Peter passed Caspian his blade. Your heart thudded in your chest. Although a good part of you wanted to see Miraz dead, you knew Caspian wasn't that sort of person. You admired him for that. He raised the blade, poised to strike his wicked uncle down, and you subconsciously clenched your fist from the tension of the moment. With a yell that struck a chord with you as coming deep from a place of anguish within him, Caspian thrust the blade into a patch of grass with the force of a pained but righteous man.

From the muttering and shuffling of the Telmarine army behind Miraz, you could see your enemies' discomfort and resentment. They did not think they would be beaten so easily. Your hand came to rest on the hilt of your blade and you shared a resigned glance with Edmund. There would be blood other than Miraz's shed this day, despite all the measures your allies had taken to avoid exactly that.

The sun flashed off the blade in the grass.

A man shouted of treachery though it was he who bore the mind of a traitor.

Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of your sword.

The battle was here.