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Chapter Text

AMONGST THE SHIMMERING CONSTELLATIONS AND INSUBSTANTIAL CLOUDS, there was a time when the Silver Enchantresses lived in harmony with their magical gifts. The first of their names as the daughters of the moon are widely celebrated across all the tallest mountains and impenetrable kingdoms of age. Gifted with a beauty blessed by Aphrodite, and minds as sharp as Athena's love child who could read the deepest thoughts of others; favoured by the great lion and protector of the lands of beloved Narnia, Aslan himself, vowed a purpose to safeguard the realm from those who bear the darkest of desires to rule his land and his people.

Legend spoke of their origins, saying that they were born from the moon's soft light on a night of wonder and magic. Their hair shimmered like moonbeams, and their eyes sparkled like stars in the night sky. Their laughter was like music, and wherever they went, the world seemed to hold its breath in awe of their enchanting presence.

Hence, as the Daughters of the Moon grew, so did their powers. With hearts filled with courage and compassion, the Silver Enchantresses embarked on many quests to foil the plans of those who wanted to rule Narnia with malevolent ways and tyranny. The maidens roamed the deepest depths of the forests, guided by the wisdom of Aslan himself and used their gifts to peer into the minds of men, distinguishing the noble from the corrupted.

Among them was Malvora, her beauty was like a moonlit dream, her eyes held the secrets of a thousand stars, and her laughter echoed through the meadowes of the enchanted soil like a symphony of orchestrated rhythm. But as fate would have it, as she ventured deeper into the heart of Narnia, the legend of Malvora's powers spread far and wide. She found herself entwined in a love that would change the course of her destiny.

It was during a moonlit night, under the stars that shone as brightly as her magical aura, that Malvora's path crossed with the charming Telmarine Prince Eamon. His smile was as radiant as the sun, and his words were like sweet melodies that mesmerised the living of all who heard them.

But unbeknownst to the young maiden, it was at this moment Eamon first crossed paths with the Silver Enchantress, that he knew had found the love of his life. Their hearts connected in a dance of emotions, and for a time, it appeared that they were destined for a love that would be celebrated throughout the kingdom.

As the mystical days turned into blissful nights, Eamon and Malvora shared dreams of a future where they could unite their powers and use them for the betterment of their people. The future king's vision was nothing but noble, his intentions were pure as the alabaster hues of the winter nightfalls. But as all tales must have their endings, the years passed and winds of change began to blow through the magical soil and clutched its claws in the crevice of their love. Power and ambition clouded Eamon's once clear vision, and the allure of control over Narnia's vast realms proved too tempting to resist. He became consumed by the desire for dominion and allowed his heart to be swayed by the whispers of ambition and greed.

Gradually, Eamon's charm took on a darker edge as he made alliances with unscrupulous individuals, the promises of power and riches proved to be intoxicating, and Eamon's priorities shifted from the wellbeing of the people to the accumulation of lust for nothing but power. With every step he took on his path to kingship, the light in Eamon's heart dimmed, replaced by a hunger for control that sought to challenge even the perils of ancient magic. The once-noble prince had become a different man, and as he withered from the darkness, Malvora had lost him in the process.

Grief-stricken by the loss for the love they once had, the enchantress planned her departure grasping for the pieces that remained: the devotion for her heritage. Flourishing the embers of the hope that was left, Malvora spoke to protect Narnia from the darkness that now consumed her once-beloved prince.

In the midst of panic upon gaining such intelligence, Eamon's desperation grew and he sought to gain control over the Silver Enchantress, resorting to the darkest corners of forbidden magic. Under the cloak of the night, when the moon's glow was at its strongest before Malvora had the chance to tackle the path toward liberation, Eamon performed a ritual so forbidden his soul had attempted to flee from the cruelty of its clutches. With arcane symbols etched in the soil and the flickering flames of black candles, he summoned the power of the dark spell, convinced that his and her love could conquer all, even the laws of the godforsaken universe they inhabit. Blinded by her feelings amplified by the abomination of Eamon's lunatic endeavours, she fell into his deception and allowed her powers to be used for darker purposes, giving rise to a wicked form of sorcery that threatened the balance of their beloved regions beyond imaginable.

As Malvora's dark magic grew, so did her followers as the abandonment of Aslan's kings and queens in Cair Paravel broke the last thread of hope of their people. They embraced the corrupted power and became agents of chaos and oppression, spreading fear throughout the realm. With a sinister glint in his eye, Eamon took advantage of Malvora's compromised state. He twisted her enchanting abilities to serve his own purposes, using her magical influence to manipulate those around her and strengthen his grip on the neighbouring kingdoms of his home. As Eamon's control over Malvora deepened, her radiant light began to dim, and her true essence seemed to be fading away. The once vibrant and free-spirited Silver Enchantress was now a mere puppet under the influence of the ghost of the man she dreamed of having a bright future with.

It was a time of sorrow and tragedy, as the enchanting beauty of Malvora's heart and spirit seemed trapped in a cage of shadows. The people of Narnia and its neighbouring heights could sense the darkness that now surrounded her, and they mourned the loss of the Silver Enchantress they had once revered and loved.

In their desperate attempts to save the people and creatures alike from the destructive influence of Malvora's dark magic, the other Silver Enchantresses, filled with sorrow and regret, found themselves faced with an impossible choice. They knew that the only way to contain the darkness that threatened to consume the very land was to take drastic measures. With heavy hearts, the Silver Enchantresses convened under the pale light of the night, their magical powers intertwined in a bittersweet symphony. As one, they lavish the familiar magic weaving an intricate and powerful spell cast by no other than their creator herself, the deity of the moon's rage enveloping the dawn with the darkness as slick as the vipers, to befall its fangs to the reaps of her daughters. And the deity's wrath manifested into a curse that would echo through the ages.

Malvora, in her moment of clarity, realised the gravity of her actions and the devastation she had caused, King Eamon's blood befallen in his lover's hand. Filled with remorse, in a futile attempt to save her sisters, the enchantress pleaded to the gods, the deity of the moon among all the legends she could name to reverse such malediction.

"Punish me instead! As the last of the Silverthorns, I shall face the consequence alone! I beg of you!"

Her weeping rippled to the highest steps of foreign grounds; the cavernous intersections of the lakes below but it was too late. The enchanting impression of the spell surged through Malvora's veins, and the spoken bewitchment of the Deity above wove their powers around her and her sisters in a cocoon of shimmering light. The fate of her daughters was sealed. One by one, they fell into a deep, enchanted sleep, their bodies resting peacefully under the watchful gaze of the maidens' forebearers.

Over the years, the legend of the Silver Enchantresses and their sacrifice spread throughout the vast realms of Aslan. The enchanted slumber of the Silver Enchantresses became a mystery, and they were all but half-forgotten by the world they had once protected. The generations of what remained that followed carried the burden of their ancestor's mistakes, forever haunted by the legacy of dark magic that lingered.

The rise of newfound knowledge driven by the Telmarines' lust for power, they searched tirelessly for any surviving descendants of the Silver Enchantresses, cruelly scoured the land, seeking any trace of the enchanted lineage with a promise that by producing an heir with unparalleled magical prowess, they could establish their unyielding dominion over Narnia and all beyond its realms.

Refusing to bend to the will of the kings, the descendants chose to remain hidden, shielding themselves from the Telmarines' relentless pursuit. The legends spoke of a prophetic vision, "Only when Narnia was truly in dire need, and the hearts of its people were united in harmony, would the enchanting bloodline reawaken."

