It was a trap. The celebration, the feast, the laughter—all of it had been a calculated illusion devised by the army and magicians to ensnare Aslan and his companions.
Of course, the celebration itself had been real, and so had the joy. At least, it had felt real to those who experienced it. But the truth had been carefully buried, replaced with false memories and planted happiness. Even the soldiers and magicians had hypnotized themselves, suppressing their identities to blend in seamlessly with the citizens.
The boy who had led Aslan and the others into the city curled into a ball on his bed. In the dream, he hadn't been an orphan. He'd had a father who looked after him. Life hadn't been perfect, but it had been better than wandering the streets alone.
Now, awake and shivering, he listened as the man in the next room sat bolt upright. The cheerful expression the man had worn for two days vanished in an instant, replaced by cold resolve. With a scowl, he tore off his commoner's clothes and opened a cabinet, pulling out a set of heavy armor and a steel mace.
He wasn't the boy's father—not really. He was a general of the foreign army.
He glanced around the dilapidated room, then up at the sky, where moonlight was beginning to vanish behind rolling clouds. A perfect night for murder. The dream had ended, and now the hunt would begin. If their true targets hadn't arrived, the spell would have pulled them back into the illusion. But that hadn't happened. Aslan was here.
The general turned to the bed, eyes settling on the trembling boy beneath the covers. He could tell the child was pretending to sleep. The soft sniffles and shaking shoulders gave him away.
Still, the general didn't move to harm him.
He was a warrior, one who reveled in combat and bloodshed—but only against worthy opponents. Killing a defenseless child wasn't satisfying; it was beneath him. It would feel like fate mocking his strength, as if he could only triumph over the helpless. The thought alone was insulting.
If he stooped to that level, the soul lingering in his mace would surely jeer at him, maybe even scorn him outright.
But not every soldier in the army shared his code. Many cared nothing for honor, only for the thrill of blood spilling on the floor.
The general stepped to the door and paused, then looked back one last time.
"Although we are not related by blood," he said, voice gruff but strangely gentle, "I truly enjoyed the past two days with you. Don't go outside tonight. No matter what you hear—no matter how loud it is—stay in bed. That's the only way you'll survive."
Then he left, mace in hand, not once looking back.
He wouldn't raise his weapon against the child he had shared peaceful memories with. More importantly, he understood the greater purpose. This was a war for conquest, not annihilation. Slaughtering everyone would only sow hatred and rebellion. They needed survivors—citizens—to govern, not corpses.
After all, they weren't here to pillage and flee. They weren't like the White Dragon, Vortigern, whose vision was to reduce Britain to ashes.
In truth, there was a deep ideological divide between these foreign invaders and Vortigern. The invaders sought a new home, forced to migrate by the freezing of their homeland. Vortigern simply wanted destruction.
Perhaps, when the truth of his motives became clear, the invaders would abandon him—or even turn against him.
Elsewhere in the ruined town, the illusion had shattered completely. There were screams now. Doors being kicked open. Crashes. Cries of pain.
Not all soldiers shared the general's restraint. To some, those joyful memories with the weak were a humiliation—proof of how low they'd stooped. Now they swung their swords in fury, eager to wash away their shame in blood.
The general clenched his fists and roared, his voice thunderous.
"Stop it, all of you! Gather before me—now! You want to alert the enemy with your chaos? Do you think this is a game?!"
His troops—who had not killed in days, who were practically trembling with excitement—grumbled but obeyed. One by one, they came to stand before him, weapons already stained red. Ferocious grins stretched across their faces.
A soldier cracked his neck, turned his bloodshot eyes toward the castle in the distance, and grinned.
"The target's trapped. Boss, let me go first! I'll break them down! My axe's been thirsty too long!"
Magicians also arrived, peeling off their civilian disguises and reclaiming their staffs. They said nothing to the gruff warriors; to engage with them was to risk becoming like them. They held themselves above such savagery—more noble than the nobles themselves.
The elder magician stepped forward, looking only at the general—he was the only one worth speaking to.
"You'd better hurry. We'll be sealing the castle soon. No one in, no one out. If you delay any longer, don't blame us for taking all the credit."
The general sneered. He had no patience for their smug arrogance.
Instead, he raised his mace and pointed it toward the darkened silhouette of the ruined castle.
"All troops—attack!"