Caspian stood motionless for a moment, the chill wind tugging at the hem of his deep indigo cloak.
The moonlight carved silver lines along the intricate engravings of his shoulder plate.
The armor of a royal guard, once beneath him, now worn with quiet dignity: blackened steel with lunar sigils etched in silver, a long tasset flowing behind his knees like a knight in exile.
His sword hung by his side. But it was the crescent brand beneath the edge of his collar that defined him now—not as king, but as penitent.
He stared at the gate, jaw clenched. So many memories—so many things he could give. But which one?
The first moment he held the Queen's hand? The day he kissed her beneath the moonflowers? Or Cloud's first word when he saw as still a toddler?
They were all priceless. And so, he froze.
Then—without a sound—she appeared.
