The Queen

33. A Future Secured

Philip stood in a vast, endless battlefield, the air thick with smoke and the stench of blood. The sky was neither night nor day, but a swirling abyss of gray, and in the distance, a familiar figure stood—Samira. She was dressed in white, her hair flowing like silk in the wind, but no matter how much he called her name, she did not turn.

He ran toward her, his armor heavy, his breath ragged. The ground beneath him shifted like sand, swallowing his feet, slowing him down. The more he struggled, the farther she seemed. Her face was calm, almost serene, yet hauntingly distant. It was as if she no longer saw him.

Suddenly, the battlefield changed. The sounds of war echoed around him—clashing steel, dying screams. Henry's voice rang out, taunting. Shadows loomed over Samira, faceless figures closing in, their laughter sharp as blades. Philip roared, trying to reach her, but his sword turned to dust in his hands.

Then, Alice appeared at his side, holding a baby swaddled in royal cloth. Her eyes were hollow yet burning with triumph. "She was never yours to save," she whispered.

Philip turned back to Samira—only to see her stepping away, disappearing into the mist.

"No—!"

The ground beneath him gave way, and he fell into darkness.

Philip's body lurched forward, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat as he shot upright in bed. His skin was damp with sweat, his breath ragged and uneven. The room was dark, save for the flickering glow of a dying candle on the far table. His heart pounded violently against his ribs, the images of the nightmare still clinging to his mind like a phantom's grip.

Raking his hands over his face, he exhaled sharply. It was just a dream. But the terror that gripped his chest told him otherwise.

***
Morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting a golden glow across the chamber. Philip stood rigid as his chamber aid fastened the last buttons of his jacket, his mind still clouded by the remnants of his nightmare. He had barely slept since waking, and the exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.

Just as he exhaled, steeling himself for the day ahead, the heavy wooden doors creaked open.

Alice.

She stepped inside, cradling the infant prince in her arms, her eyes alight with something between expectation and triumph. Philip clenched his jaw. He didn't need to turn to his chamber aid to know the man had frozen in place, uncertain whether to acknowledge the intrusion or pretend it wasn't happening.

Philip already knew what she's was doing. This had become her new strategy—using the child as her shield, slipping past guards who would never dare to turn her away for fear of disturbing the future heir. It was a calculated move, one she had perfected over the past month.

He inhaled sharply, reigning in his frustration. "Alice." His tone was clipped, weary.

She smiled sweetly, though he could see the flicker of calculation behind her gaze. "Our son missed his father," she said smoothly, shifting the baby slightly in her arms as if to emphasize her words. "And I thought you might want to see him before the council swallows up your morning."

Philip exhaled slowly through his nose. He wasn't going to entertain this game. Not today.

Philip's patience snapped. His voice cut through the air like a blade.

"You know very well I spend time with my son every day." His sharp gaze bore into Alice, his exhaustion giving way to cold irritation."

Alice's expression faltered for a moment before she let out a scoff, shifting the baby in her arms. "It always happens when I'm not here," she countered, her tone laced with feigned hurt.