“Hide this child. He is the future king,” the mysterious man said as he placed the baby into the peasant woman’s arms.

“Only my children,” she said quickly, panic rising. “Thomas and little Briony.”

The soldiers moved toward the oven, and a tiny cry broke the silence. Isolde’s blood ran cold.

“What is that sound?” one demanded.

“My nephew!” she cried, thinking fast. “I am watching him while his mother recovers. He is unwell.”

The scarlet man’s eyes narrowed, assessing, then finally he gestured for them to leave. “Report any strangers in the area. The crown will reward you.”

Isolde exhaled, trembling. She retrieved Alaric, holding him tightly to her chest. “You’re safe… for now,” she whispered.

Days passed, but the threat never left. Rumors filled the village: the king was dying, a royal infant had disappeared, and the ambitious Duke of Blackridge sought the throne. Every shout in the village made her flinch. Every shadow became a harbinger of doom.

Alaric grew quickly, his sharp, gray eyes absorbing every detail, and Isolde wrapped him in thick blankets, hiding him beneath the bed whenever she sensed danger.

One afternoon, Old Matilda, leaning on her cane, caught Isolde gathering firewood. “You look pale, child,” she said. “What are you hiding?”

“Nothing,” Isolde lied. “Only my worries.”

“Worries do not cry in the night,” Matilda said.

That night, sleep eluded her. She sat by the fire, Alaric cradled in her arms, listening to the familiar lull of crickets. A soft thump at the door made her startle. Not a knock. Not a drop. Something thrown. She opened the door to find a small piece of folded paper. No seal. No signature.

We know what you are hiding.

The baby cried again, and hoofbeats thundered outside. She whispered urgently to her children. “Thomas! Briony! Stay silent. Do nothing.” She concealed Alaric beneath a sack of flour. Three sharp knocks shook the cabin.

“Open! By order of the duke!”

Isolde’s heart pounded as she opened the door to a man with a jagged scar and eyes like knives. He shoved inside, overturning chairs, ripping blankets, searching relentlessly. A tiny whimper escaped Alaric. Acting on instinct, Isolde flung a bucket of water across the floor, soaking the soldier’s boots.

“Enough! We waste our time,” the scarred man cursed, and they left.

Isolde retrieved Alaric, holding him tight. “You are safe… I promise.”