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

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.