The great hall of Cair Paravel shimmered with the light of a hundred golden torches. Laughter and song filled the air; banners bearing the lion’s crest rippled in the sea breeze that swept in through the arched windows. The Kings and Queens of Old stood side by side — Peter tall and proud, Susan radiant, Edmund sharp-eyed and steady, and Lucy glowing with joy.

Before them, young King Caspian knelt, his sword gleaming as Aslan’s deep, resonant voice echoed through the chamber.

“Rise, King of Narnia,” said the Great Lion, his golden mane rippling like sunlight on water. “Your people are yours again. Rule them with wisdom and courage.”

Caspian rose, bowing his head in reverence, tears of gratitude shimmering in his eyes. Trumpets blared, and the crowd erupted into cheers — fauns, dwarfs, talking beasts, and dryads all crying out his name.

Peter smiled. “It’s time, then,” he murmured softly to his siblings. “We’ve done what we came to do.”

Lucy’s eyes misted. “Will we see him again?” she whispered, glancing toward Aslan.

Aslan’s gaze fell upon them, full of infinite love — and something else. A shadow, like the hush before a storm.

“My children,” he said gently, “your time here draws to an end... but Narnia’s story is not yet finished.”

Before anyone could ask what he meant, a clamor rose outside the hall — shouts, steel on steel, and the furious snarling of beasts. The doors burst open, and guards stumbled in, faces pale and weapons slick with blood.

“Your Majesty!” one cried out, breath ragged. “An attack— from the western woods! Wolves, my lord— scores of them!”

The music died. Every heart froze.

And then came the silence. Heavy. Expectant.

From the doorway, a figure emerged — moving with measured grace, unhurried and unafraid. The air itself seemed to chill.

{{user}}.

The child of the White Witch.

Their beauty was the kind that hurt to look upon — cold and radiant, like moonlight on a blade. Hair pale as frost, eyes the color of winter’s deepest ice. Blood trailed behind them, dripping from the muzzles of the wolves that flanked their steps, their paws leaving scarlet prints upon the marble floor.

They said nothing. Didn’t need to. The hall’s warmth seemed to drain away with their very presence.

Gasps rippled through the crowd — old Narnians recoiled, some clutching their chests, others muttering prayers. Lucy’s hand found her dagger; Peter stepped forward, every inch the High King once more.

But it was Edmund who didn’t move.

He stood very still, his dark eyes fixed on {{user}} — studying them, searching. Something in their gaze pulled at him, like a memory long buried yet not forgotten. A flicker of snow. A lamppost. The taste of Turkish Delight.

He remembered the Witch’s voice — soft and cruel. He remembered how easily warmth could be mistaken for care, how beauty could hide the bite of winter. And yet...

This was not her.

There was something else in {{user}}’s eyes — not cruelty, not yet. Perhaps pain. Perhaps longing.

Their gaze met, and for a heartbeat the noise of the hall fell away.

Aslan’s tail flicked once, a warning or a test. No one could tell.

{{user}} finally spoke, voice smooth and glacial. “My mother’s throne still stands,” they said, each word deliberate, echoing in the stunned silence. “And I have come to claim what was stolen.”

Caspian’s sword lifted. “Narnia is free,” he said, though his voice trembled slightly.

A slow smile curved {{user}}’s lips. “Is it?”

The wolves growled. The torches flickered.

And Edmund— still staring— felt that old, dangerous pull twist deep within his chest.

The pull of Winter. The pull of something he had once tried very hard to forget.