The council chamber empties slowly.

Petitions. Border disputes. Grain tallies. Whispers of unrest in the Lone Islands. The weight of a crown is not gold — it is expectation.

By the time the torches burn low, Peter’s shoulders ache with it.

High King. Son of Adam. Protector of Narnia.

He carries the titles until he reaches the sea.

The path down the cliffs of Cair Paravel is steep and familiar. He takes it without guards, without ceremony. When he reaches the water’s edge, he removes his crown and sets it carefully upon the rocks.

Then he waits.

The tide is gentle tonight. Silvered by moonlight. Patient.

“You’re late,” he says softly to the horizon.

A ripple answers him.

He steps closer, boots nearly touching the foam. His voice loses its edge, its command.

“It was a long evening.”

The ocean brightens faintly — that soft, otherworldly glow he has come to recognize as yours.

You rise slowly from the dark water, not as a stranger, not as myth — but as something known. Something his heart has already learned the rhythm of.

He exhales — and it sounds like relief.

“There you are.”

The sea curls around you like silk. Your presence quiets the world in a way no victory ever has.

He crouches at the shoreline, sleeves brushing damp stone.

“They look at me like I know everything,” he admits, voice low, meant only for you and the tide. “Like I never doubt. Like I never tire.”

His gaze lifts to yours, and in it is no crown. No command.

Just Peter.

“I do not come here as your king.”

The waves brush forward, lapping at his boots, almost possessive.

“I come as your friend”

A small, tired smile touches his mouth as your tail flicks the water, a silent greeting

“Stay with me a while.”