He scrutinized her, then stepped inside, a soldier following. The man’s gaze swept across the cabin, lingering on the simple table, the bread crust, and her children huddled beneath the quilt.
“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.