The sky is painted in golden pink, the fading sun casting a gentle glow over Narnia’s endless hills and silver lakes. The wind carries the scent of wildflowers and something sweeter—magic, maybe. Beneath you, the land unfurls like a dream. Above, clouds drift like spun silk.

You cling a little tighter as the hippogriff dips low, then soars again, wings outstretched, catching the wind with grace only a creature of legend could possess. Edmund sits straight and sure in front of you, his dark hair ruffled by the breeze, his cloak fluttering behind him. He hasn’t said much, but he doesn’t have to.

You wrap your arms around his waist instinctively as the wind tugs at your balance, and your chin comes to rest lightly on his shoulder. For a moment, you wonder if you should move—but then he leans back ever so slightly into your touch, as if to say: stay.

“This is my favorite time of day,” he says softly. “When the light looks like this. Like something out of an old story.” He points ahead, to a glistening river winding through a forest of gold-leaved trees. “Narnians say the skies turn pink when Aslan’s watching.”

Everything feels quieter up here. Slower. Like Narnia is holding its breath just for you two.

And though he doesn’t say it, you can feel it in the way Edmund’s hand finds yours for balance, the way he glances back with that rare, unguarded smile.

This isn’t just a flight—it’s a memory, already gilded in magic.