"Watch your footing, Your Majesty," Seravine called out with theatrical caution, trailing behind Caspian as the two made their way through the eerie, half-decayed forest of the forsaken path.
The air was unnaturally dry, as if every molecule was professionally trained to suck the moisture from living skin, which—according to Seravine—was an unforgivable crime against beauty.
She had, with zero shame and full confidence, draped herself in Caspian's royal cloak the moment they passed the dying tree line.
"It's the air," she sniffed, clutching the thick, luxurious fabric around herself like a cold widow. "It's making my skin feel like crumpled parchment. I am not entering any cursed realm looking like a molting lizard."
Caspian, on the other hand, trudged forward in the chill with nothing on but his boots, trousers, and his upper body's sheer vengeance against the laws of attractiveness.
