Daggers of Ice

Chapter 3

Narnia. Cair Paravel.

1010.

The Tenth Year of the Golden Age.

Edmund.

Edmund did not take his eyes away from the woman.

No, he amended that thought, it was as if he could not look away from those wintergreen eyes.

Too deep. Too green.

Beautiful, and utterly without warmth.

She sat perfectly still in the chair across from him, wrists bound, expression composed into something near serene. A rope of pale silk circled her hands; he hadn't trusted iron to hold her.

She'd said nothing since waking. Not a sound, not a protest. Not even when she'd opened her eyes to find a sword pressed to the base of her throat.

He could still feel the faint tremor that had run through the blade when she had first looked up at himnot fear, but something closer to challenge.

And then... nothing.

Silence.

She watched him with a calm so unnerving it bordered on arrogance.

The flicker of the fire painted shadows across her face – soft gold on skin that was almost too flawless, throwing her green eyes into sharper relief. The mask of composure she wore now was perfect, practiced. Whatever fury he had seen in the gardens had been buried beneath layers of control; under layers of coldness.

He'd had to knock her out to bring her there; a single strike to her temple when she had turned.
There had been no other way.
The memory still burned against his knuckles.

And in that moment, she sat across from him, motionless, bound, unbent.

He'd stationed a knight outside the chamber door, another sent running for his siblings.

When the door opened, the room changed.

Peter entered first, golden and guarded, Aslan's Lion still fixed to his tunic from the festivities. Susan followed, her face drawn tight between curiosity and disapproval. Lucy came last, eyes wide with the kind of compassion that saw too much. And behind them, silent and watchful, came Asura: his second-in-command of the Royal Guard, her hair still damp from the sea breeze.

The naiad froze halfway between the door and the prisoner, her blue eyes narrowing as though something in the woman before her didn't fit within the laws of the world she knew. Confusion flickered across her face – not recognition exactly, but a shadow of it, like the echo of a melody she couldn't place.

Arianna did not move.

She did not so much as glance in the naiad's direction. Her posture remained perfect, her gaze fixed calmly on Peter, unblinking, unmoved.

But Edmund noticed the faint tremor in the guard's hand as it fell to rest upon the hilt of her blade. Not fear – Asura did not fear easily – but disquiet. As if she stood before something that should not be there.

The silence grew thick around them.

Peter's attention flicked from the naiad to the woman bound before them, his expression hardening. Lucy looked uncertain, Susan wary.

Arianna remained a statue amid their scrutiny, her stillness more commanding than any display of resistance could have been.

And somehow, that composure was worse than defiance.

He could see Lucy assessing the young woman, her gentle gaze sharper than usual – cautious, curious, searching for something good she could name and hold onto. Peter looked wary, the easy warmth gone from his face, his eyes narrowed like a man studying an unfamiliar weapon. Susan worried, though whether it was for the intruder or the fact she was missing her own celebration, Edmund could not tell.