Whispers and Shadows
Rumors thickened in the village. 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 in a fog of dread. Every shout made her flinch. Every silhouette burned into her nerves.
Edward grew swiftly. His winter-blue eyes watched her with unsettling calm, as if he sensed the weight placed upon him. She fed him goat milk, wrapped him in rough cloth, hid him beneath her bed when footsteps approached.
But secrets do not stay buried.
One afternoon, old Mistress Hester found her gathering wood. The woman’s gaze, sharp beneath years of wrinkles, studied her too closely.
“You haven’t slept in weeks,” she said. “Worries don’t cry in the night.”
Amalia stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen men near your hut. Not villagers. Outsiders. The forest repeats what it hears.”
A new, suffocating fear wrapped around Amalia.
That night, she sat by the fire, Edward in her arms. Crickets hummed a fragile lullaby—until something hit the door with a soft thud.
Not a knock.
A drop.
Something thrown.
She opened the door. Fog. Silence. No one.
At her feet lay a folded paper with no seal.
We know what you are hiding.
Her hands shook. Outside, wind rose. Edward began to cry—just as hoofbeats thundered toward her home.
“Thomas,” she whispered, “take Helen. Stay silent.”
She hid Edward beneath a flour sack and prayed.
Three brutal knocks rattled the walls.
“Open! By order of the duke!”
She opened the door to a scarred man whose eyes gleamed with efficient cruelty.
“We’re searching again,” he growled. “Move.”
He tore apart the hut. Kicked the flour sack.
A tiny whimper escaped.
Amalia didn’t think—she acted. She stumbled forward, knocking over a bucket of water. The splash drenched the soldier’s boots.
“I’m so sorry! I’m sorry!”
He recoiled with a curse. “Enough. We waste time here.”
They left.
She didn’t breathe until she retrieved the infant and held him to her heart.
