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Peter never thought that one day, he’d look to his younger brother for comfort and reassurance. Yet here he was, in an altogether foreign world, fighting for something that he should have had no business fighting but was a worthy cause nonetheless. And against the overwhelming odds, Peter needed Edmund.
As he turned his head on the back of his unicorn to look at Edmund, he saw his brother looking straight at him. Edmund nodded - a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes of the depth of solidarity he shared with Peter. Turning back to face the White Witch’s army, Peter took a deep breath and drew his sword, Rhindon, pointing it at the Witch.
Shrill, musical horns sounded as Aslan’s army began to cheer. The Fauns and Satyrs waved their spears and curved swords. The Centaurs brandished and shook their great lances and heavy claymores. It was a defiant, stubborn battle cry that would stay faithful to Aslan, even if He was dead.
At the head of the White Witch’s ranks, the great Minotaur general Otmin lowered his axe. Beside him, the Witch herself sat tall upon her sleigh, her eyes like shards of ice. “I have no interest in prisoners,” she said, her voice cold and level. “Kill them all.”
Her horde of monstrous creatures shrieked and bellowed in bloodlusted glee upon hearing those words. General Otmin, the Minotaur, let out a long-drawn bellow to the heavens, raising his great axe into the air. Tremors shook the ground as Minoboars, Minotaurs, Cyclopes, Werewolves and the rest of the Witch’s diabolical horde surged forward in a disorganized mob.
Across the field, Peter tightened his grip on Rhindon, his face screwed up in determination. The first wave of the Witch’s creatures surged even further toward him and those still faithful to Aslan. The Fauns and Satyrs and even a few Centaurs glanced at each other nervously, apprehensive if they would win or even make it out alive.
Peter lowered Rhindon even further, and at his signal, from the sky came a chorus of wingbeats. Dozens of gryphons and eagles wheeled above, their talons clutching great stones. At Peter’s signal, they dove. The air trembled as the first volley fell — boulders smashing into the Witch’s front lines, scattering ogres and minotaurs alike. Dust exploded upward as many of the monstrous creatures were crushed and flattened. But the Black Dwarfs within the Witch’s army weren’t expert archers for nothing, and many eagles and gryphons screeched in agony as they fell in a freefall to the ground, impaled by their wicked arrows. Things got even worse as a wave of devilish Harpies from the Witch’s ranks flew towards the gryphons.
Then came a new sound: a rising whistle, like wind catching fire.
A black blur streaked through the clouds, scales catching the sun—followed by a figure astride its neck. “Toothless—plasma blast! Clear the skies!”
A sphere of blue-white energy erupted from the dragon’s maw, disintegrating one of the harpies in a burst of light and flame. The survivors shrieked and scattered. Toothless rolled through the smoke, wings folding and snapping open again, launching another blast that disintegrated a knot of ogres below.
Hiccup leaned forward, hair whipping in the wind. “Looks like we made it just in time, bud!”
Peter, Oreius and the rest of Aslan’s Army stared in shock at the new arrival. But they decided to ask questions later. A golden opportunity had now presented itself.
“Are you with me?”
“To the death.”
Peter raised Rhindon. “For Narnia, and for Aslan!” With a determined whinny, his unicorn reared up and thundered forward, Oreius next to them. The rest of Aslan’s army followed, hooves thundering down the slope. The centaurs kept their battle formation, lowering their huge lances; the sleek shapes of the cheetahs and leopards darted through and overtook them, their muscles rippling. The two lines met with a crash that shook the valley.
Steel rang against steel; horns splintered on shields. A leopard sunk its fangs into a werewolf and the two creatures went tumbling. Ogres, minotaurs and minoboars found themselves skewered on the lances of the centaurs. The air filled with shouts, screams, and the deep percussion of weapons striking armor.
Peter drove into the melee with a knot of fauns at his back. His blade cleaved through a snarling goblin; he turned, parried a blow from a minotaur’s axe, and answered with a stroke that glanced off its helmet but opened a path. “Forward!” he cried, and they pressed on.
