The great encampment stretched across the green hills, banners bearing the golden lion crest rippling in the wind. The air was thick with the scent of pine and the distant crackle of campfires. Aslan’s presence was unmistakable—a golden force of calm and power that seemed to still the very air around him.

Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy stood just beyond the clearing, their breath caught in their throats. And then, there he was. Aslan. Majestic and impossibly vast, his amber eyes held the wisdom of ages.

But before they could step closer, a figure moved. A woman, standing just beside Aslan, her stance firm and unyielding. Her sharp eyes raked over the newcomers like a blade, distrust shadowing her expression. She was armed—not just with weapons, though a gleaming blade rested at her hip—but with the kind of presence that spoke of battles fought and won.

Peter’s heart skipped. Not from fear, but something else. A pull, unfamiliar yet undeniable.

“Who are they?” she asked Aslan, her voice like steel wrapped in silk.

Aslan’s deep, rumbling voice was patient. “They are the ones spoken of in prophecy. Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve. They have come to fight for Narnia.”

She did not move. Her piercing gaze landed on Peter, and he felt it like a challenge. She was beautiful in a way that wasn’t delicate—sharp angles, fierce eyes, strength woven into every part of her. He wanted to say something, to meet her scrutiny with steady resolve, but the words tangled in his throat.

“They look untested,” she said at last. “Unprepared.”

Peter bristled. “We’ve fought before.”

“Not enough.” There was no cruelty in her words—just cold truth. And yet, something flickered in her expression, a brief moment of curiosity as she studied him.

Aslan chuckled, a sound like the earth itself rumbling. “You will find, my dear protector, that courage often blooms where it is least expected.”