The Queen

18. Destiny

Three hours earlier...

"We need to find a place to rest." Henry's eyes scanned the woods around them, searching for shelter.

"Do you think it's a good idea to stop now? We're still fairly close to the castle. I'm sure they're already looking for us," Samira said, anxiety evident in her voice.

"It's true," Henry admitted, dismounting from his horse. "But our horses are tired. If we don't let them rest, we won't get far either."

"But what if they find us?"

"They won't." His tone was calm, his smile reassuring. It eased some of the fear twisting inside her. Then, he reached up and gently held her waist to help her dismount.

The closeness of his body felt wrong to Samira. Her skin didn't shiver at his touch the way it did with Philip's. For a fleeting moment, she questioned her decision to leave. Whatever hope she had for her marriage had vanished with that night's escape. There was no turning back.

"There." Henry pointed toward the dense bushes ahead. "Do you see that? There's a small cottage behind them. Wait here—I'll check it out."

Sword in hand, he strode through the undergrowth.

Samira stayed rooted to the spot, her heart pounding. Every passing second fed her unease. Finally, Henry reappeared, looking composed.

"Let's go. It's empty."

They walked the horses to the shaded area beside the cottage, letting them drink and rest. Inside, the place was small and rustic, with only a table and two chairs. They sat, eating from their provisions in silence.

"How much longer do you think we have left?" Samira finally asked.

Henry opened his mouth to answer—but a sharp crack outside made them freeze.

He raised a finger to his lips and stood slowly, sword drawn. Footsteps approached. There was nowhere to hide.

Samira's breath came in shallow gasps, the world around her slowing down.

The door slammed open.

Henry's sword was at the intruder's neck in a blink.

Samira shut her eyes, unwilling to witness what might come next.

"W-Who are you? Why are you here?" a woman's voice asked, shaking with fear.

Samira opened her eyes. Before them stood an elderly woman in tattered clothes. Her wrinkled face was twisted in terror, Henry's blade just inches from her throat.

"Why are you here?" Henry demanded, his stance unwavering.

"T-This is my home, sire," she stammered.

"Henry, please," Samira pleaded, "she's old and frightened."

"I won't lower my sword until I'm sure she's no threat."

"What threat could I be, sire? I'm just an old, lonely woman. I have no weapons."

"Henry..." Samira's voice softened, her eyes searching his. After a pause, he relented.

He lowered the sword. The woman's knees gave slightly, relief flooding her features.

Samira rushed to her side, helping her into a chair and offering her water.

"You said this was your home?" she asked gently.

The woman nodded.

"I apologize for intruding. We're only here because we're exhausted. Please, allow our horses to rest for a few hours, and we'll be on our way."

"Of course, my lady," the woman said with a faint smile. As Samira stood, the woman gripped her hand.

"The eyes are the window to one's soul," she whispered. "Yours is among the purest I've seen."

"I... I don't understand," Samira replied, unsettled.

"Be careful, madam. Things are not what they seem. People are not what they seem." Her gaze shifted to Henry. "I pray the fog of poison fades with the wind of God's truth."

Samira furrowed her brows. The woman's words were eerie and cryptic, and yet filled with certainty.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I see things most people cannot."

Henry's voice cut through the moment. "We have to leave—now!"

"What? Why?!" Samira asked, startled.

"They're here. The soldiers—they've found us. Get on your horse and ride as fast as you can. I'll stay and buy you time."

Samira looked once more at the old woman, then dashed out. Her horse wasn't properly tacked, but she didn't have time. With a leap, she was astride.

Just before she kicked off, the old woman appeared beside her again.

"Destiny cannot be outrun," she said. "No matter how far you flee, the roads ahead will always lead to what is meant. But beware—darkness follows you, a shadow at your back."

Samira had no time to ask what she meant. The horse took off. Behind her, hooves thundered—soldiers were close.

The saddle slipped slightly. She tried to correct her balance, but the horse was too fast, the tack too loose.

In two seconds, everything went black. Her head slammed into something hard, pain exploded in her skull—and then, nothing.

Present time...

"Where is she?!" Philip stormed into the infirmary.

"Your Grace!" the healer gasped.

"The queen—where is she? What happened?!"

"She's here, my lord, but she hasn't recovered."

Philip pushed past him, entering the room. Samira lay still in the bed, looking heartbreakingly serene. Just seeing her calmed his soul—if only for a moment.

"She suffered head trauma from a fall," the healer explained gently. "I've done everything I can, Your Grace."

"She'll recover, won't she?" Philip turned to him, desperation in his eyes.

"I... don't know. I won't be able to tell until she wakes."

"When will that be?"

"I cannot say. It could be hours, days, months... or—some never wake, my lord."

Philip turned and left the room, his sorrow igniting into rage.

"Where is he?!" he shouted.

"Who, Your Highness?" a guard asked.

"That bastard—my brother. I want to kill him with my own hands."

"My lord, please... calm down."

"WHERE IS HE? I won't ask again."

"He's in the dungeon, as you ordered."

"Take me to him. And when we get there—leave us alone."

"B-But Your Grace, that's..." The guard hesitated. A king should never be left alone in danger, especially in this state.

"I give the orders. Obey them."

The guard nodded, too afraid to object. They walked down the stone corridors—toward Prince Henry's cell.

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