He smiles at her, then gently lifts her hands from his cheeks and squeezes them before letting go and following the Knight to the door, where he waits impatiently.

Caspian strides past him, into the dark, and unsheathes his own blade in a ringing sound of metal on leather as Peter takes up a position at the corner of the makeshift dueling field, his expression grim. Tossing his scabbard aside, he holds the sword loosely at his side, standing straight and tall. There is nothing of the boy Caspian about him now - only the king, older than Peter, and as stern. "Now, come, if you will," he calls.

"As you say, sir." The Knight draws his sword and salutes, expression calm and cold, and then moves.