And so, the descendants of the House of Silverthorns remained hidden in the shadows, enduring hope that one day, the true heiress of the Silver Enchantresses would rise to protect and preserve the magic of Narnia for generations to come and their enchanted bloodline would rise from the ashes once more.

Chapter Text

HIGH IN THE SECLUDED HEART OF NARNIA, where the ancient trees whispered secrets and the moonlight danced on silvery leaves, rose defiantly from the forest floor a tower unlike any other like a solitary sentinel against the sacred sky. Creeping ivy adorned the sturdy ancient grey-stoned walls, weaving a tapestry of green and silver, veiling the tower in nature's embrace as if it had been conjured by the very essence of the forest itself. Delicate luminescent flowers dotted the ivy, emanating a faint, mystical glow that illuminates in the midst of expanding darkness. High above, an undisturbed window shimmered like a distant star that glistened like a jewel in the night.

Stealthy figures cloaked in Telmarine armour gathered at the tower's base. With hushed steps, they began their ascent, employing ropes and grappling hooks to aid their climb. Each movement brought them closer to their goal, yet the tower seemed to sense the intrusion. As the Telmarines progressed, the luminescent flowers emitted subtle bursts of light, almost as if they were sounding a silent alarm. The ivy, like a watchful guardian, rustled and resisted their touch, inclining their conquest challenging and fraught with tension.

Fourteen feet beyond, the vastness of the tower's interior unfolded like a fabled chamber of dreams. A winding spiral staircase hugged the tapestried-walls of its corners and the occupants sensed the presence of its trespassers. Anastacia's heart pounded in her chest as she prepared for the inevitable confrontation. With a trembling hand, she reached for the satchel that hung in a nearby bookshelf that stood on the side of her bedroom, movements swift and efficient, senses were on high alert. She couldn't afford to let her guard down, even for a moment.

Her deft hands shoved a golden locket from the vanity across the place she stood moments prior, a bottle of medicinal potion from the depths of its drawers, and at last an ancient book along with the parchment that was a map from the highest section of the shelves that followed. The young maiden glanced around the room, cross-checking that nothing vital was overlooked. Time seemed to slip through her fingers like grains of sand, her hidden sanctuary was no longer safe and she was forced to watch the Telmarines bequeath its ruins.

"Quick!" a voice spoke in a hushed tone, eyes wide with urgency. Her breath caught in her throat, "We must hurry." Lady Everdeen initiated their flight down the spiral staircase that wound through the dimly lit living room of the tower.

Anastacia exhaled a relief when she recognized the face of her caregiver. The old woman's grip on her arms was firm, guiding her with urgency and purpose. The sounds of chaos grew louder outside, the clashing of swords and the shouts of the invaders echoing through the forest. Anastacia's hand moved swiftly as she unsheathed a gleaming silver dagger, cleverly concealed by straps hidden beneath her nightgown. With unwavering resolve, five more daggers followed, each one as lethal as the last; Lady Everdeen halted their progress with a sudden motion.

With a practised and skillful gesture, the old lady gently pushed the cushion aside, unveiling a concealed compartment beneath. Her fingers moved with precision as she lifted a marble tile, revealing a hidden staircase that descended further into the heart of the tower. The secret passage beckoned toward a path of a promised liberation. Without another word, Lady Everdeen fastened a velvet cloak around Anastacia's neck, its deep blue fabric soft against her skin, pulling up the hood, in attempts to conceal the young lady's features.

Their eyes met, with a pang of realisation, Anastacia found her voice. "No," she protested, "You're coming with me."

"The bottom of this staircase possess a cave that will lead you to the other side of the forest," Lady Everdeen explained despite her objections. "You'll find a horse waiting nearby. It will take you at the end of the lake, far from here." The old lady only smiled warmly, reached for her hand and placed a kerosene lamp for her to hold, eyes full of love and pride. "The horn has been blown, seek the kings and queens of old age. They will help you."

With a soft kiss on Anastacia's forehead, "I will always be with you, my love." the old lady pushed her forward. And before the maiden knew, her body crashed with the solid surface that was the entrance that closed behind her.

As she stepped into the dark cave, cloak billowing at her heels, unshed tears escaped her eyes. And Anastacia ventured forth into the unknown, sealing her fate with a heavy heart. In the stillness of the night, the fate of the tower hung in the balance, and only time would reveal who would emerge victorious — the noble Lady Everdeen, or the Telmarines, eager to seize the enigmatic wonders held within the tower's walls.

WHISPERS OF HUSHED CONVERSATIONS AND THE OCCASIONAL CLANKING OF ARMOUR REVERBERATED THROUGH THE WOOD. The Telmarine commander that was Miraz stood at the centre, issuing silent orders through a series of hand signals. "How much did they take?" The wagons of armour stood as silent witnesses to the unfolding events. The aftermath of a violent clash was evident on their surfaces; gouges and scratches from the intensity of the battle marred their once-pristine appearance.

"Enough weapons and armour for two regiments." Glozelle situated before his usurper. "But… there is more," the usually confident and composed general shifted uneasily on his feet, his fingers clasping the edges of the broken wagon's entryway. With a calculated movement, he lifted the heavy wooden plank. The sun's rays filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows over the carved words into its solid timber surface:

You were right to fear the woods. — X

"'X'?" general Sopespian asked. The smugness in his expression was not overt, but it played subtly across his features — a glint of self-assuredness in his eyes, hinting at his satisfaction with the unfolding situation having Glozelle as the prominent receiver of Miraz's fragile-contained rage.

The sacking of the tower where rumoured enchantress (as of yet untouched by the wicked spell of eternal slumber, at last) escaped. Hence, served as one of the significant reasons behind Lord Miraz's heightened temper. Such a massive opportunity to further solidify his kingdom's dominance in Narnia, broken as a thousand-pieces-shard of glasses that suffered an immeasurable fall. For despite the strategic planning, the attack proved to be a failure.

The enchantress, who had been long vigilant of potential threats, was well-prepared for the onslaught; the tower albeit might at its heel was left with nothing but a frail lady who happened to be the maiden's caregiver of whom displayed unwavering allegiance, enough to lose the ability to provide their soldiers any invaluable information.

Discontent and impatience swept through the ranks of the Telmarine invaders.

For a moment there was a screaming, then came a second of the sound of breaking bones colliding to the solid surface of thorned-rose bush, the lifeless body of the elderly lady lay sprawled at the foot of the tower, her form unnaturally still against the hard stone floor. Her frail frame bore the weight of the brutality she had faced, and her clothes were stained with the evidence of the violent encounter. The rich fabric of her garments, once worn with care and dignity, was now marred by dirt and the strongest hues of crimson.

"Caspian," The lord spoke of his nephew's name like a bitter poison against his lips as he turned his head to voice who inquired, "the tenth." It did not help that growing his frustration was flourished upon the revelation of Prince Caspian's thievery of Telmarine weapons under the administration of the esteemed general Glozelle himself.

"I apologise, my lord. The blame is mine." He asserted, voice tinged with a sense of urgency.

"Yes," Miraz spat with an expression so stoned before he added, "and the sacking before that."

A knowing smile thugged the corners of Sopesian's lips, a glint of satisfaction shone in his eyes as he savoured the sight of his rival grappling with the difficult position he found himself in.

