⚔️ The Morning of the Search

The sound of hooves was not one or two, but a rhythmic, heavy beat—a sign of discipline and numbers. They weren’t looking for a runaway criminal; they were conducting a thorough, methodical search.

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Emily froze, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her own two children, nine-year-old Thomas and seven-year-old Alice, stirred under the blanket, oblivious to the terror mounting in the small, one-room cabin.

The Royal Baby, James, now swaddled in rough, colorless linen, lay absolutely still in the firewood basket. The royal blanket with its golden embroidery was carefully rolled up and pushed into a gap beneath a loose floorboard, its regal shine hidden by a thick layer of dust.

Hush, little one, they won’t hear you.

The horses stopped right outside the door. The sound of leather creaking and heavy boots hitting the dirt floor was agonizingly loud.

A harsh rap—not a timid knock like the man’s, but a demanding, authoritative bang—shook the entire doorframe.

Emily took a shaky breath, splashing the cold water from the boiling pot onto her face to make her eyes look clear. She forced her voice to sound weary, not fearful.

“Who is it?” she called out, her voice rough.

“Open up! King’s men!” The voice was deep, commanding, and laced with impatience.

Emily pulled the bolt, revealing a huge man in the uniform of the King’s Guard, his breastplate gleaming dully in the morning light. He had a scarred face and cold, assessing eyes. Two other guards stood behind him, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords.

“Good morning, Captain,” Emily said, dipping a slight curtsy, the ingrained habit of a poor peasant woman dealing with authority. “What brings the King’s Guard to a humble place like this?”

The Captain didn’t answer the courtesy. His eyes swept the cabin—the dirt floor, the meager fire, the sleeping children, the worn table.

“We are looking for a man,” the Captain stated. “A traitor. Tall, heavy coat, carrying a bundle.”

Emily frowned, pulling her threadbare shawl tighter around her shoulders. “A man? No, sir. No one passes this way. We are too far from the road. Only the wind and the dogs at night.”

“What’s in the basket?” the Captain demanded, pointing to the firewood basket with his boot.

Emily’s pulse jumped. She kept her expression neutral, annoyed rather than guilty. “Firewood, Captain. What else would be in a basket in a poor woman’s cabin? I’m heating water.”

The Captain stepped inside, forcing Emily back. The other two guards followed, their movements consuming the small space.

“Search it,” the Captain ordered the nearest guard.

The guard moved toward the basket. Emily did the only thing she could think of. She lunged toward the basket, but not to cover it. She stumbled, deliberately hitting the wobbly table where the pot of water was perched.

The pot tilted. Boiling water and ashes sloshed across the dirt floor, splashing onto the Captain’s expensive leather boots.

“My apologies, Captain!” Emily cried, clutching the table for balance, her fear momentarily masked by a show of clumsy distress. “Oh, the good water is wasted! Forgive me, sir, I haven’t slept well.”

The Captain let out a sharp hiss of pain and rage. He wasn’t seriously burned, but the insult—a peasant woman damaging his boots—was enough to distract him.

“You clumsy fool!” he snarled, stepping back quickly. “You waste water that way?”

“I am so sorry, Captain! Please, accept my deepest apologies,” Emily pleaded, bowing low, hiding her shaking hands.

The distraction worked. The guards exchanged an exasperated glance. Searching a filthy basket in the middle of a muddy mess seemed suddenly beneath them. The Captain saw only poverty, exhaustion, and two sleeping children. No place for a prince.

“Fine. Clean this up,” the Captain spat, turning to the guard who had been closest to the basket. “No one has seen anything, you hear? If you lie, the consequences will be severe.”

“I understand, Captain,” Emily said, meeting his eye without flinching, now that the immediate danger had passed. “We saw nothing.”

The Captain turned and stormed out, his anger at the ruined water seemingly greater than his concern for the missing heir. The guards followed, the sound of hooves fading away toward the center of the village.

