The High Queen II

The Duel

The battlefield was a tense silence, heavy with the weight of anticipation. The Narnians stood on edge, their weapons held tight, eyes fixed on the entrance of Aslan's How. Behind them, the sun was low, casting a golden glow over the rocky terrain. The air hummed with the knowledge that this moment was the cusp of everything—the final battle for Narnia's future.

Edmund stood next to Peter, both of them staring ahead, waiting. He could feel the tension in the air, an unspoken understanding between them. They knew what was at stake. Their every action, their every word, would shape the destiny of their kingdom.

Then, the doors of Aslan's How creaked open, and the crowd roared. Three figures emerged, stepping into the light—Peter, Edmund, and Eleanor. The sunlight glinted off their armor, casting an almost ethereal glow around them. As they walked, their steps perfectly synchronized, they radiated power, leadership, and unity.

Edmund's heart swelled with pride. There was something different about today. It wasn't just Peter leading them; it wasn't just the High King of Narnia who had the power to change the course of this battle. It was Eleanor.

She walked with a quiet but fierce presence, her every movement a statement of authority. The Narnians—those who had thought her dead—stood taller as they saw her, alive and unbroken. Edmund could see the flickers of disbelief in their eyes, the mixture of awe and relief that she was here, standing with them once again.

But Eleanor wasn't focused on the crowd. Her gaze was locked ahead, on the far side of the battlefield. Edmund followed her eyes and saw Miraz, the Telmarine king, standing at the head of his army, sword drawn, staring right back at her.

For a moment, Miraz's expression faltered, his breath catching. He had thought Eleanor was dead—had convinced himself of it, based on the reports of her ambush. But here she was, standing alive, fierce, and defiant. And Miraz, for the briefest of moments, looked unnerved.

Peter and Edmund continued to walk forward, their swords drawn, but Eleanor remained still, her eyes never leaving Miraz's face.

"Good luck," Eleanor said, her voice low, barely a whisper. But her eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—weren't on Peter. They were fixed on Miraz, studying him like a hawk eyeing its prey.

Edmund knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn't wishing Peter luck; she was sizing up the battlefield. She was preparing for what came next, and it wasn't just about this fight. She was waiting for Miraz to make a mistake.

Peter turned to her for a brief moment, nodding before stepping into the clearing. Edmund stayed behind for just a second longer, watching his sister. The steel in her posture, the way she held herself—it wasn't just regal authority. It was a warrior's stance, a fighter's focus. Eleanor wasn't just here to watch the battle unfold. She was a part of it.

Miraz's eyes locked onto Eleanor once more. Edmund could feel the tension in the air, thick as smoke. Miraz was trying to intimidate her, to break her spirit, but Eleanor wasn't flinching. Her gaze never wavered.

Finally, Miraz spoke, his voice carrying over the battlefield. "There's still time to surrender."

Peter wasn't one to be baited, his eyes remained locked on Miraz, "Well feel free,"

Miraz sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "How many more must die for the throne?"

Peter's answer was firm, his tone like a sword's edge. "Just one."

It was then that Miraz lunged.

 Peter parried smoothly, his movements quick and precise. Eleanor watched every strike and counterstrike with an intensity that made her fingers itch for the hilt of her own blade.