"My lord, I understand your dissatisfaction but during the raid on the enchanted tower, we found something of great significance." Yet the general continued, carefully choosing his words. "One of the castle's guards discovered a hidden compartment within the armoury's walls. Inside, lies a map, and upon closer inspection, it appears to be a lead to the location of the remaining enchantresses."

"And how many men did you lose?"

"None, my lord." The determination etched with Glozelle's expression fell quickly as it had come.

"None?" Asked Miraz, a tone of mockery evident with every syllable. "These enchantresses possess ancient powers that could be harnessed for our advantage, yet they continue to elude us."

"Forgive me my lord, but they are elusive and powerful beings. It is no easy task to capture one, let alone multiple." In such a state, Glozelle couldn't entirely suppress a hint of defiance, "And as for t-the Narnians, they came like ghosts in the dead of the night. We never saw the — "

Slap!

In a swift and furious motion, Lord Miraz's hand, firmly clutching the hilt of his sword, surged forward, imparting a resounding strike across the general's jaw. "You were assigned a singular responsibility: to procure the remaining conniving witches, yet all that has transpired is the revelation of Caspian's treacherous actions!" Miraz's face was contorted with rage, and his voice trembled with anger as he berated Glozelle for his perceived insolence. "I asked: how many men were killed," The infuriated Lord thundered once more, his voice carrying the weight of his fury. "general?"

"Six," His eyes blazed with a mix of pain and indignation, but he managed to regain his composure, not allowing the king to see the full extent of his emotions.
With the tension thick in the air, Miraz decided to break the oppressive silence that had settled in the horizon, features tampered with satisfaction as the crimson liquid cascaded from his general's lips.

"I apologise, general Sopespian." Miraz sauntered gracefully toward his majestic steed, movements deliberate and commanding. "Caspian is not a victim of this savage uprising." As he reached the raven stallion, Miraz ran a hand along the animal's sleek mane, his thoughts hidden behind a mask of calm and composure. "He is the instigator."

The subtle movements of his fingers betrayed the undercurrent of emotions swirling within. "It seems Narnia is in need of a new king." The sight of the powerful monarch with his horse served as a stark reminder of his position at the helm of the kingdom. "I demand that the remaining accessible resources within our disposal be directed towards the endeavour of locating the lost silver enchantresses." With a glance back at the assembled courtiers, Miraz mounted his horse, With a regal air, he rode away, leaving behind a court still reeling from the impact of the recent events.

"It is imperative that I reach her before he do."

THE SUN DIPPED BELOW THE TREETOPS, casting a warm golden glow over the forest of Narnia. Anastacia and the stallion Lady Everdeen spoke of, trudged through the dense undergrowth, their breaths forming small clouds in the chilly air. Magnificent and majestic, Charlemagne's tail flows behind it like a silken banner that was its rider's billowing velvet cloak. His hooves moved with grace and power, each step resonating with a deep connection to the earth. The alabaster stallion seemed to glide effortlessly through the dense path, as if the very ground acknowledged his presence with reverence.

"The edge of the lake should be somewhere northeast from here... through the whispering woods." Anastacia clutched the worn map tightly in her hand, a treasure she had managed to snatch from her captors during her daring escape. Though her face remained composed, her eyes betrayed the weariness of her soul. It had been weeks since they embarked on their journey, and exhaustion gnawed at her very bones.

"There should be a clearing not far from here where we might find some berries or edible plants." Charlemagne's voice was a rich baritone.

They set off once more, moving silently through the forest like shadows as Anastacia welcomed the wisdom of her companion. Finding a secluded glade not straying so much from their prioritised trail, stomach filled albeit half-full with fruits they have managed along the way, Anastacia dismounted from Charlemagne.

The dwindling light filtering through the canopy illuminated the ancient symbols that marked the century-old parchment, revealing the path to the elusive ends of the streaming Beruna lake. As she traced her finger along the faded lines, Charlemagne's ears perked up, sensing the abrupt change in Anastacia's stilled frame. He moved closer, gently nuzzling her shoulder.

A subtle gesture of consolation.

Anastacia smiled faintly, finding solace in her companion's presence, her touch gentle as she stroked his ivory-stained muzzle. "We'll rest here for the night," she murmured, folding the map in her grasp; tucked it securely into her satchel under the fabrics of her covers.

In the rustling leaves and distant hoots of owls, the evening settled in and the sun began to dim. The air was tinged with a hint of wood and earth, carrying the fragrance of pine and wildflowers. Anastacia skillfully gathered dry twigs, their branches snap-cracking under her nimble fingers. Charlemagne contributed as well, deftly picking up larger logs and placing them with a careful precision.

The fire grew, its light casting a warm, golden hue. The flames leaped and swayed with an almost mesmerising dance, creating ever-shifting patterns of luminosity. Sparks occasionally leaped from the inferno, carrying embers aloft to join the myriad stars that were beginning to appear in the darkening sky.

Seated gracefully, Anastacia nestled against Charlemagne's sturdy flank, acutely aware of the persistent ache in her tailbone. Weeks of arduous riding had taken a toll on her body, and the exhaustion seemed to rush over her all at once.

"The flames hold ancient secrets and mysteries untold. As we rest here by the bonfire's light, may it be a beacon of hope guiding us through the unknown." His dark eyes mirrored the flickering flames as he kept a posture of constant vigilance. The maiden could only hum back as her eyelids grew heavy, leaning against her companion's warmth.

THE CANOPY OF ANCIENT TREES ABOVE SEEMED TO DRAW CLOSER, their gnarled branches interweaving to form an intricate tapestry of shadow and moonlit patches. The once-lively sounds of nocturnal creatures became more pronounced: chirps, hoots, and croaks amplified against the mist of darkened horizon. Shafts of silvery light filtered through the dense foliage, creating enchanting patterns that danced across the ground; the glade where Anastacia and Charlemagne nestled was illuminated by the lunar radiance.

Until.

A faint rustling beneath a nearby bush stirred Anastacia from her rest. Her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked sleepily, trying to make sense of the disturbance, too unusual in the isolated depths of the undisturbed forest. She strained her senses, heart pounding in her chest as she waited for any sign of movement.

Another figure suddenly materialised, gliding with uncanny grace to their left. Charlemagne prodded, his voice firm and proud, ears flicking forward to catch any further sounds. "Show yourself," The stalwart stallion took a resolute step forward, instinctively placing himself as a shield, protective and loyal, between the newcomer and his precious ward.
It was a test of wills, as they awaited the creature's next move in the heart of the magical forest.

"We mean no harm," Anastacia pronounced, hands instinctively reaching for the hilt of her daggers. "But we will defend ourselves if necessary."

A fleeting moment of silence followed and Charlemagne was gone.

Then a magnificent sight unfolded before Anastacia's weary eyes. A regal stag emerged from the shadows, its form bathed in an ethereal glow, casting a silvery aura around its majestic antlers. Her heart leaped within her chest as she beheld the mystical creature, unmistakable in its presence. This was no ordinary stag; it was the very same creature that had blessed their path on previous occasions, a symbol of hope in some, an omen of forthcoming encounters in others.

The thoughts swirling through her mind brimmed with an undeniable sense of concern and dread, becoming too insistent to dismiss. "No..." She whispered, voice quivering with worry and sorrow. "Who was it this time?"