Orieus fought nearby, both swords flashing in broad arcs. He pivoted on his hind legs, severed an ogre’s spear, and kicked the creature square in the chest, sending it sprawling. A harpy stooped from above, claws outstretched; Orieus snatched a fallen spear and hurled it through the creature’s breast. “For Narnia!” his voice carried over the din.
The Witch watched from her chariot, lips drawn thin. “So the cub roars,” she murmured. Frost gathered at her fingertips. “Let him see winter’s true heart.” She thrust her wand toward the sky; a wave of ice burst outward, and sleet began to hammer down on friend and foe alike.
Peter’s unicorn slipped; he steadied it, teeth gritted as the cold bit through his armor. Around him, the battle wavered in the storm. Then, from somewhere behind the lines, came the shrill call of a new horn—a sound none of them had heard before, bright and royal, like silver striking crystal.
Through the swirling snow rode two figures.
The first bore a long lance under his arm, its tip gleaming with a light that seemed to burn away the frost. The second rode at his side, cloak of rose-colored silk whipping behind her, a sword of mirrored steel in her hand.
Peter blinked through the sleet. “Who—?”
The newcomers spurred their horses forward.
“Take heart!” cried the man, voice ringing. “No darkness can stand against the light of righteousness!”
The woman smiled at him and raised her own blade. “Then let us show them, my prince.”
They struck the Witch’s flank like lightning. Prince Phillip’s lance punched clean through a charging ogre’s breastplate; he wrenched it free, drew the Sword of Truth, and carved another down before its body hit the ground. Beside him, Princess Aurora’s shield met a minotaur’s axe with a clang that echoed across the field. She twisted, turned the blow aside, and riposted in one fluid motion, her sword Briar Rose flashing once—twice—and the beast collapsed.
The storm seemed to lessen around them. Each sweep of their blades sent a ripple of gold through the gray air, as if sunlight itself followed in their wake. Together they moved in perfect rhythm: he with the strength of resolve, she with the grace of mercy. A cyclops roared and swung its club; Phillip ducked beneath the blow, shouting, “Aurora—now!”
She vaulted from her saddle, driving her blade into the creature’s unguarded throat.
Their arrival rekindled the courage of those nearby. Centaurs rallied; fauns re-formed their lines. Even Peter, glimpsing their shining forms through the snow, felt a surge of renewed hope.
But the Witch’s horde was far from broken. More beasts poured forward: packs of werewolves, black Orcs wielding wicked swords and axes, and behind them the heavy tread of giants. The ground itself seemed to quake.
But whatever despair and discouragement had gripped the hearts of Peter and his hosts was soon quenched by a new trumpet, bold and clear. A new pair of mounted warriors burst onto the scene, one a tall man with steady eyes, and a woman in pale blue armor that caught the light as though it had been forged from morning itself.
“For Aslan!” Prince Henry cried, as he and Princess Cinderella plunged into the melee. Henry’s sword drew a silver arc through the air, shearing a werewolf’s weapon arm; his shield slammed the creature aside. Cinderella turned her mount in one smooth motion, parried a minotaur’s downward stroke, and struck back with precision that shattered the beast’s guard. Snow fountained around them as they fought shoulder to shoulder.
“Left!” Henry called.
“I have it!” Cinderella met the lunging form of an ogre twice her height. Her blade glanced from its greaves; she wheeled, feinted high, then drove her sword up under the chin. The creature fell with a thud that shook the crusted ground. Henry gave a low whistle.
“You’re improving faster than I am.”
“Then keep up,” she answered, smiling through the breath mist.
Their banter was a spark of warmth amid the storm. Narnians rallied to it; morale rippled outward as if the very idea of partnership could be a shield. The Witch’s left flank, pinned between Phillip’s radiance and Henry’s disciplined fury, began to falter.
The Witch rose in her chariot, frost wreathing her hands. “Enough of this!” She hurled a bolt of frozen fire that streaked across the field, striking the ground in a spray of ice shards. A score of Aslan’s creatures fell where they stood. She drew back her wand for another strike.
