The Return
Days later, rumors twisted into horror. A knight’s body had been found in the river—dark cloak, no sword.
“Perhaps a thief,” Amalia said numbly.
“Or perhaps,” Margaret whispered, “the man who carried the royal child.”
Her knees nearly buckled.
She fled home—only to find someone waiting inside.
A knock.
A voice she half recognized.
“It’s me.”
The man stepped in—bloodied, exhausted, barely standing.
“I’m the one who brought you the child,” he said. “I was wounded. But I’m here now.”
He looked different. Older. Harder.
“Your name,” she whispered. “Tell me.”
“Rowan,” he said. “Knight of King Richard.”
Relief washed through her, though unease lingered beneath it.
Rowan stayed. He helped chop wood, fetched water, watched over the hut at night. But he also kept secrets—fragments she overheard in hushed conversations:
“She suspects nothing.”
“Tomorrow.”
“The price.”
Fear gnawed at her trust.
Then the soldiers returned.
Then the ambush.
Then Rowan killed a man in the woods—leaving them no choice but to flee.
She wanted to fear him.
She wanted to trust him.
She didn’t know which was more dangerous.
