Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
▬▬ι══════༻❁༺══════ι▬▬
THE WORLD around me is almost moving too fast to see. Everything is a blur as preparations are carried out and plans are passed along. The air within the How grows hotter and thicker with anticipation every moment. Were it any other day, I might have scrambled for fresh air and a cool breeze. But today, I relish the heat and the stink of sweat and tempered metal. I let the chaos flood my senses and surrender myself to its demands.
Today the war is ending.
"Witchslayer!"
It takes me half a moment to realize the address, the strangeness of the name still struggling to find purchase in my mind. It sends a chill along my sweaty skin, pricking the hairs on my arms despite the suffocating atmosphere of the central chamber.
Witchslayer.
It's not going to be easy to hear that every day.
I straighten from my hunched position over the grindstone, pulling my foot from the pedal and my sword from the spinning surface. Behind me, the head hare, Camillo, has appeared, standing back on his hind feet with his large ears pointed straight up.
"Witchslayer," he says again—a greeting this time. "Your king requests your company in the upper chambers."
I stiffen, both at the hare's wording and the fact that he's here at all; Edmund always finds me out himself. This must be Susan's doing.
I'm so caught up in unravelling the truth I almost don't notice Bronedrek's raised eyebrow and suggestive smirk from his own grindstone. Almost.
I offer the Narnian a smile. "Thank you, Camillo. You can tell Susan she'd better speak to her prince before she leaves."
His yellow eyes sparkle in the firelight. "I'll pass it along," he says, lowering his front paws to the ground and bounding off across the chamber.
I make a point to ignore Bronedrek's unbearably teasing expression as I sheathe my sword and leave the forges, wondering how the messenger party fared at the Telmarine war camp and what information they gathered. It hasn't been long since Edmund left with Glenstorm and Wimbleweather to deliver the challenge, and although I'm almost positive Miraz accepted, I still find myself nervous as I climb the stairs to the upper levels. What if he refused? How are we going to give the queens enough time without the duel?
"Are you alright?"
Lucy's soft voice makes my head snap up.
The youngest Pevensie stands at the top of the staircase, looking more than a little concerned for me. She tilts her head inquiringly, prompting an answer. Right.
"Of course," I answer. "Usual pre-battle nerves is all."
She nods, her expression telling me how all too familiar she is with the feeling. "Me too." But something about the queen and her whispering voice feels wrong.
