The High Queen II

The Challenge

Edmund, Glenstorm, and Wimbleweather walked purposefully across the battlefield, their figures stark against the green horizon. Edmund carried the scroll tightly in one hand, his mind calculating every detail of what was to come. He could feel the weight of every eye on him, from both camps. Good. Let them watch.

Inside the Telmarine tent, Miraz lowered his telescope and sneered.

"Perhaps they intend to surrender," Glozelle offered.

Miraz chuckled, shaking his head. "No. They are much too noble for that."

Moments later, Edmund strode into the tent, Glenstorm and Wimbleweather standing guard just outside. The king, Edmund corrected himself internally—held himself with quiet confidence. He would not give Miraz the satisfaction of seeing him falter.

Edmund unrolled the scroll and began, his voice clear and steady. "I, Peter, by the gift of Aslan, by election and by conquest, High King of Narnia, Lord of Cair Paravel, and Emperor of the Lone Islands, in order to prevent the abominable effusion of blood, do hereby challenge the usurper Miraz to single combat upon the field of battle. The fight shall be to the death. The reward shall be total surrender."

As he finished, he rolled the scroll back up and met Miraz's gaze.

Miraz leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into a sneer. "Tell me, Prince Edmund—"

"King," Edmund interrupted coolly.

Miraz raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"It's King Edmund," he clarified, his tone sharp but composed. "Just king, though. Peter is the High King. I know, it's confusing for some."

Miraz's sneer deepened. "Why would we risk such a proposal when our army could wipe you out by nightfall?"

"Haven't you already underestimated our numbers?" Edmund countered, his voice steady, though his grip on the scroll tightened imperceptibly. "A week ago, you thought the Narnians were extinct."

"And so you will be again," Miraz shot back, leaning forward, his tone dripping with disdain. Then, with a cruel smirk, he added, "Much like your precious princess."

The words cut through the air, laced with venom. Miraz watched intently, satisfaction flickering in his eyes as a flash of raw emotion crossed Edmund's face. Anger and sorrow mingled in the young king's expression, his mask momentarily slipping.

But only for a moment. Edmund drew a slow breath, regaining control with the precision of a practised swordsman. He straightened, meeting Miraz's smug gaze with a fire that burned colder and sharper.

"Even in memory," Edmund said, his voice low and firm, "Eleanor is to be addressed as the High Queen."

The emphasis was deliberate, his words a blade wrapped in ice. Miraz blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the weight of Edmund's tone.

"High Queen," Miraz repeated mockingly, leaning back in his chair. "A title means little when it is carried to the grave."

Edmund's lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, into the ghost of a smile. To Miraz, it might have seemed bitter, a sign of resignation. In truth, it was anything but.

"A title," Edmund said, his voice carefully measured, "means everything when it's earned. Eleanor's legacy will endure far beyond the fleeting shadow of your reign."

Miraz's smirk faltered, but he quickly masked it with a scoff. "Legacy?" he sneered. "The only legacy of your so-called queen is failure. And soon, her people will share her fate."

Edmund's knuckles whitened around the scroll, a calculated display of restrained fury. His lips pressed into a thin line as though holding back an outburst, but his mind remained sharp, each word of Miraz's arrogance fueling his resolve. Let him think Eleanor is dead. Let him underestimate us. He'll learn soon enough.

Miraz leaned back in his chair, his confidence evident in the languid way he draped his arm over the throne-like seat. The memory of the girl—High Queen Eleanor, he reminded himself with a sneer—was nothing but a bitter aftertaste now. She had been their leader, their glue. Without her, the Narnians were splintered, desperate. At least, that's how he saw it.

"She was your great hope, wasn't she?" Miraz said casually, his tone laced with feigned sympathy. "The one who held your fragile little army together. And now?" He spread his hands mockingly. "Nothing but ash and memory."

Edmund took a sharp breath, his expression darkening, and Miraz chuckled, mistaking the reaction for genuine pain. "Without her, your rebellion is nothing but a child's tantrum against a king," Miraz declared smugly.

Edmund refused to take the bait. His expression remained cool, almost bored, despite the undercurrent of tension. He straightened, his voice steady as he redirected the conversation. "Then you should have little to fear."

Miraz's laugh was low and dark, a sound that rumbled through the tent like distant thunder. "This is not a question of bravery," he sneered, leaning forward, eyes narrowed and gleaming with malice.

"So you're bravely refusing to fight a swordsman half your age?" Edmund shot back, his tone laced with just enough challenge to sting.

Miraz's smirk faltered, but only for a moment, before he steeled himself. "I didn't say I refused." He flicked his hand dismissively, but the challenge still hung in the air, sharp as steel.

A Telmarine lord, watching the exchange closely, nodded. "You shall have our support, Your Majesty, whatever your decision," he said, his voice full of feigned reverence.

Sopespian, ever the cautious advisor, leaned in, his voice smooth as silk. "Sire, our military advantage alone gives us the perfect excuse to avoid--"

 Miraz's eyes flashed with a mix of fury and pride. He stood up abruptly, his cloak sweeping behind him as he drew his sword in one fluid motion. The gleam of steel in the dim light seemed to magnify his stature. "I am not avoiding anything!" he snarled, his voice low and commanding.

Sopespian took a step back, but he didn't argue further. Miraz's determination was set in stone, and even he knew it was dangerous to question the king's resolve in front of the others.

Glozelle, ever the sycophant, clapped his hands together. "His Majesty would never refuse," he said with a flourish, his eyes glinting. "He relishes the chance to show his people the bravery of their new king."

Miraz, emboldened by his followers' words, turned his gaze back to Edmund, his lip curling into a sneer. He pointed his sword directly at Edmund, the tip glinting like a serpent's fang. "You had better hope your brother's sword proves sharper," he taunted, his voice thick with menace.

Edmund's lips curled into a smile, though there was no warmth in it. He met Miraz's challenge with a gaze that was equal parts defiant and calm. He had expected this. Miraz had fallen perfectly into their trap. The Telmarine king was too proud, too blinded by his arrogance to see the greater game at play.

With a nod, Edmund turned on his heel, signalling the end of the confrontation. Without a word, he strode from the tent, the sound of his boots striking the earth ringing with purpose. Glenstorm and Wimbleweather were immediately on their feet, their movements sharp and synchronized as they followed Edmund's lead.

The three of them walked in silence, the tension of the meeting still thick in the air. It wasn't until they were halfway back to the Howe that Edmund allowed a small smile to break across his face. He had done his part, playing his role perfectly. Miraz was already overconfident, believing that he had won the upper hand. But Edmund knew better. This was going to be fun.