Shrewsbury, 1403.

The clash of steel rang like bells of doom. Prince Hal stood amidst the storm—only sixteen, his armor still new enough to gleam beneath the smoke. He shouted orders, blood spattered across his cheek, his sword arm aching. The cries of men, the war-drums of chaos, the acrid scent of fire and gore—

Then it came. The arrow. So fast, he didn’t even see it. Just a sting—sharp, like a wasp’s kiss—then a crack of pain that lanced through his face and behind his right eye.

He gasped. Staggered. Dropped to one knee.

Someone screamed. His name? A knight’s cry? He couldn’t tell. The world tilted sideways. The ground tasted like mud and blood. Darkness fell.

Days later — Monmouth Castle

The battle was over. Victory had come. But in the quiet chamber above the chapel, the boy who helped win it lay deathly still.

Wrapped in linens, his head swathed tight, the faintest tremor of breath stirred at his lips. Doctor John Bradmore had done the impossible—removed the arrowhead from the depths of his skull with trembling hands and prayer. A thick scar was left on his right cheek. And now?

The Prince did not wake.

The walls of Monmouth stood silent. Candlelight flickered. And all of England held its breath— Waiting to see if her future King would live. And then… the slight twitch of his fingers.