The castle of Calradia was steeped in an air of solemnity, the shadow of the queen's death still hanging heavily over its stone walls. In the wake of her passing, the halls had grown quiet, and King Cedric had become a distant figure, consumed by the responsibilities of the kingdom and his own grief. However, it was not only sorrow that kept the young prince Eamon isolated from his sisters—it was fear. Fear that the same cruel hand that had taken the queen might also reach for the newborn prince.

Unbeknownst to the sisters, Eamon’s isolation had been a decision made out of love and fear. King Cedric, deeply worried about the fragile health of infants, had kept Eamon away from the world to protect him from the perils that had claimed so many young lives. It was a common practice to shield newborns from outside exposure, especially in the early years when child mortality loomed as a dark specter. But to Isolde, Morwen, Elspeth, and Ailsa, this isolation was a wall between them and the brother they had yet to meet, a wall they could not understand.

At eight, Isolde had taken on the role of a mother figure to her sisters, a responsibility thrust upon her by circumstance. She had heard the servants whispering when they thought she was out of earshot—murmurs about Eamon being kept away because of the tragedy that surrounded his birth. To Isolde and her sisters, it seemed that Eamon was being blamed for their mother's death, and they could not fathom why they were being kept from him.

"Why can't we see him?" Morwen asked one evening, her voice quivering as she clutched Isolde's hand. They sat together in their room, the door closed to keep out the prying eyes and ears of the maids.

Isolde sighed, her gaze fixed on the flickering candle on the table. "Father says it's for the best," she replied, repeating the words she had been told time and again. "He's... he's very small and needs to be protected."

"But why?" Morwen pressed, her frustration boiling over. "It's like he's some sort of secret. Everyone acts like he doesn’t exist."

Isolde hesitated. She too had questions, but her role as the eldest meant she had to provide some form of stability, even when she didn't have the answers. "I don’t know," she admitted finally, her voice breaking. "But I think... I think they're afraid."

"Afraid of what?" Elspeth asked, her wide eyes staring up at Isolde. At six, Elspeth and Ailsa were old enough to sense the tension but too young to understand its roots.

"Afraid that he might..." Isolde trailed off, not wanting to voice her darkest fear—that something might happen to Eamon as it had to their mother. "They just want to keep him safe."

Morwen was not satisfied with half-answers. She was the fire among the sisters, her spirit refusing to be doused by uncertainty. She spent her days sneaking through the castle's hidden corridors, hoping to catch a glimpse of the brother they had been forbidden to see.

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One day, Morwen discovered a narrow passage that led to the nursery wing. She pressed her ear to the door, hearing the soft coos and babbling of a child. Her heart pounded with excitement and anxiety. She wanted to fling the door open and finally meet her brother. But before she could act, a hand grasped her shoulder.

"Morwen!" Isolde's voice was sharp, a mix of fear and anger.

Morwen jumped and suppressed a scream. She turned around, her eyes blazing with defiance. "I just wanted to see him!" she exclaimed. "Why are they hiding him from us?"

Isolde pulled her away from the door, her grip firm but gentle. "We can't just barge in," she said, her voice trembling. "They'll be angry."

"Let them be angry!" Morwen snapped, tears welling up in her eyes. "I’m tired of this. He's our brother. They act like he's a ghost."

Isolde's expression softened, seeing the hurt in her sister's eyes. "I know," she said quietly. "I want to see him too. But there are things we don't understand. Father... he worries."

"About what?" Morwen demanded, her voice breaking. "Why does everyone talk like he's cursed?"

Isolde hesitated, looking away. She couldn't tell Morwen the truth because even she didn't fully understand it. She only knew that their father feared losing Eamon the way they had lost their mother. But to Morwen, it looked like they were being kept apart by some unspoken punishment.

Elspeth and Ailsa, at four, felt the loss in simpler terms. They missed their mother and couldn’t comprehend why their brother was not part of their lives. They clung to Isolde and Morwen, asking questions that no one seemed to want to answer.

"Is Eamon sick?" Elspeth asked one day, her small voice carrying an innocence that made Isolde's heart ache.

"No, he's not sick," Isolde replied, brushing a lock of hair from Elspeth's face.

"Then why can't he come play with us?" Ailsa added, her eyes wide with confusion. "Does he not like us?"

Isolde knelt down to their level, holding their hands. "It's not that he doesn't like you," she explained gently. "He's just... he's being kept safe."

"From what?" Elspeth asked, her voice trembling.

Isolde forced a smile, though it felt hollow. "From things that we don’t understand yet. But one day, we will see him. I promise."

Isolde knew that if they were ever going to see Eamon, she needed to speak to their father. King Cedric had been a distant figure since their mother's death and approaching him felt like stepping into the path of a storm. Still, Isolde gathered her courage and knocked on the door of his study one evening.

"Come in," came the weary reply.

Isolde entered, finding her father hunched over his desk, his face lined with worry and fatigue. He looked up as she entered, a flicker of surprise crossing his features.

"Isolde," he said, his voice softer than she had expected. "What brings you here?"

She hesitated, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "Father, it's been almost two years. We haven’t seen Eamon, and... we don’t understand why."

Cedric's face darkened slightly. "Eamon is... delicate," he began, his words slow and measured. "When a child is born, there are dangers. I want to protect him from those dangers."

Isolde frowned, trying to piece together his words. "But why keep him away from us?"

Cedric sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. "Because I cannot bear the thought of losing another child," he confessed, his voice cracking. "Your mother... her death... it was a reminder of how fragile life is. I cannot take that risk with Eamon."

Isolde's eyes widened. "So you kept him away... because you were afraid?"

"Yes," Cedric admitted, his gaze dropping to the papers on his desk. "But I see now that in trying to protect him, I may have caused you all more pain."

"He's our brother," Isolde said, her voice steady. "We want to know him. And I think... I think it’s time."

Cedric looked at her, the strength in her young eyes startling him. He saw a glimpse of his late wife in Isolde—a quiet resolve that was hard to deny. "You’re right," he said at last, his voice heavy with emotion. "It's time."