Hh

The heavy velvet curtains of Buckingham Palace were drawn tight against the grey London drizzle, casting the study in a dim, amber glow. At eighteen, Prince Charles felt the weight of the crown more acutely than he ever had as a child. It was a physical pressure, a constant hum at the back of his skull. He sighed, pushing himself away from the mahogany desk where he had spent the last three hours poring over histories of the Commonwealth.

His neck ached. He stood, stretching his lean frame, the starch of his shirt collar digging into his throat. The room was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock that seemed to count down the seconds of a life that wasn't entirely his own.

A sharp, rhythmic knock echoed against the heavy oak door.

"Come in," Charles said, his voice cracking slightly with the fatigue of solitude.

The door creaked open, and a man in a crisp footman’s livery entered. He carried a silver tray laden with a porcelain teapot, a single cup, and a plate of finger sandwiches. Charles didn't recognize him—staff rotated frequently, and his mind was too cluttered with political theory to note a new face—but the man kept his head bowed, a picture of practiced subservience.

"Just put it on the desk, please," Charles directed, turning his back to the man.

He reached up, his fingers fumbling with the knot of his silk tie. He needed to breathe, to shed the uniform of the Prince of Wales, even if only for an hour before dinner with his parents. Behind him, he heard the soft clink of china being arranged on the wood.

Charles didn't notice the way the man’s hands were trembling, the silver tongs rattling against the sugar bowl. He didn't see the frantic, wide-eyed look the stranger darted toward the closed door.

"Will there be anything else, Your Royal Highness?" the man asked. His voice was thin, vibrating with an intensity that Charles mistook for nerves.

"No, that will be all. Thank you," Charles murmured, finally loosening the tie and draping it over the back of a chair.

He began to turn back toward his meal, his mind already drifting to the tea’s warmth. He never finished the movement.

The man was suddenly there, closing the distance with a speed that defied his humble appearance. Before Charles could even register the intrusion into his personal space, a searing, white-hot flash of agony exploded in his side.

The Prince’s breath left him in a sickening huff. He looked down, his eyes widening in disbelief as he saw the hilt of a serrated blade protruding from his waistcoat, just below his ribs. The fabric was already darkening, a deep, wet crimson blooming outward like a horrific flower.

"Oh," Charles gasped, the word barely a puff of air.

His legs turned to water. He reached out instinctively, his fingers clutching at the man’s stiff lapels to keep from collapsing. The world began to tilt, the edges of his vision fraying into static.

The attacker didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in close, his face inches from the Prince’s. A jagged, manic grin split his features, the eyes of a zealot burning with a terrifying light. This was no footman; this was a shadow born of a world that hated everything Charles represented.

"The old world dies today, Your Highness," the man hissed, his voice dripping with a poisonous glee. "Proclaim your grace to the dirt. Goodbye, Prince Charles."

With a brutal shove, the man disengaged. Charles fell backward, his body hitting the thick Persian rug with a dull thud. The impact sent a fresh wave of agony through his torso, and he felt the warm, metallic slide of blood beginning to coat his skin.

The man didn't look back. He bolted for the service entrance, his footsteps disappearing into the labyrinthine hallways of the palace.

Charles lay on his side, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. Every time his heart beat, he felt a pulsing heat leave his body. He tried to speak, to cry out for the guards standing just down the corridor, but all that emerged was a wet, bubbling sound. He tasted copper. A thin trail of blood escaped the corner of his mouth, staining his chin.

His hand, shaking violently, moved to his side. He touched the wound, and his fingers sank into something hot and slick. He pulled his hand back, staring at the palm coated in his own life force.

So much, he thought dizzily. There’s so much of it.

The room began to dim. The ticking of the clock grew louder, then softer, like a fading heartbeat. He felt cold—a deep, marrow-chilling frost that started in his toes and raced toward his chest. He tried to focus on the portrait of his ancestor on the wall, but the face was melting into the shadows.

Then, the sound of heavy boots. The muffled roar of voices.

"Charles? Charles, I’ve been looking at those reports and I think—"

The door swung open. Prince Philip froze in the doorway, his tall, imposing figure silhouetted against the bright hall light. His eyes swept the room, landing on the crumpled form of his son amidst the scattered tea service and the spreading red sea.

"Charles!"

The shout was raw, stripped of all royal decorum. Philip was across the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees with a force that cracked against the floorboards.

"Guards! Medics! Lock down the palace!" Philip bellowed over his shoulder, his voice echoing like thunder.

He reached out, his large hands hovering over his son, terrified to touch him and terrified not to. He saw the blade, the blood, the pale, translucent skin of the boy who was supposed to be the future.

"Look at me, Charles. Look at me," Philip commanded, his voice shaking with a rare, terrifying vulnerability. He pressed his hand firmly against the wound, trying to stem the tide.

Charles’s eyes flickered. He saw his father’s face—the stern lines softened by a mask of pure horror. He wanted to say he was sorry, or that he was cold, but the darkness was no longer at the edges; it was the center.

The last thing Charles heard was the frantic clatter of boots in the hallway and his father’s voice, broken and desperate, calling his name into the encroaching night. Then, the light went out entirely.

---

The infirmary wing of Buckingham Palace was a hive of controlled chaos. The Queen sat in a rigid chair in the hallway, her handbag clutched in her lap with knuckles so white they looked like polished bone. She was the monarch, the pillar of the nation, but in the sterile silence of the corridor, she was merely a mother waiting to hear if her firstborn was still breathing.