Emily slid the bolt back into place. She didn’t move for a long minute, listening to the silence. When she finally stumbled back to the basket, her knees gave way. She pulled James out. He was still silent, his eyes open, looking up at her with a calm, dark gaze that reminded her strangely of the mysterious man’s eyes.

She had passed the first test. But her heart told her there would be many more.

Years of Smoke and Secrecy (James, Year 7)

Life in Westwood was never easy, but hiding the future King made it impossible. Emily became a master of camouflage. James was given the name Jem, a slightly effeminate nickname for Thomas’s little brother.

He never wore clothes that were too clean, never ate food that was too rich, and he was never, ever allowed to leave the farmyard.

Emily’s two children, Thomas and Alice, grew up as co-conspirators. They were fiercely protective of Jem. Thomas, now sixteen, taught Jem how to move silently through the woods, an invaluable lesson for a prince in hiding. Alice, small and observant, was the lookout, learning to read the mood of the villagers and the movement of the King’s Guard better than any spy.

Jem himself was a strange child. He had a natural grace that was hard to hide, and he learned faster than any boy in the village. But his most defining trait was his quiet, almost regal reserve.

One cold afternoon, when Jem was seven, Emily caught him sketching in the dirt with a stick.

“What are you drawing, Jem?” she asked, her voice soft.

Jem looked up, his dark eyes serious. “I’m drawing the castle, Emily.”

It wasn’t a child’s scribble. It was a clear blueprint, the lines of the towers and ramparts drawn with a knowledge that was deeply unsettling.

“How do you know what the castle looks like?” Emily asked, kneeling down beside him, trying to sound casual.

Jem shrugged, kicking dust over the intricate design. “I just… remember it. Sometimes when I sleep, I see the tapestries and hear the music.”

Emily shuddered. This wasn’t her child; he was a seed of royalty, and the root of his lineage was pushing through the rough soil she had planted him in.

The King in the capital—the Usurper, as the mysterious man had called him—was a cruel and greedy man named Gareth. Gareth’s reign was marked by heavy taxes and constant fear. The old King had been loved, and the whispers of his true heir being alive fueled the quiet rebellion in the countryside.

One day, Thomas came home from the market with grim news. “They are sending Captain Roric back to Westwood,” he said, handing Emily the few shillings he had earned. “The same Captain who searched us seven years ago. They heard rumors about a boy who doesn’t look like a farmer’s son.”

Emily felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. Captain Roric—the man she had splashed with boiling water—was known for his persistence and brutality. He wouldn’t be fooled by a clumsy mistake this time.

“Jem,” Emily called, her voice strained. “Come here.”

Jem, who had been learning to braid ropes, came and stood before her, his small body straight and alert.

“They are coming back for you,” Emily told him, holding his gaze. “They know you are alive. We need to hide you somewhere they will never think to look. Not in the basket, not in the woods.”

Jem’s face showed no fear, only deep consideration. “The River Cave, Emily?” he asked, referring to a hidden, collapsed tunnel near the riverbank, a place only the local children knew.

“Too obvious. They will search everywhere the rebels might hide,” Emily said, pacing the small room.

Suddenly, Thomas, the older brother and loyal protector, spoke up, his voice steady.

“They are looking for a boy who doesn’t look like a farmer’s son,” Thomas said slowly, an idea forming in his eyes—a dangerous, desperate idea. “They are looking for a boy named Jem.”

He looked at Emily. “The Usurper King Gareth has a young daughter. A solitary girl, locked in the palace, rarely seen. No one knows what she looks like.”

Emily understood instantly. The air went out of her lungs. “No, Thomas! That’s madness! They would see it immediately! The risk is too high.”

But the idea took root, shocking and absolute in its audacity. The safest place for a boy destined to be King was not hidden in the dirt, but in plain sight—disguised as the one thing the usurper would never look for: a girl.

The only person they could sacrifice for the Crown was themselves.