DISCLAIMER: I wrote this book when i was 13 and it really shows with lack of plot however if you like Edmund and Narnia please don't let it dissuade you!
𝔦𝔫 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔥....
the oldest princess from the neighboring kingdom of Perpetua Aurmeun helps...
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𝕻𝖍𝖔𝖊𝖇𝖊 𝖓𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖔𝖚𝖘𝖑𝖞 𝖉𝖗𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖉 the tips of her fingers along the post of her bed. Her new husband would arrive soon. Oliver.
The ceremony had been a beautiful affair, don't get her wrong. Her sister and cousin had given her away and her favorite little niece had been a lovely flower girl. Phoenix and Lucy her the best bridesmaids she wished for, she was just petrified of what came after the ceremony.
In order for her marriage to become official they —her and Oliver— had to. . . consummate the marriage. She had never let a soul see her mature body fully unclothed, not even her sister or mother. Phoebe envied how her sister was so confident in her body. Phoenix was the spitting image of exactly what a man would want. Thin but muscular, tall but not towering over them, small-breasted but plump in the back, her face was crafted from Aslan himself.
Phoebe was herself and everything her sister wasn't. She was the polar opposite to her older sister. Her eyes and hair were strikingly lighter, her curves were far meatier, and her hands were smoother not used to the hilt of a sword. Men found her sister far more desirable and for good reason. So why had Oliver agreed to marry her?
A shrieking howl was heard in the distance that had Phoebe glancing over her shoulder. The wind pushed and tugged at the velvety curtains draped over the cracked window. Her only thought drifting to him. . . to Seth.
No matter how much she tried to deny it, she desperately clung to any and every thought of him, Phoebe Zyanya— Phoebe Blake. Phoebe Blake resented herself for still loving Seth. What he did was unforgivable, high treason for trying to exterminate the royal family, yet she spent endless nights crying and calling out his name into her pillow.
The click of the twisting door knob had her frantically wiping away the tears that haphazardly slipped down her porcelain cheeks. The door clicked shut, and soft steps pattered along the ground. Phoebe clutched onto the post, leaning her head against the cold mahogany.
"Phoebe," A warm hand fell onto the thin nightgown. Phoenix had given her the nightgown in a beautifully wrapped gold box. Now she wore it in front of her new. . . husband. "Do you feel ill? You flew out of the ballroom."
Breath calmly. Most men do not see the difference between a distraught woman and that of nerves. Phoenix's voice pecked at the back of her mind.
"I fear I had far too much wine." He cracked a small smile at her words.
She sucked in a deep breath and turned to face him. Her eyes ran across his chiseled face. Her icy gaze bore into the scars that ran across his face. Her hand shakily ran over the smallest one that ran across the bridge of his nose. "Oliver, where did these come from?"
His plump lips quirked up, "Fell out of a tree, hit a few branches on the way down. The fall almost took my eye out, instead left me with these." He pointed to the other scar that ran up his left cheek.