The stag's piercing eyes seemed to convey ancient wisdom and dejection as it responded, its voice resonating with both power and tenderness, "Solana of the Western Hemisphere, my Lady." Her breath caught in her throat, and her grip on her Stallion's mane tightened. Amidst the dwindling numbers of silver enchantresses, Solana and Anastacia stood out as highly coveted targets for the Telmarines soldiers. For reasons being the final carriers of their ancient bloodline, stood untouched by the formidable curse of eternal slumber that had befallen their predecessors.

"I don’t understand," she said, her brow furrowed with a mix of confusion and frustration.

The stag, with its wise and piercing eyes, regarded Anastacia with a serene gaze. It seemed to sense the turmoil in her heart, acknowledging the weight of the situation and the gravity of its presence.

"Hidden in a sacred alcove in the island of Coriakin, was it not? The place where Solana was abducted was supposed to be impenetrable," she continued, her mind racing to comprehend the implications.

The stag nodded solemnly, its silvery aura glowing with an ethereal intensity. "Indeed, it was meant to be a sanctuary untouched by the curse that has befallen others of your bloodline," it replied. Anastacia's eyes widened, the realisation hit her like a wave of uncertainty, filling her with a sense of responsibility she had not anticipated.

"Let it be known, my child, that a grave warning awaits you. The capture of your cousin will ignite a relentless pursuit by the Telmarines, directing their eager gaze towards your vulnerable presence. The inevitable curse of eternal slumber looms on the horizon, destined to find its way to you as the last remaining descendant concealed within the enigmatic confines of the forest.

The ancient legends, shrouded in whispers of old, have revealed a profound revelation — that you, Anastacia, are the chosen heiress, the one foretold to liberate your predecessors from the unforgiving wrath of the deity of the moon. The destiny of your bloodline hinges upon your actions."

As the stag's words sank in, Anastacia's initial reaction was a whirlwind of emotions. "No! You're making a terrible mistake!" Anger, like a fierce wildfire, blazed within her heart. Why, of all the beings in the vast realm of Narnia, had this burden fallen solely upon her shoulders? The sense of abandonment gripped her as she looked around the moonlit glade. Her resentment extended beyond her personal plight; it extended to the very gods who presided over Narnia's fate. The weight of her bloodline's destiny felt unjust, and a bitter question echoed in her mind: where were the deities, who professed their love for this forsaken land?

Within Anastacia's family, the knowledge of the true heir had been closely guarded, whispered with hopeful reverence among its members. Solana, as the favoured one, had been the centre of their dreams and aspirations, believed to be the key to breaking the curse and restoring their bloodline's honour. An air of expectancy and hope had surrounded Solana's upbringing, her every action observed through the lens of prophecy. The family had envisioned her as the beacon of their ancestors' legacy, destined to reclaim the ancient magic that once coursed through their veins.

Yet, as the Telmarines' clutches claimed Solana, the family's hopes were shattered like fragile glass.

Anastacia, previously an unremarkable figure in the shadows of her cousin's perceived destiny, found herself thrust into the forefront of Narnia's gaze. She was the one who remained awake and untouched by the curse — a truth that emerged as a bittersweet surprise. The legends had been mistaken; the Silverthorns had been wrong in their assumptions.

"Fear not, young one. Though the burden you bear is great, help will soon be coming your way. You will not walk this treacherous path alone," Anastacia glanced up at the stag, puzzled yet intrigued by its cryptic words. If things had been different, she would have been astonished the creature had stayed. "a soul with a shared past, a path of redemption, and a name that holds echoes of legend will stand by your side,"

Anastacia's emotions spiralled into bitter, humourless, chuckle. The assurance of help coming her way only added to her sense of mockery. The burden of her bloodline's legacy felt like an insurmountable mountain, and the idea that someone could come and ease her struggles seemed laughable, almost absurd. But when the stag's ethereal form began to fade, Anastacia's heart raced with a sudden surge of alarm.

“Wait, don't go,” she pleaded, voice tinged with evident extremity.

In her desperation, Anastacia's mind clung to the one question that haunted her, "Where's Lady Everdeen?" she asked, trembling with a mixture of hope and fear.

The stag turned its gaze upon her, its eyes shimmering with compassion. "I'm sorry, young one," it replied gently, "but that is beyond my knowledge. I can only speak of the other enchantresses, not those who cared for you."

Anastacia's heart sank with disappointment. The answer left her with a sense of helplessness, knowing that the fate of Lady Everdeen remained shrouded in mystery. She had hoped that the stag, with its enigmatic wisdom, could offer her some insight into the whereabouts of her missing caregiver, but it seemed that even the majestic creature had its limitations.

As the moments slipped away like sand through an hourglass, the creature began to dissipate from the ethereal realm it had briefly graced. Its radiant form, once bathed in a silvery glow, grew translucent like mist dissolving beneath the moonlit dawn. The outlines of its powerful body softened, blending with the dappled moonlight that filtered through the canopy of trees.

The maiden blink and the shadows danced around her like silent spectators, left alone as though a pawn in some grand, incomprehensible game.

Chapter Text

FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE SHADOWS, as the sun gracefully dipped below the horizon, a resplendent aura of warm, amber hues bathed the Narnian forest in its enchanting glow. A colourful ensemble of adventurers stepped forth from the vibrant tapestry woven from tales of old — the majestic centaurs, with their upper human torsos and powerful equine bodies; minotaurs alike, their dark fur and sharp horns accentuated their immense stature and muscular frames. The sturdy dwarfs strutted through the mix; their stocky builds and powerful arms were adorned in intricately crafted armour and carried finely honed weapons.

"Well, it’s good that you have troops, but we need some fortifications. Somewhere to train."

In the forefront of this extraordinary assembly stood High King Peter Pevensie. Though the details of his facial features were obscured by the distance, his form was lean and athletic. His hair, in a light shade of brown bore a slightly tousled texture.

Beside him, Prince Caspian, his tall and well-built frame conveyed a quiet strength that belied his youthful age. His dark hair, ever so prominent, cascaded like a silken river over his regal manner.

Several steps from a distance, stalks the wise badger, Trufflehunter. "So? What are they like?" His inquiry of the Pevensie's whereabouts directed at the dwarfs, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

Trumpkin, so much the epitome of qualms and complaints, didn't mince words in his response. "Malcontents, complainers, stubborn as mules in the morning,"

"So you like them, then." Nikabrik the shrewd, chimed in.

There was a momentary pause, as Trumpkin considered his comeback. "Well enough." he conceded, not willing to reveal too much of his sentiments.

Mingling aromas of wildflowers and the dampness of the forest floor teased its visitors' amplified senses. As the trees gradually thinned, the murmurs of travellers grew louder, and the Narnians caught their first glimpse of the shimmering waters.

The sun dipped lower, the colours deepened, and the sky transformed into a canvas of ever-shifting shades. The day's journey through the wondrous Narnian forest came to a halt and the motley crew found themselves at the edge of the vast Berunian lake.

The high king stood on one of the enormous rocks that overlooked the crystal expanse, his figure silhouetted against the fading daylight. From this elevated vantage point, Peter surveyed the tranquil scene before him. "Considering the distance we've covered," he spoke with a touch of practicality, glancing at the weary expressions around him, "it would be wise to rest here for a while."

However, Caspian, with a trace of hesitation in his voice, spoke up, his Telmarine accent lending a distinct cadence to his words, "I understand the fatigue, but I maintain the belief that it would be more advantageous to continue our path. The trees are beginning to thin; an indication of a meadows' existence within its perimeters." In the bottom of the rock Peter situates, the prince gestured to the opposite direction, "This is a perfect opportunity to press forward."

