Kings & Saints ➢ Peter Pevensie [3]

Chapter II - Birth

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"Tell me how to be in this world

Tell me how to breathe in and feel no hurt

Tell me how could I believe in something

I believe in us"

Us

James Bay

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Chapter II - Birth

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GENERAL GLOZELLE POV

The end never seemed to come from a single instant. It is built up over time. With each pebble, you make your own grave. The chill followed me up the stairs and told my goosebumps that this was the beginning of the end. All great stories start with two things. Death or birth. But it was never the beginning of the story that scared us, it was what we couldn't see in the night and where the darkened path lead us.

"Lord Miraz?" I cleared my throat, "You have a son. The heavens have blessed us."

"You know your orders, General Glozelle."

I did know my orders. My gods wanted nothing to do with my orders. Creation was a god's job, to stain that very act broke my faith while I refused to break an oath to serve. "Yes, my lord. "

The next events forced me to put everything away.

Prick the child's finger, take the youngest drop of blood to the dungeons, get two slaves, and meet the prisoner.

The ugly witch had her pot already boiling. The bodies are already in place. She knew the events of today without me ever giving her the acknowledgment. I stood back as she poured in her ingredients, my men held mixed emotions. Some slumped against the wall with their eyes closed while others were wide awake, counting the steps to the nearest exit. Narnia's magic was all stories for children.

She praised the moon and the stars, humming dark tones. Her blackened eyes caught mine. "Don't look so scared, mi amor..." She made fun of our native language. "This is the first time you can see resurrection instead of murder."

"Enough," I ordered.

"You know nothing." She snarled, the points of her ears dangled loops of cheap silver. "Men have a singular fatal flaw. They never believe a woman can be stronger than them."

I held out the paragon diamond for her to see. "A teenage witch without her powers is just a teenage girl."

She looked straight through it and shrugged. "She's not a girl, she's a gift from Aslan, a saint. A legend in my culture."

"In the King's culture, she's still just a girl."

Juice of the fire flower was dripped into the pot and she held out her hand for the final ingredients. Her wrinkled palm shook, waiting for me to hand her the vial. Two of my men stepped up, restraining the slaves with wild eyes and a gag in their mouths.

I handed over the blood of the youngest newborn and then the prisoner. His death would mark the initiation of the spell. The newborn's blood, hopefully, stronger due to God's intended bloodline, was mixed in. The woman held up her Valyrian steel dagger. Pronouncing words in a different language. The candles around the room dimmed while a large flare above the pot burned bright enough to light up the catacomb.