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

Night crept over the rolling hills of Greystone Vale, blanketing the meadows in a thick, suffocating quiet that swallowed even the chirping of the crickets. In a small, weatherworn cabin at the edge of the forest, Isolde Fenwick carefully extinguished the last sparks of the fire, hoping they might linger through the night. Her two children lay huddled beneath a patchwork quilt, their breathing slow and uneven, bodies pressing close for warmth. Outside, the air smelled of rain on wet earth, and the distant murmur of the Thorne River merged with the steady rhythm of Isolde’s heartbeat, drumming in her chest like a warning. She had just begun to sink into the fragile peace of the night when a sharp knock echoed through the hut, jarring in its abruptness.

Isolde froze, every muscle taut. Visitors were a rarity in these parts, especially at such an hour. Her hand trembled as she lifted a candle from the shelf, its small flame flickering in sympathy with her fear. She crept toward the door, the wooden floor groaning beneath her weight. The knock came again, softer this time, almost hesitant, almost pleading.