Rays of sunlight extended like radiant fingers, reaching out to caress the forest's canopy glistening off the gentle ripples. The clouds above caught fire, igniting into brilliant streaks of crimson and gold, as if the heavens themselves were ablaze with the brilliance of the departing day. Yet, the subtle gestures and fleeting glances betrayed the unspoken challenge between the two leaders.

The atmosphere hung heavy with the weight of their opposing viewpoints.

It was in this charged moment that anyone's timely intervention could fortify as a gentle breeze.

"I propose that we stay here for the night and avail ourselves of the resources available nearby." Stepping forth from the throng of companions, Edmund Pevensie revealed himself, becoming a focal point amid the varying troupe. His once-boyish physique had filled out with the strength of a seasoned adventurer with shoulders squared, standing tall with an air of quiet nobility. "Fish, nuts, berries — even woods to bolster our equipment."

The Just King's proposal hung in the air for a brief moment, when the Narnian crowd responded with a murmur of agreement, punctuated by subtle nods and affirmative gestures. His words presented a practical and comprehensive plan, outlining the various resources they could gather from the vegetation beyond. It resonated with the group, solidifying the plan as a collective decision.

The tension that diffusely transpired between the clashing leads had lifted with the mist. "Of course," Caspian's determined expression had mirrored Peter's softened-becoming ones.

"Excellent," Edmund added, acknowledging the crowd's agreement with a smile. His hair, a rich chestnut hue, fell in tousled waves, framing a face adorned with a hint of stubble. "We shall make the most of the night gathering our provisions and set forth tomorrow in the afternoon."

As the charged atmosphere subsided, the hushed whispers transformed into a purposeful buzz of activity as individuals moved with a sense of dedication. The Narnian host swiftly sprang into action, eagerly preparing to execute the leaders' orders. Groups formed organically, each taking on specific tasks with an air of efficiency.

Even so in the midst of the buzzling crowd, Edmund's grimace towards Susan's way did not escape Reepicheep's notice. It was as clear as day that the young king hinted at the tension that had transpired between Caspian and Peter during their earlier exchange.

UNDER THE SILVER GLOW OF THE NARNIAN MOON, the warriors, skilled and battle-hardened, had set up a strategic campsite that reflected their practical nature and focus on survival. The scent of roasted meat and freshly foraged fruits wafted through the air, indicating the success of their hunts and gathering expeditions. Skilled hunters, armed with bows and arrows, had ventured into the surrounding forests and returned with the spoils of their endeavours. The calm waters of the lake provided both a source of life and a strategic advantage.

Minotaurs sharpen their skills by engaging in combat drills on the stony shore or practice stealth and agility by crossing the lake's shallows without disturbing its surface. Some were on patrol duty, their footsteps barely audible on the forest floor, while others preferred to huddle around the crackling bonfires, expertly crafting and maintaining their weapons.

The glimmer of sword blades and the sparks of creation formed a mesmerising tableau against the backdrop of the starry sky. A soft, flickering glow emanated from the campfire at the centre of the settlement in a nearby table which Peter and Caspian engaged in an intense conversation, examining closely the expansive map and its intricate figures, elucidating the strategic manoeuvres they had devised.

Meanwhile, heeding the counsel to take a moment of reprieve, Lucy and Susan had resorted to venturing to one of the neighbouring encampments.

A mere hundred paces to the north, seated on a weathered log beside the crackling flames, was the Just King engrossed in a leather-bound book, The Timeless Botanical Remedies of the Century: A Comprehensive Guide to Herbal Medicine. Amidst the flickering light, Edmund immersed himself in the pages of the book about botany, seeking valuable knowledge for his medicinal potions.

"Ah, Your Majesty," a familiar, valiant figure emerged. Edmund took a moment to lift his eyes from the book. "You have been tirelessly attending to your duties. A moment of respite is well-deserved, my dear friend." It was none other than Trufflehunter, the compassionate badger.

A smile made its way to his lips. "Indeed," Edmund instinctively rubbed his eyes, trying to dispel the fatigue that had settled upon him.

As the region came into focus, a makeshift armoury stood at one end of the station, where expert craftsmen honed their skills. The rhythmic sounds of hammering and metalworking resonated through the night as swords were forged, arrows were fletched, and shields were strengthened.

Edmund rose from the weathered log, his movements deliberate and silent. "Do you suppose there's a chamomile close by?" He reached for his sword, feeling the cool metal hilt beneath his fingers. "It might be beneficial for the potions I plan to brew."

Trufflehunter's eyes widened in pleasant surprise. Undoubtedly, this is not the kind of restful interlude he had envisioned. With his sword securely fastened to his belt, Edmund trudged tall and resolute.

"Very well, My King," the badger replied as quickly as he had followed. "If you insist on this quest, I shall accompany you."

The adjacent waters sparkled in the moonlight, its surface as smooth as glass, reflecting the twinkling stars above. Soft ripples spread out from the water's edge as nocturnal creatures dipped their toes. Underneath the glimmering moonbeams, Trufflehunter and Edmund ventured toward the overgrown forest. Crickets serenaded the distant visitors, and the occasional hoot of an owl added to the solemn commotion of the eventide.

Having familiarised himself with the constellations and their movements during his numerous adventures, he noted that certain stars had shifted to specific positions. It was when the young king deduced that it was approximately three in the morning, they discovered a small clearing.

Merely a stone's cast to the north, delicate translucent petals were illuminated by the gentle light. Edmund's eyes lit up with excitement as he spotted the chamomile blooms. But just as he was about to secure his freshly-plucked herbals, expecting to call for Trufflehunter to share in his triumph, he glanced to his side. To his surprise, the loyal badger was nowhere to be seen.

Panic flickered in Edmund's eyes, "Trufflehunter?" he called.

As the wind swept past, rustling the leaves of the surrounding trees, the young king felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere. A hazy glow seemed to suffuse the air, casting a soft, opalescent sheen upon the forest. The moonlight appeared to shimmer with an added brilliance, its silvery beams intermingling with glimmers of ethereal luminescence that danced among the shadows.

A profound silence enveloped the paddock. The moon, which had earlier illuminated the woods with its silvery radiance, now seemed to shine with a softer, more subdued glow, as if in deference to the incantation that unfolded before them.
Instinctively, he paused, his senses on high alert.

The forest seemed to hold its breath, as if in anticipation of an unseen presence. An unsettling realisation began to gnaw at his consciousness, shiver ran down his spine as he recognized the subtle signs of an enchantment that seemed to wrap itself around him like a haunting mist.

The meadows were cloaked with bewitchment, far from the magic Edmund had known so well.

His heart, which had quickened, now weighed heavy with an indescribable longing. No! He protested from the depths of his thoughts. But it was too late; the memories of Jadis, the White Queen's beguiling ways, flashed his mind like a blinding light: Mr. Tumnus, the fox, the beavers were gone — and it was all Edmund's fault.

"Ed!" screamed Lucy from a distance. Her cry pierced the air, cutting through the coppice like a beacon of clarity.

Edmund's breath hitched.

The familiar sounds of the night returning — the soft chirping of crickets, the gentle sway of branches, and the comforting rustle of leaves. It was as if her very presence had banished the lingering bewitchments and restored the magic of the landscapes to its pure and benevolent form. A newfound vitality permeated the woods upon catching sight of his sister's approaching figure.

A sense of solace washed over Edmund.

He was safe.

