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

Night was descending over the fields of Wessex with a heavy, smothering stillness, the kind that silenced even the crickets. Inside a small, weather-beaten hut at the edge of the forest, Amalia finished covering the last glowing embers of the fire, hoping they would survive until dawn. Her children slept under a worn blanket, curled together in the corner like two little animals seeking warmth. Outside, the wind carried the scent of approaching rain, and the distant murmur of the river blended with the steady throb of her heartbeat. She had begun to settle into the quiet of the night when a single knock thudded against her door—sharp, sudden, out of place.

She froze.
No one ever came to a hut like hers at this hour. She reached for the candle on the shelf, its flame trembling as though it sensed her fear, and approached the door slowly. The knock came again, softer this time—almost pleading.

“Who is it?” she whispered, her voice thin and unsteady.

No answer followed. Only wind. But something—some instinct she couldn’t name—pushed her closer. She opened the door a crack, and a wave of fog slipped inside like a cold breath. Standing in the middle of the mist, a man cloaked in black bent forward, cradling something in his arms. His beard was wet, his eyes wide with exhaustion and terror.

“For the love of God,” he rasped, “hide him.”

Amalia stepped back. “Who? Who are you?”

He shifted the bundle in his arms, revealing a baby swaddled in a cloth embroidered with golden thread—finer than anything a peasant would ever touch.

“There’s no time,” the man said urgently. “Hide him well. That child is the future king.”

The world seemed to stop. The fog thickened, muffling all sound. Something deep inside Amalia reacted before her mind could understand; she opened the door wider. The man stepped inside, droplets of rain falling from his cloak onto the dirt floor. The baby let out a soft whimper—too small a sound to belong to a child with a destiny so large.

“Wait—what are you saying?” she stammered, feeling as though her tongue no longer obeyed her. “I can’t—”

“You must,” he interrupted. “They’ve already searched the village. They’ll come here next. If anyone asks, you saw no one. Say nothing. Understand?”

She nodded without truly understanding anything at all. The man laid the child on the table and covered him with the blanket again. The golden embroidery glittered faintly even through the grime of travel.

“Who is looking for him?” she asked.

“Those who would claim England before dawn.”

The baby cried once more, and without thinking, Amalia scooped him up. His tiny body radiated warmth, and his heart beat against her chest like a trapped bird.

“What is his name?”

The man hesitated. “Edward. But speak it to no one.”

She tried to hold his gaze, but he was already moving toward the door.

“Wait—who are you?”

He stopped only long enough to murmur, “A man who failed once. I cannot fail again.”

Then the fog swallowed him whole.

Dawn crept faintly through the cracked roof as Amalia tried to continue her life as though nothing had happened. She fed her children, boiled water, and hid the baby inside a basket beneath rags and firewood. When his crying threatened to betray them, she rocked him and hummed an old lullaby. “Hush, little one… hush.”

The sound of hooves shattered the fragile morning. She peeked out through the narrow window. Four soldiers were riding between the village huts—their armor gleaming like cold mirrors in the pale sun. Behind them strode a man in a red cloak, inspecting every house.

They knocked on her neighbor’s door. Then another.
Sweat prickled along her spine.

“Children,” she whispered, “don’t say a word.”

Moments later, three heavy knocks shook her door.

“By order of the crown,” a deep voice commanded, “open.”

She forced a breath, opened the door, and faced the man in the red cloak. His stare was sharp as a blade.

“We seek a traveler—a knight in dark clothing. Has anyone passed this way?”

“No, sir,” she answered, her voice steady by sheer force of will. “No one comes here, by day or by night.”

He surveyed her, then pushed past her into the hut. A soldier lifted the blanket where her children lay, and they clung to each other in terror.

“Only my children,” she said quickly. “Thomas and little Helen.”

The man examined a crust of bread on the table. “Peasant rations,” he muttered. “No one could hide anything valuable in a place like this.”

Then—from near the oven—came a tiny sound. A muffled cry.
Amalia’s blood ran cold.

“What was that?” a soldier barked, stepping toward the noise.

“My nephew!” Amalia blurted. “My sister’s child—I’m watching him while she’s ill.”

“Let me see him.”

“He’s feverish,” she said urgently. “If you wake him, he’ll scream all day.”

The soldier hesitated. The red-cloaked man raised an eyebrow, testing her. Then, finally, he motioned for them to leave.

“If you see a man in a dark cloak, report it. The crown will reward you.”

Amalia nodded until they disappeared.
When the sound of hooves finally faded, she collapsed to the floor.

The baby wailed. She pressed him to her chest.
“You’re safe now… safe…”

But she knew safety was an illusion.

The village churned with rumor. They said the king lay dying. They said a royal infant had vanished. They said the duke of Northwell sought the throne and would kill any child who threatened his claim.

Amalia moved through her days like someone trapped in a nightmare. She tended the garden, baked bread, cleaned after her children—but every shout outside made her flinch. Every shadow felt like an omen.

Edward grew quickly; his winter-sky eyes watched her with calmness too old for an infant. She fed him goat milk, wrapped him in a rough blanket, and hid him beneath her bed whenever footsteps approached.

Then one afternoon, old Mistress Hester found her gathering firewood. The old woman leaned on her cane, her eyes sharp beneath her wrinkles.

“You’ve not been sleeping, child,” she said. “Your face is pale. What are you hiding?”

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

Hester snorted. “Worries don’t cry in the night.”

Amalia stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen men around your hut. Not villagers. Outsiders. Secrets have long roots, and the forest repeats them all.”

A new dread settled over Amalia.

That night, sleep refused to come. She sat beside the fire with Edward in her arms. The lull of crickets comforted her—until she heard a soft thump at the door.

Not a knock.
A drop.
Something thrown.

She opened the door halfway. Fog and silence. No one in sight. At her feet lay a folded paper. No seal. No signature.

We know what you are hiding.

Her hands shook violently. Outside, the wind rose, and the baby burst into cries just as hoofbeats thundered once again toward her hut.

“Thomas!” she whispered urgently. “Wake up. Take your sister. Say nothing. Do nothing.”

She hid Edward beneath a sack of flour under a bench, praying he would not cry.

Three knocks shook the walls.
“Open! By order of the duke!”

Her heart nearly stopped.
She opened the door to a scarred man she had never seen before. This one was different—cold, efficient, eyes like a butcher’s knife.

“We have orders to search again,” he said. “Move.”

He stormed inside, overturning chairs, ripping open blankets, shoving aside pots. One soldier kicked the flour sack.
A tiny whimper escaped.

Amalia acted instantly. She lunged forward, knocking over a bucket of water. It splashed across the soldier’s boots.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, sir!” she cried.

The scarred man recoiled with disgust, cursing. “Enough. We waste time here.”

And just like that—they left.

Amalia didn’t breathe for several minutes.
She retrieved Edward from the sack, clutching him tightly.
“You’re safe… you’re…”

But she didn’t believe her own words.