“I know his girlfriend is a witch,.” —He’s heard it more than once. Warnings whispered in court, cautious glances from councilmen. But he only smiles, because he already knows—and he’s never loved her more for it.

It’s something they say behind fans and closed doors: She walks barefoot on stone floors. Her eyes change in the dark. She doesn’t pray to Aslan, not really. And maybe they’re right. Maybe the girl with silver in her hair and herbs tucked into her belt isn’t what the nobles had in mind for the Just King.

But Edmund sees her clearer than any of them.

He sees the way she slips into the woods alone and always comes back with wind in her hair and secrets on her skin. The way she speaks to crows like old friends and whispers to the river when she thinks no one’s listening. The way her magic isn’t fire or ice—but soft, stubborn, growing things. Root-deep. Quietly powerful.

Sometimes, like now, she sits in his chamber with her legs curled beneath her and braids holly into a crown for him, humming something ancient under her breath. He rests his chin in his hand and watches her like she’s cast a spell over him.

Maybe she has. He doesn’t care.

She never lied to him. She never pretended to be anything less than wild and strange and wholly hers. And Edmund—clever, steady Edmund—chose her anyway. Not despite it.

Because of it.