He had to continuously affirm himself as his hands trembled as he tucked the chamomile in his pouch. However, in light of Lucy's adjacent frame, a frown marred her brother's features as he took note of her tear-stricken expression.

Edmund fought to keep his thoughts clear, "What's the matter, Lu?" he asked, concern laced evident with his brittled voice.

Lucy had spoken hurriedly about something the centaurs had captured but before Edmund could even make sense of what his sister was trying to say, he was being dragged by the latter into the on going upheaval, 50 yards and a hundred paces away.

It was at this very moment he had taken notice of at least 27 torches flickering amidst the darkness. Narnians from all walks of life raised their voices, their passionate arguments colliding in a fierce clash of opinions. The volume seemed to escalate with each passing moment, the air was thick with the resounding force of their emotions.

Together, the siblings had navigated through the commotion, pushing forward to where the centaurs had gathered. Among the armed and holding torches, Edmund's attention was drawn to a stature in distress — a veiled figure concealed beneath a coarse hood, forcibly separated from her beloved alabaster steed.

Lucy's hold at the hem of Edmund's clothing tightened and the mighty vessel reared up in protest, its neighs echoing through the chaos, triggering its peak.

It was as if time itself stood still. His voice rang out like a thunderclap. "Enough!" Edmund bellowed, his tone firm and unwavering. It seemed to carry a weight that silenced even the loudest of arguments. The conversations halted, and Narnians turned their attention towards the young king.

"What's going on?" he demanded, his voice modulated with irritation.

"Your Majesty," Thalos Brightstride began: steady and authoritative, "I must inform you that the maiden we have captured is no ordinary being. She has instigated sorcery and invoked powers beyond our understanding."

As Edmund's hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, his mind raised with memories of the meadows.

"We must not rush to punish a daughter of Eve without concrete evidence. It is essential that we approach this matter with fairness and discernment." Glenstorm interjected, his tone challenging yet fair. "It is true that sorcery is a powerful force, but we cannot condemn an individual without due process and concrete evidence."

Gazing into the distance, the Just King's thoughts lingered to the captive's vulnerable frame.

The girl's cloak cascaded down to her ankles, billowing slightly as she shifted in her restraints. Her hands were bound, the ropes leaving faint marks on her wrists from the tight prohibitions. A coarse, hooded garment obscured her head, casting a shadow over her features.

A conflict arose within Edmund, it was a delicate balance — the desire to protect his people from potential threats and an urge to extend empathy to a fellow being who might be as lost and confused as he once was. There was a momentary stillness as the crowd anticipated his decision. Edmund took deep, calculated breaths as he loosened his grip on the sword.

"Remove those covers from her face," Edmund declared, solidified yet compassionate. The centaurs had hesitated for a moment, their eyes shifting between their king and their captive. "Come now, she might face difficulties having to breathe with it."

Under his directive, Trufflehunter — at last (Edmund sighed in relief) stepped forward and carefully untied the rough fabric that concealed her face. As the sack fell away, the girl's features were revealed, and the torchlight cast a gentle glow upon her tear-streaked cheeks albeit her expression remained guarded and impassive.

Her obsidian locks — of which bore the same shade of her eyes, cascaded like a river of midnight. There was weariness that seemed to linger beneath her guarded expression that was her pale, porcelain-like skin accentuated and her fatigue had clung to the hollowness of her cheeks. As her vision adjusted to the sudden break of rising daylight, her eyes shifted around their surroundings.

Edmund could tell that she was assessing her options.

"May I know the name by which you go?" The centaurs took a cautious step back, maintaining a slight distance from the unfolding scene, except for Glenstorm who asked the question.

The mysterious maiden studied his towering frame for a moment until it wandered once more and her eyes glinted recognition as it finally found his. Her lips parted to reveal the name she held within.

"Anastacia,"

Edmund's gaze remained locked with hers.

The forest appeared to halt its every movement and time went still. A myriad tapestries of woven constellations seemed to celebrate with the paths they intended to cross as it lent their first exchange.

Chapter Text

"IT WAS THE STAG! PLEASE! LET ME GO!"

"It's alright! You're safe with me!"

The faint smell of freshly cut wood mixed with the metallic tang of weaponry wafted through Anastacia's senses. Her breaths were rapid as her eyes snapped open, confused and disoriented. The dimly lit room gradually came into focus, filtering through the canvas that pierced her drowsy haze with nothing but a brown-haired figure blocking her sight.

Amber.

"I meant no harm — "

Like a sudden spark of awareness, she instinctively smashed her head against his forehead. With a swift, determined motion, she wriggled out of his hold and, now fully awake, scanned the room for a means to defend herself. She spotted a gleam of metal on a nearby table and hastened towards it.

But the stranger, quick and decisive, made a rapid move in response. His slender hands twisted hers to a halt. Anastacia hissed and he promptly released his grip, as if he was burned.

As if the harm he had caused was unintended by any means.

A brief jolt of pain accentuated her disorientation. Despite the fatigue that's been screaming with every spasm of her muscles, she forced herself to concentrate.

Not now!

"Edmund! Is everything alright?"

Panic gnawed at the fringes of her comprehension upon hearing the unmistakable Telmarine accent emanating from the vicinity just beyond her immediate position. It was as if the very air around her crackled with the electric energy of her emotions, propelling Anastacia to pin her companion against the wall.

With an unyielding force, "Who. Are. You." she demanded, her voice firm and laced with caution. The rush of adrenaline fueled her fibres, and a tempest of emotions — anger, suspicion, and a primal need to protect — blended into a potent concoction of fury.

"Well, this wasn't how I envisioned how introductions work — pinned against the wall, a dagger on my neck, if you know what I mean? Is this the customary greeting nowadays? Or am I just fortunate enough to be welcomed like this?"

"My sincere apologies for not extending a more gracious welcome. It's truly a delight to discover that there are Telmarine soldiers outside these fabrics, potentially harbouring lethal intentions to my kind, shall be a prospect of a cherished acquaintance. How could I have overlooked such a joyous occasion?" Her vision wavered, as she tried to further press the blade against his now bloodstained skin.

"Telmarine wha — "

"Ed!"

The stoned entrance's fabrics rustled and she instinctively spun around. Anastacia froze in her tracks only to find her figure face to face with someone who couldn't have been much older than herself. A woman, stern-faced and poised, stepped in, her archer poised threateningly at the person she had been sure is not Edmund.

Then came a man, regal and bore those same very features whom she had come to despise. It was he, who owned that voice, standing beside the brunette, pointing his sword in a gesture of caution and the only directive uttered was a terse, "Let him go,"

In the midst of the escalating tension, the fabric stirred once more as two newcomers stepped forward: another boy, but blond this time and a very tall rat. In a tone that cut through the charged atmosphere, he declared, "Stop! There is no need for bloodshed!" Had it been a different circumstance, she would have scoffed at the scheme. Teenagers, Telmarines, and armed Rodents.

What a very strange dream.

Only that it wasn't.

But the boy they had been calling Edmund replied, his tone stripped of its mischievous glint, "Except that mine's already dripping!" His eyes conveyed a depth of vexation, a profound discontent that went beyond mere annoyance of which appears to be an addition to various sharp defences directed at her.

But the blond ignored him and addressed Anastacia instead, "Please, I am Peter. Peter Pevensie." With his outstretched hand, a tangible shift in the atmosphere hinted at an unspoken request for a ceasefire.

