The study room glows warmly from the hearth, the scent of burning wood and smoldering embers filling the air as firelight flickers across the walls. Shadows dance along the spines of heavy, leather-bound books lining the shelves, their covers faded but rich, their worn surfaces hinting at tales of kings, wars, and ancient myths. The warmth of the fire mingles with a faint smell of beeswax from the polished wooden furniture, grounding the room in a comforting, earthy aroma.

I sit beside my mother on a plush, velvet-cushioned chair, its deep burgundy fabric soft against my fingers as I fumble with a needle and cloth. She hums a familiar lullaby, her voice soft, each note gentle as it drifts through the room. Beside me, Adalard scowls at his thread, his brow furrowed, and Annalise, younger and smaller, watches Mother’s hands with wide-eyed concentration, her own needle wobbling as she tries to mimic the movement.

The handmaids join in the rhythm of the room, their own needles moving smoothly through fine cloth as they work near the fire, their faces serene and focused. Each stitch of their work echoes in the quiet—a delicate, rhythmic sound that blends with the crackle of the fire.

Across from us, Father sits in his armchair, methodically polishing his sword, the dim firelight glinting off its blade as he runs a cloth along the metal, each stroke reverent, as though the sword were alive and ancient with secrets. The same gold coin I wear (now gone) hangs around his neck, swaying slightly with his movements, a piece of our family’s lineage passed through his hands.

But why do we have to learn this?” Adalard grumbles beside me, his fingers stiff and clumsy around the needle. “Shouldn’t we be learning swordplay instead?”

Father chuckles, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he glances at Mother. “My love, tell them why they need to learn the craft of patience.”

Mother’s gaze is calm and wise. “Sewing teaches patience, precision, and control,” she explains, guiding Adalard’s hand with gentle fingers.

Mother’s gaze softens, warmth radiating from her as she glances at the handmaids beside her. “Look closely at their hands, my loves,” she says, her voice filled with a gentle wisdom. “Notice how steady they are. There’s no tremor, no hesitation. Each stitch they make is guided by calm hands and a clear mind, moving one thread after another, certain and graceful.”

Her eyes return to us, “They don’t pause or falter because they trust in what they’re hemming; repairing any damage they come across to be stronger than before and adding a little design for charm, doesn’t hurt. They’ve already seen it in their minds, and now, with every stitch, they bring it to life, slowly and carefully. That’s the gift of patience—to see what can be and work toward it, without rushing, without doubt.”

She resumes her own sewing, her fingers gliding through the fabric with a practiced ease, and we try to follow. “But remember,” she adds, her tone a soft reminder, “there will always be a mistake, a thread that slips or a seam that tears. And when that happens, we don’t become discouraged. We go back, we correct it, and we learn. That, too, is the gift of patience—learning from the setback, seeing its value, and knowing that even in imperfection, there’s a lesson worth our time.”

Her words settle over us like a warm blanket, a reassurance that each stitch we make, no matter how flawed, is part of something greater. And under her gaze, we try again, our hands steadier, feeling her love and wisdom guiding us with every careful thread we pull through the cloth.

Father sheathes his sword and crosses the room to kiss her cheek, settling beside her with a needle of his own. He laughs, light-heartedly. “Even the greatest of warriors needs humility and patience, else he becomes the lifeless sword he wields.”

We all join in, sharing quiet smiles, lulled by my mother’s song, the melody soft and timeless. But something changes. Her humming sharpens, climbing in pitch, losing its gentleness. It grows shrill, like a distant scream piercing the calm, and the light around us dims. My father’s laugh stretches, distorted, his smile widening too far, his eyes hollowing as he stares at me. I blink, and suddenly I’m alone, darkness swallowing everything familiar.

I find myself in a vast, shadowed building, its architecture heavy with towering arches and stone walls. The space feels like a twisted cathedral, ancient and Gothic, its pointed arches stretching up into darkness. Cold drafts weave through the air, brushing against my skin, carrying a faint, metallic scent that makes my stomach twist. High above, the moon hangs—full, blood-red, casting an eerie glow that soaks into the stone, as if bleeding into the walls themselves.