Philip paced the length of the rug, his suit jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal forearms still stained with his son’s blood. He looked like a man possessed, his jaw set so tight it looked as though it might snap.

"They caught him," Philip said, his voice a low growl. "At the garden gate. He didn't even try to hide. He was laughing."

The Queen didn't look up. "Who sent him?"

"A cell from the continent. Extremists. They thought that by cutting down the heir, they could cut down the institution," Philip spat. He stopped pacing and looked at the closed double doors of the surgery suite. "As if he’s just an institution. He’s a boy. He’s just a boy."

Inside the room, the air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic hiss of a ventilator. Charles lay beneath a mountain of white linens, his face nearly the same color as the sheets. Tubes snaked from his arms, and a monitor beeped a steady, fragile cadence that filled the room.

The lead surgeon stepped out an hour later, peeling off his surgical mask. He looked exhausted, his eyes heavy with the weight of the life he held in his hands.

Philip and the Queen were on him instantly.

"He is stable, for now," the surgeon said, his voice hushed. "The blade missed the kidney by a fraction of an inch, but there was significant internal hemorrhaging. We’ve stopped the bleeding, but the next forty-eight hours are critical. He lost a great deal of blood."

"Can we see him?" the Queen asked, her voice small.

"Briefly. He is unconscious, and he will be for some time. The shock to his system was profound."

They entered the room together. The sight of Charles—usually so full of awkward energy and quiet thoughts—lying so still was a physical blow. Philip approached the bed, looking down at his son. He remembered the boy’s terrified eyes on the floor of the study, the way he had reached out for help he couldn't give.

Philip reached down and took Charles’s limp hand in his. It was cold, but there was a pulse—thready, weak, but persistent.

"You aren't leaving us that easily, you hear me?" Philip whispered, his voice thick. "You have too much to do. Too many books to read. Too many arguments to lose with me."

The Queen stood on the other side of the bed, her hand resting lightly on Charles’s forehead. She didn't speak, but her eyes were fixed on the monitor, watching every spike of the green line, every proof that her son was still tethered to this world.

Outside, the sun began to rise over London, oblivious to the tragedy that had unfolded within the stone walls. The news had not yet broken to the public, but the palace was already changing. Security was doubling, gates were locking, and the quiet innocence of the young Prince’s life had been shattered forever.

Hours bled into a haze. Philip refused to leave the room, curled into an armchair by the window, his eyes never leaving the bed. He watched the way the light shifted across Charles’s face, waiting for a flutter of an eyelid, a twitch of a finger.

It was in the deepest part of the second night that the change happened. The steady beep of the monitor suddenly faltered, turning into a frantic, high-pitched whine.

"Nurse!" Philip shouted, leaping to his feet.

The room was suddenly flooded with medical staff. Philip was pushed back, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He watched as they hovered over Charles, their movements a blur of emergency protocols.

"He’s crashing! Get the paddles!"

"Heart rate is dropping—forty, thirty..."

Philip felt a cold sweat break across his skin. He looked at his son’s face, which seemed to be receding into the shadows once more.

"Don't you dare," Philip hissed under his breath, his hands clenched into fists. "Don't you dare give up, Charles."

The lead doctor pressed the defibrillator to Charles’s chest. "Clear!"

Charles’s body jolted, a violent spasm against the mattress. The monitor continued its flat, agonizing drone.

"Again! Clear!"

Another jolt. Silence. Then, a single, tentative beep.

The room held its breath.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The rhythm returned, slower than before, but steady. The surgeon wiped sweat from his brow and stepped back, nodding to the head nurse.

"He’s back. But he’s fighting a war in there," the surgeon whispered to Philip. "He needs to decide if he wants to win it."

Philip sank back into his chair, his strength leaving him all at once. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. He had spent years trying to toughen Charles up, trying to prepare him for the harshness of the world he would one day lead. He had never imagined the world would strike so literally, or so soon.

As the dawn of the third day broke, a pale sliver of light caught the gold signet ring on Charles’s hand. His fingers moved. It was a tiny movement, barely a flicker, but to Philip, it was a landslide.

Charles’s eyes opened. They were glassy, unfocused, and swimming with pain, but they were open. He looked toward the ceiling, his brow furrowing as he tried to piece together where he was.

"Charles?" Philip breathed, leaning over the bed.

Charles turned his head slowly. His voice, when it came, was a dry, broken rasp.

"Father?"

"I’m here. We’re all here," Philip said, a smile breaking through his exhaustion.

Charles closed his eyes for a moment, his chest heaving with the effort of breathing. He remembered the knife. He remembered the man’s face, the insane light in his eyes, and the feeling of his life spilling out onto the rug.

"The man..." Charles whispered.

"He won't hurt you again. He’s gone," Philip assured him, his voice hard with a promise of retribution.

Charles swallowed hard, his hand moving weakly toward his side, feeling the thick bandages. He looked at his father, his expression no longer that of a frightened boy, but of someone who had looked into the abyss and been pulled back from the edge.

"I thought... I was dead," Charles admitted, his voice trembling.

"Not today," Philip said, grasping his son’s hand firmly. "And not for a long time. You have a kingdom to inherit, Charles. And you have a father who isn't ready to let you go."

Charles nodded slightly, the exhaustion pulling at him again. But as he drifted back into a natural sleep, the darkness was no longer a void. It was just rest. The Prince had bled for his crown before he had even worn it, and though the scar would remain, the spirit behind it was beginning to forge into something stronger, tempered by the very blood he had nearly lost.