Year 7002 A.A. | Deniz Clan Territory — Grove of the Marshlands.
Time: Late Morning.
The grove felt like a pocket of stolen timelessness, a sanctuary carved out between the waking tension of war and the unrelenting march of duty that defined their existence. It was a place where the world seemed to pause and take a deep, verdant breath. The sunlight filtering through the dense, water-loving canopy was not the harsh, revealing light of the open field, but a soft, dappled gold, as though the heavens themselves had chosen to rest here awhile, sighing gently across the moss and leaf. Where the ancient trees grudgingly opened their arms into a clearing, the ground was a wide, forgiving mattress of emerald moss and shy wildflowers, cradling the feet of the four figures who stood in varying degrees of stillness and restless energy.
Birdsong laced the breeze, gentle and persistent, a living tapestry of sound woven from trills and chirps. The air was rich and complex with the scent of sun-warmed, damp earth, of decaying leaves giving life to new growth, and cutting sweetly through it all, the unmistakable perfume of ripe peaches—those heavy, golden-orange globes hanging from the low, generous boughs like lanterns in a lazy, benevolent dream. It was a scene strangely, almost painfully, unsuited to warriors, and yet here they were: three of the Grand Lords of Narn and the First Lord himself, standing beneath a sky softened by a peace that felt both precious and perilously fragile.
The scent of bruised fruit, released from a few playful earlier throws, lingered sweetly in the air as the midday sun filtered lazily through the branches, painting shifting coins of light on the forest floor. The clearing, which moments before had been quiet with the weight of unspoken thoughts and looming strategy, now rang with the full-throated laughter of warriors—strong, unrelenting men who, for this stolen hour, had cast aside the mantles of command and the shadows of prophecy to allow themselves the simple, reckless gift of foolishness.
"Alright, let's see who the real champion is," Kon called, his voice laced with a mock arrogance that was half jest, half deeply ingrained competitive spirit. He rolled his broad shoulders and cracked his neck, the sound a series of sharp pops that echoed slightly in the warm, green hush of the trees. At his feet, a small, meticulous pile of smooth, river-worn stones lay ready—each one carefully chosen for weight and balance, perfectly rounded, as if even in this trivial contest, Kon Kaplan refused to abide anything less than lethal precision.
He crouched slightly, the powerful muscles of his back and legs coiling beneath his simple tunic, his single golden eye narrowing with a hunter's predatory focus on the upper, fruit-laden branches of the chosen peach tree. The others watched from a semi-circle, arms crossed or hands resting easily on hips, expressions a mix of amusement and anticipation, all waiting for the inevitable boasting to begin.
With a swift, economical motion—all wrist and focused intent—Kon flung the first stone. It cut through the still, perfumed air with a crisp whirr, striking a high, thick cluster of peaches where the stem met the branch with a sharp crack. Five golden-orange fruits, perfectly detached, tumbled down in gentle, overlapping arcs, landing among the soft, mossy grass with a series of soft thumps, like surrendered trophies.
Kon straightened, dusting his hands off with deliberate slowness before crossing his arms smugly over his chest.
"Five. Not bad for a warm-up," he declared, his tone suggesting the matter was already settled, the victory assured.
Trevor snorted, his arms still folded loosely across his chest, a smirk playing on his lips. The dappled light caught the silver in his dark fur.
"If that's your idea of impressive, we're all doomed when the real fighting starts," he muttered, though there was no malice in the jab, only the easy rhythm of long friendship. His grin lingered like sunlight glimpsed beneath a passing cloud—teasing, ephemeral, but genuinely warm.
Without a word, Adam stepped forward. His blue fur gleamed like polished lapis where the scattered sunlight touched his shoulders. He moved with the quiet, unhurried grace of deep water, bending to pick up a stone. He held its weight in his palm for a moment, not just feeling its balance, but seeming to listen to it. His gaze lifted to the tree, but he wasn't just looking at the peaches; his eyes, a calm, knowing blue, scanned the lattice of branches as if he were reading the rhythm of the leaves themselves, the flow of sap, the subtle sway in the breeze.
With a flick of his wrist that seemed almost negligent, the stone zipped from his fingers. It didn't fly; it threaded. It whispered through the gaps in the foliage, a grey streak of purpose. Thwap. One peach fell. Thwap. Thwap. Another, then another. In a serene, almost musical rhythm, fruit after fruit was plucked cleanly from their stems, each strike a model of minimal force and maximum effect. When the last stone dropped, fifteen peaches lay at his feet in a neat, almost ceremonial, golden-red array.
Trevor blinked, his smirk widening into a grin of genuine respect. "Alright, alright, not terrible, Kurt. You're learning."
Adam raised one eyebrow, a faint, superior smile touching his lips as he brushed his hands together with a nonchalant air. "Learning?" he said, the single word rich with implication. "I believe I just tripled Kon's score without breaking a sweat. I'd call that a lesson delivered."
