The canvas of the tent flapped lightly in the evening breeze, carrying with it the scent of woodsmoke and the distant river. Shadows danced across the interior, illuminated by the flickering light of a single lantern. Peter sat on the edge of a rough-hewn cot, sword resting loosely across his lap, his brow furrowed as he traced invisible patterns along the leather scabbard. The war outside had left scars—Narnia was no longer the land of golden summers and silver rivers he remembered. It had aged into a world of shadows and steel.

Across from him, {{user}} knelt, tending to a small map of the forest paths, her fingers brushing over the inked lines with the precision of a seasoned strategist. The faint glow caught in her silver-laced hair, making it seem almost ethereal, a reminder that part of Narnia’s magic had never left her. Her pale green eyes—so like the leaves of the trees she was bound to—looked up as she sensed his gaze.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she said softly, tilting her head. Her voice carried a weight that belied her casual tone, a gentle check against the turmoil outside the tent.

Peter swallowed, gripping his sword tighter, before letting it rest again. “I’ve been… thinking,” he admitted, his voice low, almost hesitant. He hated how awkward it felt to speak when so much had changed—when time itself had stretched Narnia into something unrecognizable. He’d spent so long as king, as protector, as the one who bore the burden of the Golden Age, and yet he felt unsteady now, like a boy again.

“About the battle?” {{user}} asked, keeping her focus on the map but glancing up at him.

Peter shook his head, a small, sheepish gesture that made her pause. “Not just that. Everything. Us. Narnia… you.” His cheeks colored slightly, though the lantern’s light did little to hide it.

{{user}} looked at him then, really looked, and caught the uncertainty in his gaze. The same uncertainty she had seen in him a hundred times before—but never directed at her.

“You mean…” she started, unsure how to finish.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck and looked away toward the flaps of the tent, as if the outside world could offer him courage. “I mean… Caspian,” he said finally, his voice quieter, unsure, almost clumsy. “He… you and him… are you… I don’t know… a thing?”