Before she could unleash her fury, she was interrupted by yet another newcomer.
A new sound cut through the din: the beat of hooves faster and lighter than any centaur’s, a cry like an eagle’s—but human. Through the mist rode a solitary figure clad in silver and blue, his armor gleaming even in the half-light of the storm. He held a spear whose blade seemed to ripple with the reflection of a dragon’s scale.
“Make way!” shouted one of the centaurs as the rider passed.
He did not slow. His white horse leapt a fallen ogre; the rider lowered his spear, and with a single thrust skewered a charging giant through the eye. The monster toppled backward, bringing down two of its kin in its fall.
“Zhao Yun of Changshan, to battle!”
He struck like lightning, his Dragon Spear whirling in a storm of steel that deflected axes and claws alike. Three cyclopes closed on him; the first fell with its throat pierced, the second lost its weapon arm in a flash of steel, and the third received a backward thrust that drove it to the ground. Without pausing, Zhao Yun vaulted from the saddle, flipped the spear in his grip, and swept the legs from a charging minotaur before impaling it to the earth.
“Magnificent,” breathed Orieus, seeing the silver knight carve a path through chaos. Even the Witch turned her head, her eyes narrowing. “A mortal,” she hissed, “should not wield such power.”
“Then perhaps,” Zhao Yun said quietly, hearing her across the snow as if by instinct, “you should not wield such cruelty.”
He hurled his spear. It struck the yoke of her chariot, splintering the frozen wood and throwing the polar bears that drew it into confusion. The Witch leapt clear, landing lightly on the snow, her wand glinting in her hand. Zhao Yun caught his spear as it returned to him, the shaft humming like a living thing.
But before they could close, the ground trembled—not from hooves or siege engines, but something deeper, older.
A groaning rumble rolled through the valley. Snow slid from the slopes in waves. Warriors on both sides faltered, looking around in sudden dread.
Then came the roar.
It was vast, primeval, a sound that belonged to the beginning of the world. From the treeline at the far end of the valley burst a shape that dwarfed even the giants. A tail like a felled tree swept aside wolves and ogres alike. The creature’s head rose high above the melee, jaws opening in a thunderous bellow that scattered crows from the cliffs.
Rexy.
Her hide, scarred and earthen brown, gleamed in the thin light. She strode forward with the terrible grace of a queen reclaimed. The Witch’s three polar bears turned toward her, snarling; she answered with a roar that drowned their voices, then lunged. The first bear vanished between her teeth, flung aside like a child’s toy. The second swung a paw the size of a shield; Rexy caught its head in her jaws, crushed it to a pulp, and tossed the fragmented remains into a knot of ogres. The third turned to flee; her jaws bit through its torso, and the beast fell as halves.
The Witch shouted commands, but her army was faltering. Even the giants hesitated as Rexy advanced, blood and snow steaming beneath her claws. She seized one by the arm, dragged it down, and with a single twist tore it apart. Another tried to flee and found itself slammed to the ground by Rexy’s headbutt. The valley rang with her roar, a sound that seemed to shake the frost from the trees.
For the first time, the Witch looked uncertain.
Peter saw it. Through the smoke and snow he caught sight of the White Witch’s expression—tight, wary, calculating. Hope flared in his chest. “Now!” he cried, raising Rhindon once more. “Press the attack! Drive them back!”
Centaurs surged forward. Fauns and leopards followed, the renewed thunder of their charge shaking loose chunks of ice from the ridges. The tide of battle began to turn.
But far above, clouds gathered again, swirling into a vortex of shadow. The Witch lifted her wand to the sky and screamed. “You think strength alone will save you? Let the storm show you despair!”
Lightning forked downward, splitting the ground between the armies. Out of the rift crawled shapes of living ice—specters, twisted beasts of frozen stone. Their breath was blizzards; their claws left frost wherever they struck.