Kon muttered something low and inventive under his breath, but his attempted scowl couldn't hold against the camaraderie of the moment. Darius, who had observed the whole exchange from his place of leaning against a broad tree trunk, arms crossed over his massive chest, let out a low chuckle—a deep, bass-laden sound that rumbled through the clearing like friendly thunder over distant hills.
"Step aside, pups," the Bull Lord rumbled, his voice the gentle avalanche they all knew so well. He straightened, the movement surprisingly fluid for a being of his monumental size and solidity, and stooped to retrieve a single stone from the pile. He didn't measure it in his hand. He didn't adopt a dramatic posture. He simply walked a few deliberate paces back, turned his immense frame toward the tree with the calm certainty of a natural force, and launched the stone.
It didn't whisper or thread. It moved. With the speed and silent authority of a comet on a fixed course, it crossed the space and struck not a fruit, not a cluster, but the thick, woody base of the highest, most laden branch. The impact was a solid, deep THUD that seemed to vibrate in the soles of their feet.
The tree shuddered violently from crown to root. A brief, profound stillness passed—the world holding its breath. Then, like the final, giving crack of a dam, a flood of peaches poured down. It was a sudden, laughing cascade of orange and gold. The fruits rained down, some bouncing off leather pauldrons and woolen cloaks, others thudding softly into the forgiving moss, a few splattering open to release their dizzying sweetness into the air. A quick, grinning count from Adam confirmed it: thirty in all.
Adam let out a low, appreciative whistle. "I think that's game, Darius. You didn't beat the system; you changed the rules."
Kon threw his hands up in a rare, theatrical display of frustration, a grin finally breaking through. "Unbelievable! Brute force! Where's the skill? Where's the art?"
"Don't count me out just yet." Trevor's voice was light, airy, and the familiar glint of merry anarchy shone in his hazel eyes. He sauntered forward, tail swaying with a lazy confidence no battlefield hardship had ever been able to suppress. He selected a stone, not the largest or smoothest, but one that seemed to please him. He twirled it once in his hand with a showman's flair, then stepped into his throw with a bounce in his step.
He tossed the stone—not with the focused force of a warrior, nor the serene precision of a seer. He threw it with the casual, almost careless grace of someone who had already peeked at the last page of the story and liked the ending.
It soared in a high, teasing arc, seemed to hang for a moment at its apex against the green canopy, and then descended, tapping the very center of the tree's main trunk, right at a knotted whorl of bark, with a soft, almost polite thunk.
Nothing happened.
The silence stretched, thick with anticipation. A single leaf spiraled down.
"Nice shot, Maymum," Kon muttered, unable to resist. "Very dramatic. You couldn't hit a peach to save your life if it—"
But then the tree shuddered. Not a violent shake like Darius's, but a deep, internal tremor. A single heavy branch far to the left creaked mournfully. Then another on the right. And suddenly, with an audible, rustling whoosh, peaches began to rain from the entire canopy. It was not a cascade but a deluge, a golden hail in a sudden summer storm. Dozens, then scores of fruits tumbled through the leaves, a joyous, chaotic downfall that filled the clearing with the sound of soft impacts and the heady, released perfume of a hundred broken skins. They rolled and bounced around the warriors' feet like laughter given physical form, like applause from the grove itself.
The others stood frozen for a moment, caught between shock and delight—then laughter erupted, unfettered and true. It was Kon's sharp bark of disbelief, Adam's clear chuckle of admiration, and Darius's rolling, earth-shaking guffaw all woven together.
Trevor turned on his heel, hands raised high in mock reverence to the tree, his tail curling in a smug, triumphant arc behind him. He executed a shallow, flourishing bow. "I believe, gentlemen, that makes me the undisputed champion. The grove itself has spoken."
Darius sighed, a long, exaggerated sound of surrender, though his lips betrayed him by curling into one of his rare, unguarded smiles that lit up his broad, solemn face. "Fine. You win. A trickster's victory, but a victory nonetheless. And I suppose you'll be claiming the baobab blossoms in the Boga region now? The wager was for the winner's choice of spoils."
"Absolutely," Trevor said, puffing out his chest with a gleeful, unrepentant wink. "A wager is a wager. The blossoms are mine. I'll have the finest tea in Narnia brewed for us all by winter."
Their laughter rang out again—unforced, full-throated, and utterly genuine. It echoed through the ancient trees, a sound so alive it seemed to startle the birds into a fresh chorus. For a moment—a single, perfect, suspended moment—there were no mustering armies, no besieged capitals, no whispers of an invincible foe waiting beyond the northern horizon. There was no weight of kingdoms on their shoulders, no ghosts of fallen friends at their backs. There were only four friends, their voices raised in uncomplicated joy beneath the orchard's generous canopy, standing in a shower of metaphorical gold, breathing in the scent of peaches and peace. And in that moment, cradled by the grove and their shared laughter, there lived a soft, wild, and stubborn hope that perhaps, against all odds, not all good things had to be lost.
