In the year of our Lord 1557, as the autumn winds curled through the ancient forests of England, a hush fell upon the world. The trees stood solemn, cloaked in gold and russet, whispering to one another as if they had seen what the world had missed.

In a cottage of stone and timber, half-swallowed by ivy, a prince lay still upon a narrow bed — though no crown adorned his brow, and no royal herald stood by the door. The room was dim but warm, smelling faintly of herbs and woodsmoke. Outside, a rooster cried into the morning, unaware of the blood that had stained the leaves the night before.

Prince Thomas, firstborn of House England, stirred. A bandage wrapped his side, stained through with the deep maroon of a wound that should have claimed him. His breathing was ragged, his skin pale, but life clung to him stubbornly. The fever had not yet passed.

And as his eyelids fluttered open — pale lashes against his cheek — the prince remembered.

The ambush. The clash of steel in the glade. The pain, sharp and wet, as a blade kissed his ribs. The thunder of his horse’s hooves as he fled deeper into the woods, alone, hunted, bleeding. And then... a voice. Gentle hands. A face he could not fully remember.

–

Now, in this quiet place far from the throne, his fate no longer rested in courtly hands, but in yours.

He wakes.