Even Rexy recoiled as the temperature dropped. Frost began to gather along her flanks. Peter raised his shield, its surface frosting over. “What is this?” he whispered.
The Witch’s laughter rang across the valley. “This is my kingdom eternal!”
For a moment, even the bravest faltered.
Then, faint and distant, came another sound: the echo of horns. Not the harsh blare of the Witch’s command, nor the bright cry of the Narnian bugles—but a deep, steady call that seemed to come from beyond the mountains themselves. The note rolled through the storm, and the clouds above flickered with a golden light.
Peter looked up. “Do you hear that?”
Orieus nodded slowly. “Yes, my king. Reinforcements.”
The Witch’s laughter faltered. The horns sounded again—closer now, joined by the rhythm of drums and the low thunder of hooves.
Through the swirling snow, faint points of light appeared on the far ridge. At first they seemed like stars, but as the glow grew, the forms of riders could be seen: tall, straight-backed, their armor bright beneath banners of white swans upon silver fields. Behind them, another host—green and gold, their pennants streaming. The sound of their coming
filled the valley like a heartbeat.
The Witch’s hand trembled around her wand. “No…” she whispered. “Not him.”
The first rider to crest the ridge lifted a blade that caught the sunrise. The Sword Reforged, the Flame of the West.
Aragorn, son of Arathorn, lifted his sword Andúril high. “For the free peoples!” Behind him appeared a shimmer of banners — white swans upon fields of silver, horses galloping in disciplined ranks. The Swan Knights of Gondor rode at the fore, their spears glittering, and beside them strode the king who led them.
To their right thundered the Rohirrim, Theoden King at their head, his white horse a streak of fire through the snowstorm. Their horns blared again—three notes, strong and proud—and the sound broke the Witch’s spell as if the sky itself had defied her.
“Ride now! Ride for the dawn!” cried Theoden, his voice echoing from the cliffs.
The armies of many worlds met upon the field of Beruna.
Aragorn’s blade rose and fell, each stroke measured and sure. The Witch’s minotaurs broke beneath the weight of Gondorian steel; the Rohirrim crashed into the frozen ranks with their spears leveled. The Witch turned her wand toward the newcomers, shouting a curse, but the spell dissolved in the wind—like snow struck by sunlight.
Out of the rising gold came another shadow, one that burned. A roar tore the air—a draconic cry, bright as blue fire. A black and azure figure streaked down from the heavens, trailing embers.
Mega Charizard X struck the earth in a column of flame that rippled across the battlefield. The heat drove back the blizzard; melted snow hissed into steam. Ogres and wolves stumbled away, their hides scorched. The dragon’s eyes burned like twin sapphires as he reared up, exhaling a torrent of fire that carved a blazing circle through the Witch’s army.
“Charizard!” cried a familiar voice. From the mist beside the dragon sprang a human figure, tall and determined, cloak whipping in the wind. Ash, battle-worn but unshaken, and beside him his partner—Ash-Greninja, eyes sharp and unwavering.
Ash glanced toward Peter and grinned. “Looks like we’re just in time.”
Peter could barely find his voice. “Then let’s finish this together.”
Ash-Greninja leapt forward, an echo of motion, his Night Slash twin katanas cutting through air and ice alike. The first stroke felled a werewolf; the second split an ogre’s axe in two. Above him, the giant Water Shuriken unfolded from his back, spinning with tidal force. He hurled it, and the whirling star tore through a phalanx of cyclopes, scattering them like leaves in a storm. Steam rose where water met frost. Charizard took to the sky again, circling above Rexy’s massive form, their roars mingling—a duet of fire and fury.
On the Witch’s right flank, a new tremor shook the ground. The snow burst upward as if the earth itself were breaking open, and from the white haze emerged a crimson colossus—Terry, the fire-breathing Tyrannosaurus rex of another world. His roar rolled like thunder through the valley. His breath ignited in a stream of orange fire that swept across the Witch’s frost beasts, shattering their icy shells.
