Snow crunched beneath their boots as they pressed on through the forest, the Beavers leading the way along a narrow, half-buried path. Peter walked slightly ahead of the others, one hand never straying far from the hilt of the sword Father Christmas had given him. The cold bit through his gloves, but the weight of the blade at his side was a constant, grounding presence after the chaos they had barely escaped.

The river still roared in his memory—icy water, snapping teeth, the sickening lurch of the ice as it broke apart beneath them. Wolves. Too many of them. Peter forced the thoughts aside and kept moving, eyes sweeping the trees as though expecting grey shapes to melt out of the shadows at any second.

Lucy stayed close behind him, her dagger clutched tight in one small hand, its metal catching faint light between the branches. She moved with determined steps, breath puffing in quick clouds, fear giving way to stubborn resolve. Susan followed just behind her, bow slung but ready, fingers brushing the string whenever the forest grew too quiet. Her gaze lingered on every sound, every shifting branch, the weight of responsibility heavy despite the weapon in her hands.

Edmund’s absence gnawed at Peter with every step. Somewhere beyond the trees and snow, his brother was walking willingly beside the White Witch, and the thought tightened something sharp and aching in his chest. Peter’s jaw set as he adjusted his grip on the sword, leather creaking softly under his fingers.

The forest closed in around them, dark and watchful, snow clinging to cloaks and hair as they moved deeper along the path, the silence broken only by their breathing and the soft crunch of footsteps.