hell broke loose.
His horse reared violently, nearly throwing him from the saddle. Shouts erupted from all around—orders clashing with panicked cries.
The enemy was already here.
Figures moved in the cliffs, blending into the rock. Dwarves. Not allies. Not waiting to trade weapons.
James' stomach dropped.
They knew.
They had always known.
A horn blared from the outpost, and suddenly the mountains came alive. Dwarves poured from the rocks, ambushers, not merchants. Steel flashed as they descended upon the company like wolves upon unsuspecting prey.
"AMBUSH!" someone roared.
James barely ducked in time as an axe whistled past his ear.
His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. He wasn't ready. He knew he wasn't. But it didn't matter.
Because no one was.
"FALL BACK! REGROUP!"
Diácano's voice cut through the chaos, but the order barely had time to register before a body hit the ground near James' horse.
A centaur collapsed, an axe embedded deep in his shoulder. James' pulse pounded.
A hand grabbed his tunic, yanking him backward just in time to avoid another strike.
"Move, boy!" someone barked.
James jerked into motion, barely dodging a second blow. He swung wildly—not with skill, not with training, but with desperation.
A dwarf lunged at him, axe raised. James parried the first strike, but the force sent a painful shock through his arms.
Too strong. Too fast.
The dwarf smirked, feinting left before swinging his hammer—
James barely turned in time, but the blow struck his ribs.
The impact stole his breath, knocking him to the ground. He gasped, pain exploding through his side.
All around him, the battlefield blurred—clashes of steel, flashes of red against the gray stone.
His sword was gone.
Someone screamed.
The world tilted.
And then—
A heavy shadow loomed over him.
James tried to rise—tried to find his weapon, tried to move, but his limbs felt sluggish.
The dwarf above him was grinning.
A warrior, battle-worn, his iron armor dented but unbroken. A jagged scar cut across his temple, his beard braided with golden clasps.
James had no time to react before the hilt of the dwarf's sword swung toward his head.
Pain exploded behind his eyes—
And everything went black.
James awoke to cold steel against his wrists.
His head throbbed, his ribs ached, and the air smelled of damp stone and burning wood.
For a moment, he couldn't place where he was—until he saw the fire.
A cave.
The shadows flickered across the rocky walls, the flames casting eerie shapes.
And then his eyes landed on the figure sitting across from him.
A dwarf.
Not just any dwarf.
His armor was richly decorated, his warhammer resting beside him like a king's scepter. His gaze was sharp, calculating, not like the brutish warriors James had seen on the battlefield.
This was not just a soldier.
This was a warlord.
James swallowed hard.
This was not how he had imagined being a hero.