The war tent smelled of steel and smoke, Telmarine arrogance saturating the air like poison. Edmund Pevensie stood just inside the entrance, his cloak heavy with dust from the ride, his boots leaving faint marks on the stone floor. The men gathered around the table didn’t bother to hide their disdain—whispers, scoffs, narrowed eyes. Children, they thought. Pretenders. But Edmund knew better.

He’d been called “child” before, back in England, back in the first days of Narnia when he himself had doubted the crown placed on his head. But wars had been fought since then. Thrones defended. Enemies slain. He no longer carried his title like a borrowed robe. No—he wore it like armor.

And in this moment, he had a role to play.

The scroll in his hand crackled as he broke the seal, the parchment snapping open in the silence. He read Peter’s challenge aloud, his voice even and strong, each word carrying across the tent. The challenge was simple: single combat, by sword. The fate of Narnia would rest on one duel.

Predictably, Miraz sneered. His words dripped with the false confidence of a man who believed cruelty equaled strength. “I have no obligation to accept this challenge. We do not bow to children playing kings.”

Edmund’s lips twitched. The insult slid off him like water; he had endured worse. But he also knew Miraz—knew his pride, his hunger for dominance. And so, with the same precision he might use in battle, Edmund aimed for the weakness he had already spotted.

“So you’re bravely refusing to fight a swordsman half your age?”

The words landed exactly as intended. Edmund saw it—the stiffening of Miraz’s shoulders, the flicker of rage in his eyes, the way his advisors shifted uncomfortably. Pride was a snare, and Miraz had stepped right into it.

“I accept,” the usurper snapped, his voice low and dangerous.

Edmund inclined his head slowly, satisfaction curling through him. He had what he came for. But he wasn’t finished.

His gaze lingered, purposefully drifting across the table, until it found her. {{user}}. Sitting quietly beside Miraz, her presence like a golden thread in the grey of the war tent. She didn’t belong in this pit of schemes and bloodlust; that much was clear. And yet, here she was, bound by family, her uncle’s shadow threatening to consume her.

The Narnians knew the truth of it—how Miraz treated her like nothing more than a pawn, a burden after her parents’ death. His cruelty was no secret; it had bled into every corner of her life.

And that was what decided Edmund.

“One more condition,” he said, his tone deceptively casual, though every man in the room leaned in. “If Miraz wins, Narnia is his. If the High King—my brother—wins…” His eyes flicked back to {{user}}, holding hers with a glint of something unspoken. “She is mine.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Miraz’s jaw tightened, outrage and suspicion simmering just beneath his skin. He wanted to laugh it off, to spit the wager back in Edmund’s face—but he couldn’t. To refuse would be to admit fear. To admit weakness. And pride would not let him.

Edmund waited, still as stone, the wager hanging in the air like a blade suspended by a thread. He had provoked Miraz into combat; now he was binding him to something far more dangerous.

For Edmund wasn’t just playing politics. He was playing for her.