Even Kon, who wore seriousness like a second skin and duty like unyielding armor, let his shoulders fall into a posture that was almost, for a moment, young. The tension that was his constant companion—the vigilance that scanned every horizon for threat—melted away in the warmth of shared, foolish joy. A smile—small, fleeting, but utterly real and unguarded—tugged at the corners of his lips, softening the hard lines grief and war had carved there.
He'd forgotten. Truly forgotten. The sound of his own laughter, the feeling of it bubbling up from a place untouched by strategy or loss. To be reminded, just for a stolen breath, that they were more than titles and weapons. That they were brothers. That the long, grinding war hadn't stolen everything from them. Not yet. Here, in this mossy cathedral, the theft felt incomplete.
"It's been a while since we were this happy," Kon said softly, the words leaving him almost without his permission. His voice, usually so firm, caught slightly at the edges, roughened by an emotion too large for the quiet statement.
The words hung in the warm, perfumed air, trembling like the last leaves of autumn stirred by a hesitant wind. His golden eye, which had been gleaming with reflected laughter, fell to the scene of their playful carnage: the peaches scattered across the emerald grass like bright, ripe jewels, some whole and perfect, others split open, their sweetness bleeding into the earth. A symbol, he thought vaguely, of something both beautiful and fragile, something that could not last.
There was something in his tone—a wistful finality, a stepping to the edge of a cliff—that made Adam sit up a little straighter, his relaxed grace tightening into attention. It was the subtle shift that made Darius tilt his great head slightly, the Bull Lord's innate, protective wisdom already bracing for a shift in the weather.
"Actually…" Kon continued, the word a bridge from the past moment to a new, uncertain one. He cleared his throat, his gaze lifting from the peaches to their faces, though it didn't quite meet their eyes. "In light of the mood… there's something I want to announce. Something good."
He paused. Not for dramatic effect, but to gather a courage of a different kind than the battlefield required. This was the courage to be vulnerable, to share a hope.
"I've decided to take Tigrera as my mate."
At once, the lingering ghost of laughter in the clearing died. It didn't fade; it was extinguished. The grove, just moments ago a vibrant chamber of mirth, now felt preternaturally still, as if the very trees were holding their breath. Even the birds above seemed to hush their chorus; the branches overhead barely dared to stir. The sunlight felt colder.
Adam's heart, which had been light with the joy of the game, sank in his chest like a stone dropped into a deep, dark well. He wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe it was instinct, that primal sense that knows a storm before the sky darkens. Maybe it was dread, the cold foreshadowing that often whispered at the edges of his prophetic gifts. Or maybe it was simply because the words I've decided carried a terrible, irrevocable finality, a sound like a heavy door closing on a room full of other, unspoken possibilities.
Trevor's voice broke the silence, strained through a thin, valiant attempt at a smile. "Well, uh… that's… sudden. But if it makes you happy, then… good for you. Congratulations." The words were right, but they hung in the air, empty and brittle.
Darius, always the steady pillar, the rock upon which they often leaned, gave a slow, measured nod. His dark eyes were deep pools of contemplation. "A mate is a sacred bond. A great joy. If this is what you've decided, after consideration, then I'm glad for you, Kon." His blessing was genuine, but it was heavy, weighted with his nature to support even when he might privately question.
But Adam didn't speak. Not right away.
He stared at Kon, and the subtle shift in his own expression—the draining away of all warmth, the tightening around his eyes—went unnoticed by Trevor in his discomfort and Darius in his solemnity. But Kon saw it. The mirth in Adam's blue eyes had vanished completely. In its place was something sharper, colder, clearer. Not anger. It was the cold, clear light of concern seen from a great height—the concern of a seer who glimpses the jagged rocks beneath calm waters.
"What exactly do you know about Tigrera?" Adam asked.
The question cut clean through the clearing's fragile silence like a honed blade through still water. It was not an accusation. It was an inquiry, precise and deadly serious.
Kon's brow furrowed, the first hint of defensiveness rising like a shield. "What's that supposed to mean, Adam? I know her. She's strong. Fierce. She understands what it is to be… to be the last of something."
Adam's voice remained calm, low, but there was unyielding steel behind it. "I'm asking what you really know. Her history. Her origins. Over a thousand years, Kon… For all that time, everyone in Narnia, everyone in Archenland, believed you were the last of the Tiger Tracients. A solitary survivor. Then, out of nowhere, at the dawn of a war that demands our absolute unity, she shows up? From the shadows? And after a courtship measured in months, not centuries, you're ready to pledge your life, your soul, your Arya to her?"
