The air of the kingdom tasted of iron.
Chris moved like a shadow through the night, the newborn pressed tightly against his chest, the midwife clutching her bloodstained apron as she stumbled beside him. They darted across narrow rooftops slick with dew, leaping from one building to the next. Behind them, the echoes of alarm bells began to toll — heavy, booming, like the death knells of a city.
The child's cry had quieted to a faint whimper, muffled in layers of cloth. Chris's armor clinked faintly with every leap, but he made no sound beyond that, his movements fluid and trained. Years of war had honed him for this very moment, though he had never imagined his duty would be to protect not the king, but the king's hidden son.
The midwife gasped for breath, her face pale, but she pressed forward. "Sir Chris… where are we going?"
"Somewhere unseen," Chris muttered, his golden eyes scanning the alleyways below. "The queen will lock the gates. Her hunters will scour the streets. We can't stay in the open."
He dropped down into a narrow lane, shadows swallowing them whole. The midwife followed, nearly collapsing as her feet touched the cobblestones. She caught herself against the wall, sweat dripping down her temple.
Chris tightened his grip on the child. The boy's warmth seeped through the cloth — fragile, yet burning like a spark. A spark the queen already sought to snuff out.
Meanwhile, in the palace, the queen's boots clicked against the blood-soaked floor of the birthing chamber. She surveyed the scene with the cold indifference of one who had seen too much blood to be moved by it.
The maid's lifeless body lay sprawled across the sheets, crimson soaking into the linens. The midwives who had remained were on their knees, trembling, whispering prayers too soft for mortal ears to hear.
The king stood stiffly before the bedstand, his sword still at his hip, his eyes unreadable. For a moment, their gazes locked — his lined with a sorrow buried deep beneath stone, hers glittering with a cruel satisfaction.
"Did you truly believe you could hide this from me?" she asked softly, almost sweetly. The poison beneath her words was unmistakable.
The king said nothing. He turned from her, his cloak sweeping behind him, and strode toward the door. His silence was not defeat, nor was it defiance — it was calculation.
The queen narrowed her eyes as he left. For all his restraint, she could still read him. She knew that silence was louder than a thousand denials.
"Search the room," she ordered sharply.
At once, her guards obeyed, overturning furniture, lifting sheets, searching corners with drawn blades. Their eyes scanned every inch, until at last one called out.
"Blood, Your Majesty. On the window."
The queen's lips curved into a slow, venomous smile. She touched the sill with gloved fingers, feeling the faint warmth of escape. Then she turned, her voice cold as iron.
"Seal the gates. Lock the kingdom down. No one enters. No one leaves. Until the child is found, this city is a prison."
The guards saluted, the echo of their boots vanishing into the corridor. The queen remained a moment longer, staring at the window, her smile fading into something darker, sharper.
"So the game begins," she whispered.
The king returned to the throne room.
The vast chamber was empty save for the flickering torches lining the marble pillars. He ascended the steps slowly, the weight of unseen chains dragging at his back. His throne waited, carved from obsidian, cold and unyielding. He sat heavily, his fingers tapping against the armrest as though every moment wasted cut deeper into his veins.
Then, without lifting his head, he called:
"Lucien."
From the shadows, another knight emerged, clad in steel darkened with age. Unlike Chris, whose loyalty was fierce and visible, Lucien was a man of subtler resolve — one whose silence was his oath. He bowed deeply before his king.
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
The king's voice was low, heavy with urgency. "You will carry a message. To my brother. He must know what has happened. If I fall, if the boy is taken, the bloodline must survive."
Lucien's head dipped. "I will ride at once."
The king's eyes met his, burning faintly with the desperation he had withheld from the queen. "Be swift. Trust no one."
Lucien bowed once more and vanished into the night.
Chris and the midwife finally reached the edge of the inner district. Before them loomed a worn tavern-inn, its sign creaking in the wind. The streets had already grown tense — lanterns flickering as patrols passed, citizens whispering from their shutters as armored men spread through the alleys.
"We'll rest here," Chris said, pushing open the door.
The innkeeper glanced up, his brow furrowing at the sight of the armored knight and the trembling woman, but one glance at Chris's eyes silenced him. Without a word, he handed them a key.
Upstairs, in the small, dimly lit chamber, Chris laid the newborn upon the bed. The child stirred faintly, his cries gone, his tiny fingers curling as though clutching something unseen. The midwife sank into the chair, her face pale and wet with sweat.
Chris leaned against the wall, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He could already hear the distant sound of doors being broken open, voices shouting commands, boots trampling stone. The queen's net was closing fast.
The midwife's voice trembled. "Sir Chris… what will become of him?"
Chris looked down at the boy, his jaw set.
"That," he said slowly, "depends on how long we can keep him hidden."
The baby shifted again, his eyes flickering open just for a moment. Gold. Not the soft gold of candlelight — but the burning, molten gold of something far older, far greater.
Chris froze. The midwife gasped, covering her mouth.
For an instant, the child was silent, his gaze piercing through the room like a memory older than his birth. Then his eyes closed again, his breath soft and steady, as if nothing had happened.
Chris exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on his sword.
"This boy…" he whispered to himself, "is not ordinary."
Outside, the bells tolled again. The kingdom was now a cage. And the hunt had begun.