Rexy turned her great head toward him, eyes meeting his in primal understanding. Two titans, two worlds apart—now standing as one. They roared together, a sound that sent the Witch’s army collapsing in terror. When they charged side by side, it was like a living earthquake. Terry detonated a giant’s head between his jaws; minotaurs and cyclopes exploded into bloody confetti under his bite force; and a colossal stream of roiling flames tore through the Witch’s ranks.
Still the Witch fought on. Her wand flashed, freezing soldiers in mid-motion. She hurled bolts of frost that exploded into shards of ice. “You think numbers can change fate?” she hissed. “This world is mine!”
Aragorn faced her, sword raised. “Not while hope endures.”
Zhao Yun met her charge head-on, spear clashing against enchanted ice. Sparks flew. To his flank rode Phillip, shield raised, Aurora beside him with her sword Briar Rose shining like dawnlight. The Witch struck out with a cry of fury—her wand meeting three blades at once. Zhao Yun’s spear turned aside her curse, Phillip’s lance struck her guard, and Aurora’s sword carved through her sleeve, sending frost scattering into the wind.
The Witch staggered, eyes wide with shock. For the first time, she gave ground. The three heroes advanced as one—steel, honor, and light—until her retreat brought her straight into the shadow of Aslan’s coming.
The Lion landed between them, his paws striking the ground with the weight of prophecy. His mane shone with its own light, the sunlight of creation. The Witch stumbled back, her wand trembling.
“Aslan…” she whispered. “You were dead.”
“I was,” Aslan said softly. His voice was not thunder but something older, deeper. “But not as you understand death.”
The Witch raised her wand and screamed, unleashing her final spell—a torrent of cold fire, a curse meant to end all warmth. It struck Aslan full in the chest… and vanished. The snow beneath him melted into spring grass.
Aslan’s eyes were calm. “Your magic cannot touch what is true.”
He moved—swift as the wind. The Witch barely had time to cry out. With a single bound he was upon her; his claws flashed, his jaws closed, and the sound that followed was not of triumph but of finality. When the Lion rose again, the wand lay broken in the snow.
Silence fell over the valley.
One by one, the remnants of the Witch’s army dropped their weapons. The ice beasts cracked and crumbled into harmless frost. Minotaurs fled. The blizzard began to lift, sunlight piercing through in broad shafts that painted the field gold.
Peter, Orieus, Phillip, Aurora, Zhao Yun, Henry, Cinderella—all gathered where Aslan stood. The lion turned his head slowly, surveying the battlefield. His mane glowed in the morning light, and his eyes held neither pride nor wrath—only peace.
“It is finished,” Aslan said.
Zhao Yun knelt, spear grounded. “Your world is safe, Great Lion. Ours will remember this day.”
Aurora inclined her head. “As will ours. Evil can rise anywhere—but so can courage.”
Ash stepped forward, Charizard and Greninja behind him. “Guess this means our job’s done, huh?”
Aslan smiled—a lion’s smile, warm and knowing. “For now.”
He raised his head, and light began to gather around each of them—warm, golden, gentle. One by one, they began to fade, like reflections returning to the water.
Phillip took Aurora’s hand. “Until we meet again.”
Henry clasped Peter’s arm. “You fought like a true king.”
Cinderella smiled. “And you led with heart. Never lose that.”
Zhao Yun bowed once, then vanished into silver mist.
Rexy and Terry gave one last roar that echoed across the valley before their shapes dissolved into light and flame.
When the last shimmer faded, only Aslan and the Narnians remained. The field was quiet save for the whisper of the thawing wind. Flowers began to bloom where frost had once lain thick. The river of Beruna ran clear again, free of ice.
Peter looked to the horizon where the sun rose fully now, painting the snow in gold. “Will they remember us?” he asked softly.
Aslan looked at him. “They will remember the courage that binds all worlds. And so will you.”
He turned and began to walk toward the ridge. The Narnians followed, their banners fluttering in the warming breeze.
And as the Lion’s great form crested the hill, the sun broke over the edge of the world, washing Beruna in light.