You had learned Edmund in fragments.

In sharp remarks thrown like stones. In long silences that followed you down castle corridors. In the way he walked beside you—not quite with you, not quite away—like he couldn’t decide whether your presence was comfort or torment.

Back when you’d first met him, during the chaos of Caspian’s war, he had been exactly as everyone warned: sharp-tongued, defensive, forever living in the shadow of a brother who seemed carved out of legend. You were closest in age, so you were paired together constantly—guard duty, errands, strategy discussions that always dissolved into bickering.

You teased him. He teased you back harder.

Sometimes you walked together without speaking at all, the silence thick but not uncomfortable. Sometimes you laughed until your sides hurt. Sometimes you annoyed each other so badly that Susan threatened to separate you like children.

And somehow—quietly, dangerously—you grew close.

Edmund never said much about his feelings. He didn’t have to. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened when Peter entered the room. In the way his eyes followed you when you spoke to his brother, then flicked away like he’d been caught doing something shameful. You didn’t know whether it was real or imagined—that attention he thought you gave Peter—but Edmund felt it like a wound.

Peter was everything Edmund feared he wasn’t. And Edmund noticed everything.

After the Telmarine war ended, Cair Paravel filled with peace again—sunlight on stone, laughter echoing through halls, banners fluttering instead of war cries. It should have been easy to breathe.

But jealousy doesn’t care about peace.

That evening, the castle was nearly empty. Susan and Lucy had gone to the lower markets, Peter and Caspian off on diplomacy. Which left you and Edmund—apparently the “most capable”—to guard the castle.

You both knew it was an excuse.

Edmund was… off.

Less sarcastic. More cutting when he did speak. When you asked him a simple question, he answered with a mockery that didn’t quite land, like he hadn’t meant it to hurt—but did anyway.

Now it was late. The garden was wrapped in darkness, the air cool and heavy with the scent of earth and flowers. Lantern light cast soft shadows over stone paths. You sat a little apart, both pretending to be busy—him sharpening a dagger he didn’t need, you absently braiding a loose thread from your sleeve.

“You’ve been staring at Peter a lot lately,” he said suddenly, voice casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all. You two didn’t look up at each other, just pretended it was normal.

As always.