The apartment was silent except for the soft, rhythmic breathing of Aurore. Rosalie sat on the edge of the narrow bed, staring at her daughter as if memorizing every line of her small, delicate face. The world outside was alive with human noise, oblivious to the hunt that shadowed their every move. Yet inside the walls, Rosalie felt the constant pulse of danger, the invisible fingers of Richard stretching across the city, seeking them relentlessly.
She had taught Aurore how to remain quiet before the baby could even walk. Every sound, every movement, every twitch of instinct could betray them. It was a cruel preparation for life, but necessary. In her heart, Rosalie promised the child that one day, she would know freedom—but that day seemed impossibly far.
The sun fell through the thin curtains, casting long stripes across the floor. Rosalie moved methodically, organizing what little they possessed: a bag of essentials, the baby's clothes, papers forged with painstaking care. Every detail mattered. Every imperfection could mean exposure.
She checked the locks on the door twice and the window once. She traced escape routes in her mind, anticipating threats that might never come—or might arrive in a heartbeat. Even now, the thought of Simon haunted her. Not just because he was the king's weapon, but because, despite everything, there was a pull—an inexplicable weight in her chest whenever she thought of him. It was dangerous to even recognize it. Dangerous to think about it. Dangerous in a world where betrayal was currency.
Hours passed, marked by Aurore's naps and Rosalie's constant vigilance. She taught the baby to react instinctively: soft movements of the hands to stay silent, keen observation even in play, a sense of danger before danger arrived. These lessons were embedded not as fear, but survival. The child would grow knowing the weight of the world, even before she could speak full sentences.
By evening, Rosalie ventured outside, letting Aurore sleep in a stroller disguised under layers of cloth. She walked the streets, observing the mundane lives of humans, blending seamlessly into their rhythm. She imagined a life for her daughter that would never exist: laughter unshadowed by fear, friendships untouched by secrets, love untainted by tragedy. Each imagined moment tore at her heart because it was unattainable.
At the corner of a dim alley, she caught sight of a figure in the distance. It was impossible to confirm, but instinct screamed the truth: Simon. The faintest trace of scent clung to the air, metallic and precise, threading through the city like a ghost. She ducked behind a lamppost, clutching Aurore tightly, willing her small body to remain perfectly still. Her pulse raced, but her mind sharpened.
Simon did not move quickly. He waited, analyzing patterns, reading human traffic, calculating probability. He was patient, as always. And dangerous.
Rosalie did not run. Not yet. She needed to understand, to anticipate. She led the stroller into the crowd, weaving between pedestrians, letting the city obscure her trail. Every instinct screamed for survival, every thought was a calculated decision. She could not afford mistakes.
Back at the apartment, she reinforced their hiding spots. Every cabinet, every drawer, every nook was a potential sanctuary. She whispered instructions to Aurore even though the child did not fully comprehend them, planting seeds of awareness that would grow into instinct.
Night arrived like a slow, suffocating cloak. The city lights flickered against the thin walls, casting shadows that danced like predators. Rosalie held Aurore close and stared at the ceiling, imagining the palace burning behind her, imagining Richard's rage burning brighter than fire itself. He would never forget. He would never forgive. He would stop at nothing.
She rocked the baby gently, letting herself think about Simon again—the strange, impossible pull, the conflict that flickered across his eyes in the rare moments she had seen him. He was her hunter, yet part of her could not help but wonder about the man beneath the lethal training. But she banished the thought. Emotional vulnerability was a luxury she could not afford. The king was still out there. Death was still a promise lingering on the horizon.
In the quiet hours before dawn, she whispered to Aurore, "We survive by knowing who we are, even when the world wants to erase us." The child's eyelids fluttered. Rosalie's own heart quivered, but she held the line. She could not falter. Not here, not now.
Outside, the city breathed, unaware of the hunter weaving closer, of the threats curling silently around mother and daughter. Somewhere, Simon paused on a street corner, considering patterns, calculating, waiting. He was closer than she realized. And the first choice of life or death was fast approaching.
Rosalie tightened her grip on Aurore, kissed her temple, and whispered a vow that echoed in the silence: "No one will take you. Not yet. Not ever."
The night waited. So did danger. And somewhere, beneath the cold starlight, questions stirred: Could a child born to fear ever truly be free? Could love exist in a world defined by betrayal? And how far would a mother go to protect a life that was not her own, yet entirely hers?