She took a moment to orient herself as her thoughts began to race, trying to remember the events that led her to this place. The encounter with the centaurs, the projection of magic the stag had conjured, and the assembly that followed — the image of Charlemagne's brawling steed from the uproar that had occurred the night before surge her vision as distant as a dream. However, the subtle imprints of the rope that once secured her wrist hinted at a different story.

No!

But this was Peter Pevensie.

Could he?

Could this be the opportunity she had been seeking for weeks? Could her path alongside these creatures lead her to the answers she so desperately sought? Anastacia's breath was measured and restrained as she attempted to register the sight.

The High King was known for his mane of golden hair that cascaded down to the nape of his neck, framing his well-defined cheekbones, giving his face a chiselled and distinguished appearance. His eyes were a deep shade of the ocean, warm and expressive. But the boy that stood before her, although bearing the same features, could have been too young. She scanned him once more for a moment down to the hilt of his sword that was strapped in his waist, and there, intricately carved into the metal, was a striking lion's head — an insignia that triggered a rush of familiarity among its perceivers.

And perhaps it was enough.

Her grip to the dagger had loosened.

Anastacia continued to piece together the fragments of the puzzle, a gradual clarity unfolded, "You blew the horn?" she asked, whether the question was for the Telmarine soldier or more to herself, the context prevailed nonetheless.

The disjointed elements began to align, forming a cohesive narrative that, like a veil lifting, revealed the hidden connections, "The horn she owns." As her mind riles into thousands of conclusions, all pointing to one undeniable truth — they were no ordinary people. She had seen images and heard stories of the legendary Queens of old, and now, standing in front of her, was one of them.

Her eyes widened in disbelief, it was as if history itself had come alive, and she found herself standing in the presence of a true Narnian legend — and she was beautiful.

She began to inch her head slowly toward the person she had still pinned against the hollowed space' foundation. His hair was a rich shade of chestnut, dark and unruly that descended over his forehead. His eyes held a depth of the deepest bronze, reflecting the sparkle within hers that glinted with definitive recognition. His fair complexion, akin to that of his siblings, was just as porcelain as the last. His sharp, yet opportune features were accentuated by a sprinkling of freckles graced by rosy undertones.

His name was Edmund Pevensie and he had the most telling eyes she had ever seen.

Anastacia dropped her weapon and took a step back, wincing as if the cut he made on his skin had inflicted a pain that mirrored her own.

"I…"

Susan began to lower her archer, and her Telmarine confidant followed suit.

"We stand upon Aslan's tomb, but it's a defensive position. I presume Telmarines are considered enemies to you as well?" The High King countered the silence that followed the distant clanking of metallic suits and munitions and handed her dagger to his brother who appeared to be strapping it back in his clothing. His other hand covering his neck with a handkerchief, stained with his blood as the consequences of her doing.

Anastacia knew she ought to have offered to heal it, to apologise for it but the shame had clawed every string of motivation that was kept underneath. The time, the Telmarines, the forces that lurk in the depths of the forest and — Aslan forbid, a king's blood in her hands? She was entrusted with a singular responsibility, and she came perilously close to sabotaging its execution.

"Yes, that is why I don't understand why you have one with such a dangerous proximity."

Her emotions were a whirlwind of conflicting volumes but most of all, back to the tallest frame that inched closer and spoke, "Allow me to introduce myself," exuding a façade of strength with his broad shoulders. Dark, wind-tousled hair framed his aristocratic countenance, while his fair skin had a touch of warmth, with the familiar olive-toned hue typical of a certain heritage. His face bore a kind and gentle expression. "I am Caspian, the tenth."

So he was not a soldier, he was a prince.

A soul with a shared past, a path of redemption, and a name that holds echoes of legend will stand by your side.

The whispers of the majestic stag's wisdom lingered at the fringes of her consciousness, like distant murmurs from a realm beyond. Yet, amidst the ethereal resonance, a pressing need for clarity and solace overcame the musings of her own.

The weight of the situation demanded a moment of respite.
She yearned to breathe, to anchor herself in the present and understand her surroundings. The magnitude of it all became an overwhelming wave, and she recognized the imperative to step away, if only briefly, to reclaim a sense of equilibrium in the face of the extraordinary.

"I need my horse — "

"I must express my apologies; however, you are not authorised to proceed." She did not know when or how it happened, but with a minimal extract of seconds, her path was blocked by a badger, a mouse, and a dwarf who also appear to be the owner of the voice that announces her restrictions.

"Pardon?"

"A potent magic was invoked in the woods last night, and I regret to inform you that the centaurs, with discerning judgement, would not permit your passage without sufficient justification."

Reflexively, she'd thrown her sharp stares at Edmund Pevensie. He was after all, the only person (perhaps even the rat should count) in the room who had witnessed the recent accounts of what had occurred back in the desolated meadows. "I have no intention of departing; my sole objective was to ascertain my stallion's safety." She met Peter's eyes directly. "Besides, I find myself in a grave circumstance where your assistance is crucial, and the urgency of the situation compels me to seek your help." Her fist balled within the enclosure of her billowing cloak. "I will talk, and I will help only once when I'm certain I am safe."

Anastacia dared to stride once more, only to be blocked for the second time. "I hope you are aware that you possess no luxury to decide so, for all we know, you might be conspiring with malevolent entities lurking behind the shadows."

Except that I am one of them, she thought, by their technical definition at the very least. For the centuries that had come, the enchantresses themselves were the actual personification of the dark forces after the demise of Jadis herself.

"Trufflehunter would fetch the stallion, you will stay and answer our questions." It was Susan who had declared the orders, and Anastacia knew that the deal would disregard her terms.

With a deliberate effort, the maiden concealed the simmering temper beneath a composed exterior. She could have screamed through the ends of this land if the situation would permit it so, but the crucial step in this journey was to make them her allies and not enemies.

And so she did what she ought to be doing, with a deep breath, she turned her heels back at them. She did not let them speak and press the question she had been dreading: How did you get in here?

"I am Anastacia from the Southern Hemisphere."

Her head pounding to weave her carefully half-baked crafted tale, "I am a skilled herbalist and healer from a distant land," she began, her voice assertive and steady. "My home is currently embroiled in turmoil and strife, and I sought refuge and safety here in this soil with my caregiver." She continued, "I possess some knowledge of magical herbs and remedies, which might have been misunderstood as dark forces by others. To protect myself from those who might exploit such rumours, I choose to keep my true identity and past hidden."

Though aware of the necessity for discretion, she couldn't escape the sombre tug of conscience, much like a shadow cast by the unspoken secrets. "I simply wish to lead a quiet life away from the chaos of my homeland, but upon the intelligence that my caregiver was a half-dwarf and half-daughter of Eve, the Telmarines began to hunt us down." A layer of glass images clouded her vision, yet she remained to detach herself from these regained emotions, if their trust was as brittle as an ancient branch of oak, so could she. "Lady Everdeen and I separated upon their sacking and I never saw her again."

Peter nodded, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Is she the one who informed you of our existence?"

"Indeed," Anastacia answered as she attempted to ignore a twisting pain in her chest. "It would be in my best interest to join your cause in hopes to reunite with my maman again," Technically, the mention of Lady Everdeen's part was at least the most honest fraction of the story she was trying to make. "I can fight. I can aid. You have my word. I am at your disposal." Her tone was with finality that no one countered when she exited the fabrics.