Ahead, a man stands, his face lost to shadow, his mouth moving silently, desperate to speak, to warn me of something. But his words are stolen, smothered by an invisible force before they ever reach my ears. I open my mouth to respond, to speak the words he can’t, but no sound escapes my lips. My voice is gone, swallowed by the silence.

Suddenly, I am tossed into a dark corner, huddling against the cold stone walls, pressing myself into the shadows. I don’t know how I got here, but instinct grips me, demanding that I keep my eyes shut. That there’s something in the room—a presence so fierce that it feels like the air itself is boiling. I cling to the silence, trying to steady my breath as a feverish fear bursts deep within my chest, like molten metal spreading outwards, setting every nerve on fire. I can feel this presence hovering above me, pressing into me, forcing its way in my mind.

Flashes of a monstrous face invade my thoughts, each image sinking deeper, clawing into my mind with relentless ferocity. Its skin is pure darkness, a void so deep that it pulls me in, as if I’m staring into an endless night. Hollow, raging eyes blaze with an infernal fire, their fury burning straight through to my soul.

Each flash brings with it a wave of raw, chaotic hatred—dark energy that grips my mind, stabbing into me like barbed spears. The face radiates an unrestrained hatred, waves of energy slicing through me, digging deeper with each desperate attempt I make to push it away.

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But the more I resist, the tighter it holds me, embedding its horror in the marrow of my bones. I try to shut it out, but it forces itself in, demanding to be seen, drawing me in deeper with every glimpse, until escape feels impossible. As if this thing wishes to absorb me whole, leaving no trace of my being.

Then, suddenly, I am screaming—not in my mind, but deeper, from somewhere within my soul. The urge to run, to escape… to fight becomes a primal need. I fight to move, to break free of the paralysis holding me down, and with a final burst of will, I manage to scream outright with the full force of my lungs.

My body jolts upright, the dream’s grip finally loosening its claws. My throat feels raw, stinging from a scream I can barely remember, while tremors rack my limbs, and cold sweat trickles down my back, chilling me further. The room around me presses in, thick with shadows that seem to crawl across the walls, far darker and more sinister than any night should be. It feels wrong, as if some remnant of the nightmare has bled into this place, tainting it, and I can’t shake the feeling that the creature is lurking just beyond my sight, ready to leap from the darkness.

My breaths come shallow, and the air feels dense, stale, filling my lungs with an earthy, damp scent. There’s a faint crackling sound, as if from an old, dying fire, and a cold draft whispers through the room, brushing against my skin and pulling goosebumps from every inch. I squint, my eyes adjusting slowly, revealing hints of dark wood and deep shadows cast by heavy drapes that swallow any hint of moonlight.

But…where am I? The walls, the dark-paneled ceiling, the dim shapes of unfamiliar furniture—none of it belongs to me.

It’s been three days and three nights since I awoke in this secluded cottage, each hour heavy with isolation. I sit upright on a narrow, creaking bed pressed against the rough stone wall, woolen blankets pulled up to my waist, offering little warmth against the lingering morning chill. The small, well-kept space around me is infused with faint scents of woodsmoke and herbs, mingling with the earthy smell of the cottage walls, made from thick, weathered stone and timber. To my left, a single small, squared window filters in muted, chilly light, softened further by thick, heavy curtains that shroud the room in dim shadows.

Every item here is carefully arranged, as though by a hand accustomed to order and care. Beside the bed, a modest wooden table holds a pitcher and bowl, their surfaces smooth and polished. My clothes lie folded atop the table, stacked with the same precision as the clean linens on a nearby shelf. A faint wisp of sage still lingers in the air, mixing with the woodsmoke that seems to seep from every inch of the walls, adding a feeling of age to the space. My father’s sword, still wrapped in cloth and bound with leather straps, rests against the wall, its presence both comforting and haunting.

I find my hand drifting to the coin around my neck, fingers tracing the familiar etched symbols—runes, my father called them—as if they might somehow lend me strength.

