“Wait,” Isolde stammered. “I… I don’t understand. I can’t—”
“You must,” he interrupted, eyes dark and pleading. “They’ve searched the village. They’ll come for him next. No one can know he is here. Swear you will say nothing.”
Her throat tightened, but she nodded. Without another word, he set the baby on the table, covering him once more with the quilt, the gold thread glimmering faintly through the folds.
“Who seeks him?” she asked, voice shaking.
“Those who would claim England’s crown before the rightful time,” he said.
The baby let out a small cry again, and without thinking, Isolde scooped him into her arms. He was light, fragile, and yet her chest ached with the protective impulse that rose like fire through her veins.
“What is his name?” she asked.
He hesitated. “Alaric. Speak it to no one.”
Before she could ask another question, he turned toward the door. “Wait! Who are you?”
He paused, a shadow crossing his face. “A man who failed once. I cannot fail again.” Then he vanished into the fog, leaving her alone with the child and the ominous weight of his words.