Kon bristled, the quiet peace of the grove now utterly forgotten, burned away by a sudden, personal fire. "She's a Tiger Tracient! That alone… that makes her my family! It makes her a piece of a world I thought was lost forever!"
"No," Adam said, the word quiet but immovable as a mountain root. "It makes her someone you want to be family. Someone who represents a salve for a loneliness I know you carry. And there is a world of difference between the two."
The words were not meant to wound—they were meant to clarify, to warn—but they landed on Kon like physical blows. His fists clenched at his sides, the easy camaraderie of minutes before shattered. "When we first met," he shot back, his voice rising, "you didn't know me either! You had no reason to trust me! But you did! You gave me a place, you gave me an Arya! You took me in on faith!"
Adam's eyes narrowed, the steel in them glinting. "Because you earned it. You stood by me when the world called me a coward and a fool. You bled for a cause that wasn't yet yours. You didn't ask for trust; you proved who you were, day after day, year after year, through action. That is not faith, Kon. That is evidence."
Kon's voice cracked then, a dam of long-buried bitterness and a deeper, more frightening fear spilling over. "And what about you?" he spat, the words aimed to hurt, to deflect the piercing truth of Adam's gaze. "Is your heart so closed? So shrouded in your own mysteries and solitude that you can't stand to see someone else find a light? Do you want everyone to be as hopeless and alone as you are? Just because you don't have a clan, because you walk your own path in the dark, doesn't mean the rest of us can't find family! That we can't find love!"
Adam didn't flinch. He absorbed the words, his posture remaining still. But something in him recoiled. An inward wince, as if Kon had struck not just a nerve, but a wound too raw, too private, too close to the core of the loneliness he himself bore with such silent dignity.
Trevor winced visibly, his own easy-going nature distressed by the conflict. "Kon…" he murmured, a plea in the single word.
Darius's silence was more thunderous than any shout. He did not speak, but his eyes—those ancient, patient eyes—were heavy, and they fixed on Kon not with anger, but with a quiet, profound disappointment that was far worse. It was the look of a father seeing a son willfully choose the cliff's edge.
The harsh, hot wind of Kon's fury died almost immediately under that gaze. His defiant expression faltered, a flicker of shame and regret crossing his face, visible for a heartbeat. But pride—that fierce, tiger pride that was both his strength and his curse—always came before apology. It barricaded the door his regret had tried to open.
"Whatever," he muttered, the word hollow and small, more to himself than to them. He looked away, his jaw tight. "I don't need your approval. I thought I did, but I don't."
With that, he turned on his heel and walked away. His movements were stiff, wounded. His cloak, once stirring in a playful breeze, now swept behind him like a torn banner of defiance and retreat. He vanished between the thick trunks of the peach trees, and the green shadows swallowed him whole.
For a heartbeat, none of them moved. The grove was a silent witness.
Then Adam turned as well. He offered no words, no explanation, no parting shot. His steps were quieter than Kon's, but no less determined, no less final. There was an ache in the set of his shoulders, a new tightness in his stride that hadn't been there before the stones flew and the peaches fell. It was the posture of a man nursing a hurt he would never name.
"Adam, wait!" Trevor called, his voice laced with a desperate urge to mend, to chase, to fix. He bounded forward a few steps—but Adam didn't stop. Didn't slow. Didn't even glance back. The same breeze that had carried their laughter now swept a strand of his blue-black hair forward, hiding his face as he walked away, a solitary figure retreating into the dappled light.
Trevor looked helplessly back at Darius, his expressive face a map of confusion and distress, searching the Bull Lord's immovable features for some kind of direction, a script for how to un-break what was just broken.
Darius met his gaze and gave him a single, slow, meaningful nod. Go. Follow him. He shouldn't be alone.
Trevor swallowed, the weight of the unspoken task settling on him. Then he turned and raced after Adam, his soft footfalls a rapid whisper against the moss, trailing behind the retreating Wolf.
And Darius remained. The First Lord. The cornerstone. He did not chase. He did not call after either of them. He simply stood in the center of the clearing, now littered with the bright, tragic spoils of their game. He looked up through the parting in the trees where Kon had disappeared, up to the slice of soft blue sky beyond. He lowered his great head, his horns cutting a solemn silhouette against the green.
"Aslan…" he whispered, the name a prayer breathed into the stillness, too soft for any but the Lion Himself to hear. "Guide them. Guide us all. We're… we're going to need it."
As if in answer, or perhaps in silent commentary, a single peach—overripe, its skin grown thin and fragile—detached from a high branch. It fell, soundlessly, through the leaves and landed with a soft, final thud at his hooves. Bruised from the fall, its perfect skin broken, its sweetness already beginning to ferment in the warm air.
And the wind carried on through the Grove of the Marshlands, gentle and indifferent, rustling the leaves as if nothing of consequence had changed at all.