She needed to bide her time, gather her strength, and find a way to break the curse first. As the last remaining untainted Silver Enchantress, she is well aware of the legends and prophecies surrounding her bloodline. They were once feared and hunted as much as they were loved, she was not a stranger to the consequences of her powers being misunderstood in the past, such as when the stag's projection of magic during her encounter with the centaurs.

She might use the argument that it was not her who conjured the elements herself, but no one can deny the fact that its existence at that moment was visible to serve its purpose. One way or another, it was directly linked to her.

ANASTACIA PEERED BEYOND THE ENTRANCE OF THE TOMB LOCATING ANY SIGN OF CHARLEMAGNE'S PRESENCE. As her vision adjusted from the afternoon sun, her movements were nothing but silent and purposeful. Her keen eyes took in every detail, absorbing the sights and sounds of this new world she had found herself in. The verdant landscape unfolding before her was a hive of commotion and vitality.

The site, nestled within the heart of nature, bore witness to a timeless connection with ancient forces. The granite walls, weathered by the ages, stood as sentinels, their rough surfaces etched with the echoes of countless tales.

Narnian creatures of all kinds moved about, each engaged in their own tasks. Dwarves and centaurs worked side by side, their cooperation a testament to the unity that had formed among the diverse inhabitants of the land. Stations of various departments were pitched in neat rows, forming a makeshift village within the forest clearing. Smoke rose from cooking fires, carrying the inviting aroma of hearty meals. She could hear the distant laughter of fauns and the chatter of talking animals, filling the air with a lively ambiance.

She felt a mix of awe and trepidation, the enormity of her situation beginning to sink in. Her mind drifted back to the prophecy that Lady Everdeen had spoken of — the destiny that bound her to this land and its people.

Her fingers brushed against the golden locket that hung around her neck.

Where are you?

"You're awake!"

Her heart skipped a beat and Anastacia froze in her tracks only to find her figure face to face with a little girl who once more couldn't have been much younger than herself. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." she said softly, with eyes that sparkled like the stars and a warm smile that seemed to radiate all of the kindness that exists in this world. "I am Lucy, and you are?"

With all these impulses coursing through her, Anastacia contemplated for a bit but soon enough, she gathered her composure and executed a graceful and profound curtsy as a gesture of honour and admiration. She had always been fond of the valiant queen, in flesh and in stories.

"Hello my Queen, I am Anastacia."

"Your name is as beautiful as your face." Lucy beams and it bore an unmistakable radiance as if she had been lifting weight off her shoulders. "It is unwise to wander unaccompanied, you know." She could not help but smile at the sight. She wore the skin of a child but the mind of an adult. "Especially in these times your absolution is as of yet to be announced." Lucy spoke softly with a gracious smile as she gently reached out and held Anastacia's hand.

"Thank you," Anastacia answered, unsure how to respond to the gesture. "I… was looking for my horse."

Instinctively, she scanned the surrounding area, searching for any signs of her abductors.

"You mean Charlemagne?"

It was like buckets of ice-cold water had been spilled on her back, causing her to come to a halt in her tracks. "Is something wrong?" Lucy asked, concern etched on her face as she noticed Anastacia's frozen frame.

"You got him to talk?"

"Oh, yes. He reminds me of Philip, actually. He was Edmund's old horse."

"I see, I didn't know anyone who owned stallions that could talk." She bit her tongue formulating a proper response. "What do you mean by absolution, by the way?"

From the previous encounter hours before, it would be prudent to ensure that no one would suddenly obstruct her path, intent on returning her to captivity.

Lucy appeared to understand the gravity of the situation. And so, with a reassuring smile, she gently squeezed Anastacia's hand and said, "The centaurs mean no harm. They were simply inquisitive about the origin of the enchantment, is all."

"I don't seem to recall how you found me, can you tell me what happened?"

Lucy's smile remained kind as she shook her head, "You were in a state of unconsciousness when the assembly of the centaurs came to a halt, and he carried you back to our camp. It appears you've had quite a remarkable journey." she explained.

"I must have been disoriented," Anastacia nodded thoughtfully, her eyes briefly glancing over to the figures observing them, recalling the voice that suspended her captors' heated discussion. "But did you find out who had cast such enchantment?" she asked cautiously, certain that if they had figured out who she really was by now, the situation would not unfold so smoothly.

"Narnia is an enigmatic realm, where magic weaves through every corner. We had to come to a collective understanding of that," Lucy could only remark.

They were quiet for a moment but as Anastacia and Lucy made their way through the bustling stations, the Valiant queen began to elaborately recount the chaos that ensued as they led her to the encampments. The curious gazes of her Narnians subjects turned to look at the newcomer. Whispers of hushed wonder rippled through the crowd as they caught sight of the mysterious woman trailing behind the said royal.

Anastacia could have ignored the stares but as the seconds tick by, Lucy had been more restless.

"The centaurs have had some bad experiences with the infamous enchantresses in the past," The little girl started and her heart sank at the mention of the tale she had known so well.

The Slaughter in the Lantern Waste, came as Lucy's reference.

Anastacia stayed intently closed behind as she recounted the legend of the centaur massacre in the Lantern Waste, which had occurred years before the sacking of Cair Paravel. She played the role of an intrigued listener, meticulously searching for any deviations or embellishments in the narrative. Her brow furrowed with concern as she absorbed the information. The version told to the Queens of old seemed to have omitted the darker details of what truly transpired during the centaur incident. The wicked king's rage and how he amplified the powers of her lover were left unmentioned, as was the enchantress's sense of disillusionment.

As they passed by the barracks after barracks, the internal pressure that lingered her inside hung heavy but Anastacia never dared to voice these inquiries. By the time Lucy had finished her story, Anastacia's gaze swept her companion and was momentarily distracted by a sudden burst of energy from the side.

"I understand where this is coming from, thank you for the — " In a swift and nimble movement, a tiny figure emerged, standing proudly with a sword that looked almost comically large in his small hands. It was a talking mouse, adorned in a tiny suit of armour that gleamed in the sunlight.

"Goodness me!" He must have been Reepicheep."

“You are the most exquisite creature I have ever had the pleasure of beholding! Your beauty rivals that of the fairest stars in the night sky and the most splendid flowers in bloom." With a graceful flourish, he bent down on one knee, raising her hand to his lips and kissing the back of it gallantly.

Anastacia was taken aback at the mouse's heartfelt compliments, "Thank you, Reepicheep. That is very kind of you." She nods and widens her eyes to the laughing Lucy. She must have been looking very humorous.

"You were obliged to attend to a single responsibility, my friend." The badger began.

"I'm assuming that is to notify my ward and bring her to me."

Upon hearing the familiar voice of her horse, Anastacia swiftly launched herself into the air, executing a graceful leap to reach the level of the horse's mane. "Charlemagne! Are you well?"

"Indeed, we have after all made it, little one."

The air around Aslan's How held a charged stillness, accentuating the gravity of the moment. Her gaze shifted back to the structure, and against the backdrop of the looming stones, she witnessed the figures of Caspian, Edmund, and Peter engaged in animated conversation. The ambient light, filtering through the surrounding trees, cast dappled shadows on the ground, creating a dynamic interplay of light and shade.

Anastacia paused, only briefly and she responded with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, "I suppose we did."

The weight of the situation, the tangible presence of the events at hand, sank in. This wasn't a mere abstraction or a distant concept; it was happening, in the present, with every passing second. The gravity of the reality settled upon her, grounding the unfolding narrative in a palpable and undeniable existence.

These people are either her gateway to survival or the reason for her demise.

Chapter Text

Coming Soon