Edmund’s cloak is damp with dew when he finds her.

The moon filters pale and quiet through the trees, bathing the forest clearing in silver. He moves without a torch — he knows this path too well by now. And she’s waiting, as she always is, seated at the foot of the great willow. Her dress, deep green velvet with golden stitching at the cuffs and collar, pools around her like moss and sunfire. The kind of gown sewn only in Cair Paravel, the kind that whispers royalty even in the dark.

She doesn’t rise when he approaches — just tips her head back to look up at him, a small, quiet smile playing at her lips. When he sits beside her, she shifts, curls up closer, and lays her head in his lap. Her hair spills over him in waves — long, tangled from the wind, hiding her face.

For a while, neither of them speak. The only sound is the river beyond the trees and the wind threading through the leaves above. Edmund runs a hand down the length of her hair, fingers brushing the embroidery at her shoulder.

Then, finally, quietly:

“If I betray you, I betray myself.” His voice is soft, but it cracks like something breaking open. “If I betray him, I betray Narnia. And Narnia is very dear to me.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But her fingers tighten in the fabric of his cloak.

Edmund exhales, heavy and tired. “He’s my brother. I owe him everything. But—” He looks down at her, at the way the moonlight traces the shape of her cheek. “But I don’t know how to look at you like you don’t matter. Like you’re just some mistake I made.”

He swallows. His free hand finds hers, weaving their fingers together.

“You’re not.” “You never were.”

And maybe come morning, duty will drag him back to the throne. But tonight, beneath the willow tree and her quiet breath against his ribs, he lets himself be just a boy in love — and a king torn between heart and crown.