The arrows finally stopped. For a moment, the woods fell into an uneasy silence, save for the sound of Caspian's labored breathing and Seravine's muffled whimpers—more from the emotional damage of nearly losing her favorite cloak than the actual battle.
Caspian lowered the glowing purple shield. The ancient sigils pulsed faintly before fading back into his skin like whispers returning to slumber.
"I think that's it," he murmured, scanning the dense mist.
"You think?" Seravine hissed, peeling herself off his back where she'd practically latched like a panicked squirrel. "I'm too pretty to die this young. I haven't even published my memoirs!"
"Please," Caspian muttered. "We all know you'd title it Touched by Royalty."
Before she could snap back, the mist ahead twisted, then parted—not like a breeze, but as if obeying a will of its own. From its folds emerged tall, slender silhouettes. Mist Elves, at last.
