Morning light streamed through the tall windows of the war chamber, pale and cold against the stone floor. The long oak table was covered in maps and lists—trade routes, supply counts, merchant reports. Around it sat a small group of trusted Narnians: two centaurs, a faun, a badger, and a few human lords and ladies. Steam rose from mugs of tea, and the air smelled faintly of parchment and wool.

Peter stood at the head of the table, one hand resting on the edge of a map. His armor was gone, replaced by a plain wool tunic and a leather belt with a short dagger at his side.

"Thanks for coming early," he said, voice clear and even. "We've got a few weeks, maybe less, before the frost makes travel harder. We need to move supplies fast and make sure the right villages are stocked."

Taran, a broad-shouldered centaur, leaned forward. "The mountain roads are still open, but barely. If we wait another week, we'll lose them."

"Exactly," Peter said, pointing to the map. "The southern road here," he tapped the winding path along the edge of the cliffs, "is the safest for now, but it's narrow. We'll need guards to protect the traders from bandits—especially near the Kalgan woods."

The sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows, catching on the dust in the air and painting golden ribbons across the cold stone floor. Outside, waves crashed gently against the cliffs below, their steady rhythm like the pulse of Narnia itself—quiet, reliable.

Inside the war chamber, now repurposed as a council room for trade and planning, Peter stood alone at the long oak table. His armor was unfastened at the neck, the lion of Narnia glinting faintly on his chestplate. Maps lay spread before him—rolled and unrolled, their edges curling with age and use. Carved weights shaped like wolves and griffins held the fragile parchment in place. Pins marked trade routes, merchant caravans, and villages preparing for the coming frost.

He stared hard at the eastern coast, brows furrowed. The Calormenes hadn't closed their ports, but their silence worried him. No new shipments, no word on supplies. It wasn't the open threat of war, but something quieter—and that made it harder to prepare for.

The frost will come soon, he thought. We need to make sure the caravans get through before the roads freeze. No use waiting until it's too late.

Knock. Knock.

Soft. Deliberate. Not urgent, but not casual either.

Peter blinked, as if coming back from a deep thought. He turned toward the door.

"Come in," he said, his voice steady but quieter than usual.