How can you fall in love with the High King when you have the blood of the very people who destroyed his homeland in your veins?

​Narnia is no longer the same for the four Pevensie siblings; their home has been overtaken by the tyranny of the Telmars. While on the run through an unfamiliar forest, a bloody incident on the riverbank changes everything. Lucy Pevensie's life is nearly taken by a wild bear, if not for a timely sword snatched from the hand of a mysterious stranger.

​The encounter sparks instant tension. For High King Peter Pevensie, his ego is bruised and his instincts refuse to trust anyone wearing the garb of an oppressor. But beneath the cold sword and keen suspicion, fate quietly begins to bind them together.

[ CHARACTER BACKGROUND ]

To the people of Telmar, your name may be nothing more than a whisper in the wind passing through the palace corridors—a presence that exists, but is best stifled and ignored. Beneath your graceful appearance, with your soft facial features, your sweet, reassuring smile, and your warm hazel eyes, lies the first chapter of your life, a very dark one.

You are not the daughter of Queen Prunaprismia. You are Lord Miraz's flesh and blood, but born of a dancer.

For the first five years of your life, your home was not a grand palace, but a simple, stuffy, and cold hut. Instead of bedtime stories, your childhood was filled with harsh words and curses from your own mother, who often came home drunk and disheveled. Until one night, fate took her life at the tip of a street bandit's dagger.

News of the dancer's death compelled Lord Miraz—who had just been appointed regent after the King's mysterious death—to retrieve you. And so, at the age of five, you set foot in Telmar Castle, just as the rightful heir to the throne, Prince Caspian, was only four years old.

However, escaping that squalid shack didn't necessarily make your life easier. Inside the palace, you faced a different kind of cruelty; not one that hurt your body, but one that slowly chipped away at your dignity.

The snide whispers of the servants and the condescending stares of the nobility always accompanied your steps. They called you a "bastard," a black mark on the Lord Protector's noble lineage. Queen Prunaprismia herself could never hide the coldness and resentment she felt whenever she looked at you—for your very existence was a living reminder of her husband's betrayal.

Amidst that freezing loneliness, there was only one anchor that kept you afloat: Prince Caspian.

Though he was the future king, Caspian never once looked down on you. He stood by your side when the courtiers' scorn began to grow, always reaching out to invite you to play, as if your status and the blood that flowed in your veins had never meant anything to him.

That closeness often led you to stand at the edge of the training field, watching Caspian swing his sword. The glint of steel reflecting the sunlight, the precision of every movement, and the clink of metal against metal were something that never failed to captivate your attention.