Chapter 2: The Secret in the Soil

Three weeks. Twenty-one days of staring at the ceiling of my cramped city apartment, counting the cracks in the plaster, and trying to convince myself that the nausea was from the street vendor's questionable dumplings. Not from *him*.

I was wrong.

The pregnancy test sat on the bathroom counter, its two pink lines as damning as a royal decree. I stared at it until my vision blurred, until the walls of my tiny bathroom seemed to close in around me, until I could feel the weight of the crown pressing down on my skull.

*Pregnant.*

With the Crown Prince's child.

My hand flew to my mouth, stifling the sob that clawed its way up my throat. Elian. His name was a wound I couldn't stop picking at. The way his hands had traced the curve of my waist that night. The way his voice had dipped low, promising me a future that had turned out to be nothing but a beautiful, terrible lie. I'd been a fool. A commoner with paint-stained fingers and a heart too full of stars, believing that a prince could ever truly see me.

And now, I carried his heir.

The scandal would be catastrophic. The palace would tear me apart—not with swords, but with lawyers and non-disclosure agreements. They'd take my child, bury the truth so deep that no one would ever find it. Or worse, they'd use it as leverage, turning my baby into a pawn in their endless game of power.

I couldn't let that happen.

By midnight, my decision was made. I sold everything I owned—my easel, my paints, the tiny television that only picked up static. I bought a one-way train ticket to the farthest village on the map, a place called Thornwood, nestled in the mountains where the king's name was whispered only in cautionary tales.

The journey took two days. Two days of watching the city shrink into a speck of dust behind me, of feeling the phantom weight of Elian's gaze on my skin, of pressing my palm against my still-flat stomach and whispering promises to the life growing inside me.

*I'll protect you. I swear it.*

Thornwood was everything the city wasn't. Quiet. Isolated. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone's business, but no one asked too many questions if you kept your head down. I rented a tiny cottage at the edge of the village, its roof sagging and its windows drafty, but it was mine. The landlord, a gruff woman named Marta, eyed my rounded belly with knowing suspicion but said nothing. She just handed me the keys and told me the well water was safe to drink.

I named the child before it was born. Alexander—for the strength I wanted him to have. A name that carried no royal weight, no hidden meaning. Just a mother's hope.

The months passed like slow, heavy water. I found work at the local bakery, kneading dough before dawn and selling warm loaves to farmers who tipped their hats and called me "Miss Lila." My hands, once stained with paint, now carried the scent of flour and yeast. My body grew round, heavy with the secret I guarded like a dragon hoarding gold.

But the nights were the hardest.

In the darkness, with the wind howling through the cracked window frames, I'd lie awake and remember. The way Elian's eyes had lit up when he saw my paintings. The way he'd laughed, bright and unguarded, when I'd accidentally knocked over a jar of brushes. The way he'd kissed me like I was the only woman in the world, like I was worthy of a prince's love.

I'd been a fool to believe it.

The labor pains came on a stormy night, the kind where the thunder shook the foundations of the cottage and the rain lashed against the windows like a vengeful spirit. Marta was there, her weathered hands steady as she guided me through the pain, her voice a low rumble of encouragement.

"Push, girl. Push."

And then, a cry. Sharp. Angry. Alive.

Marta placed him in my arms, and the world fell away. He had Elian's eyes—dark, fathomless, ancient. And Elian's hair, a shock of midnight black that curled at the edges. But his tiny fists clenched with a determination that was all mine.

"Alexander," I breathed, tears streaming down my face. "Welcome to the world, my love."

For three years, we built a life. I painted again, using crushed berries for color and old brushes Marta found at the market. Alex grew wild and free, his laughter echoing through the mountain air as he chased butterflies and collected rocks that he insisted were treasure. He was my everything—the sun around which my small world orbited.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

I saw the letter first. Cream parchment, sealed with the unmistakable crimson wax of the royal crest. It was pinned to my door like a warning, and my blood turned to ice before I even opened it.

*Your presence is required at the Royal Palace. In the matter of Prince Elian's lineage.*

I read it three times, my hands trembling so violently that I nearly tore the paper in half. They knew. After all this time, they knew.

"Momma?"

I looked down to find Alex staring up at me, his dark eyes wide with confusion. He clutched a fistful of daisies, their petals crushed in his small grip.

"Look what I found," he said, holding them out to me with a smile that was so achingly like his father's that my heart splintered.

I knelt down, forcing my voice to remain steady. "They're beautiful, sweetheart."

"Are we going on an adventure?" he asked, bouncing on his heels.

I glanced at the letter, then back at my son. My hidden heir. The truth that could destroy everything.

"Yes," I whispered, tucking the letter into my apron. "The greatest adventure of our lives."

But as I packed our meager belongings, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were walking into a trap. And the only way out was to face the man who had shattered me—and the crown that could take my son away forever.

The daisies Alex had picked sat on the kitchen table, wilting in the afternoon sun.

Just like my resolve.