That night I awoke from my feverish nightmare, there had been a knock on the heavy oak door, and a woman had entered with a flickering candlestick. Her mouth was wrapped in a cloth, only her greenish, forest-colored eyes visible, steady yet guarded as she explained my predicament in a soft but matter-of-fact tone. She informed me that I had collapsed in Edward’s study, and fearing the worst—the plague—Edward had ordered my removal from the castle. He’d sent me here, to this secluded cottage in the forest, exiling me to await my fate. The woman, my “caretaker,” handed me a letter sealed with Edward’s royal crest.

Now that same letter rests unopened atop my clothes, its weight pressing on me as much as the isolation itself.

Three days, and three nights. I think to myself as I let out a long breath, the mist forming briefly in the cold air as I murmur to myself, “I’ve wallowed long enough.”

Each movement pulls at my sore, aching limbs, a reminder of my weakened state, and my head throbs, pounding with a dull pain as I drag myself out of bed. I reach for the letter, feeling the weight of my dearest friend’s words before I even break the seal. Returning to the bed, I brace myself and, with effort, begin to read, the cottage’s stillness amplifying every quiet word.

My dearest friend, Alaric,

When you collapsed before me, the sight left me shaken. But as I write this, I have made the difficult choice to keep you at a distance. For a prince, there is no greater duty than to preserve the welfare of those he leads, and with the plague’s shadow so close, I have ordered your care in a secluded place where, I hope, you can recover in peace.

Do not think that I came to this decision without considering every path; yet as much as I might wish otherwise, duty compels me. The cost of your presence within the castle is one I cannot risk, not even for you. I do not expect your forgiveness—I only ask for your understanding. My position, as you know, allows little room for sentiment in such matters.

You are in the hands of one of my most loyal servants, and should you come through this ordeal, know that you will always have a place at my side. Until then, may your strength return to you, and may you remember that, though we may be apart, my trust in you remains.

With resolute regard,

Edward

The crumpled piece of paper feels rough in my hand as I squeeze it, closing my eyes. Emptiness. No rage, no sorrow, just a hollow void. Edward’s decision makes sense; I understand it, but I can’t muster the energy to care. My body aches, muscles taut with fatigue, and my head throbs with a relentless pulse. The thought that circles in my mind is cold and detached: Am I going to die?

A knock echoes through the room, stirring me from an uneasy haze. The light filtering through the window is muted, the sun sinking low, casting long, somber shadows that dance across the rough wooden walls. “Come in,” I rasp. The door creaks open, and the caretaker steps inside. The dim glow of a single candle on her tray flickers, casting warm light that glints off her black hair, giving it an earthy sheen, like a mossy forest at twilight. Her face is obscured by a cloth, only her green eyes visible, sharp and cautious.

She sets the tray on the small wooden table beside my bed. The air shifts, carrying the subtle scent of broth mixed with the lingering tang of herbs and smoke. A dry loaf of bread, an apple, and a mug of water accompany the bowl. I know it’s water without tasting it; it’s all she’s ever given me to drink. The craving for flavor twists in my chest.

“Ale,” I say, the word cutting through the silence.

She pauses, her eyes meeting mine with a steady, unreadable gaze. “No ale, only water,” she replies, her voice muffled but clear. She turns away, movements measured, careful, as if an invisible boundary keeps her from drawing too close. The subtle rustle of her skirts is the only sound as she retreats to the doorway.

The room smells faintly of the candle’s melted wax and the worn scent of wood smoke, mingling with the earthy scent of her hair. My isolation presses against me, the helplessness creeping in like a chill from the unsealed windows.

“Do you have a name, or should I keep calling you ‘caretaker’ in my head?” I ask, my voice low, fighting the heaviness in my chest. The pounding in my head flares, irritation spiking through the dull ache.

She hesitates, her fingers pausing on the doorframe. The light shifts, deepening the shadows on the plastered walls, but she says nothing. Instead, she steps out, the wooden door closing with a soft thud that resonates through the silence.