Chapter 10 : The Monitoring Shadow

The days following Rosa’s revelation had brought an unexpected calm into the palace. The storm of suspicion and silence gave way to relief as the truth was unveiled: she was Zerach’s blood, his long-lost daughter, proof sealed by the tokens she carried from her mother. Though Daphne’s heart had wavered with doubt, she could not deny the resemblance, nor the tenderness that crossed Zerach’s face when he finally confessed it to her.

Slowly, Daphne began to let the bitterness fade, allowing Rosa a place in their lives. The girl was polite, eager to serve, and even deferential toward her. Yet at times—only at times—Daphne felt Rosa’s eyes linger too long, her steps too silent in the corridors. But she told herself it was her imagination.

For now, she wanted only to reclaim her husband’s warmth.

That night, the palace slept beneath a quilt of silence, torches guttering low in the corridors. In their chamber, Zerach dismissed the servants early, locking the heavy iron doors himself before crossing to where Daphne stood at the window.

Moonlight bathed her in silver, tracing the fall of her golden hair and the soft lines of her gown. He paused behind her, slipping his arms around her waist, pressing his lips to her bare shoulder.

“You are too quiet, my queen,” he murmured, voice deep and rich with affection. “Do the stars hold your attention more than I do?”

She laughed softly, leaning back into him. “The stars cannot hold me the way you do.”

Zerach turned her, his horn casting a shadow across the wall as his eyes darkened with something between hunger and reverence. His hands framed her face, and then his mouth found hers—slowly at first, deliberate, as though tasting her anew after too many nights apart.

The kiss deepened. His strength pressed against her softness, her body warming beneath his touch. When he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, the silken sheets rustled like whispers of fire.

The candles flickered, their glow dancing across the chamber, painting their bodies in gold and shadow.

“Daphne,” he breathed against her throat, “you are the only truth I have ever known.”

Her heart stilled at the words, a soft ache spreading in her chest. She pulled him closer, answering him with kisses that trembled between passion and devotion.

And yet—

Something moved.

She froze. Out of the corner of her eye, past Zerach’s shoulder, a shadow rippled across the far wall. Too large to be candlelight, too fluid to be the wind. It was gone in a blink, swallowed by the chamber’s dark corners.

Her hands stilled on his skin.

“What is it?” Zerach asked, voice husky with need but sharpened by the hint of her hesitation.

“Nothing,” she whispered, forcing a smile, though her heart thudded. “Only the flame playing tricks.”

But even as they surrendered again to each other, her eyes darted once more to the shadows.

The next days brought more signs—small, fleeting, but impossible to ignore.

When she crossed the gardens at dawn, Daphne saw a figure vanish behind the hedges, as though hiding. At supper, Rosa entered the hall too silently, her gaze flickering between them before lowering in practiced modesty. One evening, Daphne found the girl in the library, clutching a book she quickly hid behind her skirts before bowing out.

Each moment was small. Each moment could be dismissed.

But Daphne’s instincts whispered otherwise.

And then, another night—when passion once again drew her and Zerach into the sanctuary of each other—she caught it again.

A shadow at the door. Watching. Waiting.

Her breath faltered, even as Zerach held her close, oblivious to the darkness creeping in around them.

The days after Rosa’s revelation had shifted the air in the black-stone palace. The weight of suspicion had lifted—at least in part—and peace returned like sunlight after rain. Zerach had spoken the truth himself, showing Daphne the tokens Rosa carried: a pendant, worn thin with age, engraved with the Horned King’s crest; a letter in her mother’s hand, seventeen years old, stained with tears. Proof that Rosa was his child, born of a love that never found its place in court.

Daphne had listened, heart torn between hurt and relief. She had nearly drowned in doubt, yet in the end, she could not ignore what stood before her. Rosa’s face bore his features; her spirit, his fire. Slowly, with effort, Daphne allowed acceptance to take root.

The girl was dutiful, soft-spoken, eager to please. She knelt before Daphne with respect, never once forgetting her place. But sometimes, only sometimes, Daphne caught a flicker in her eyes—a shadow of something unspoken.

Still, she pushed it aside. She wanted only to hold onto the happiness she had fought so hard to claim.

That night, the palace was hushed, its corridors swallowed in velvet silence. In their chamber, Zerach dismissed the servants himself, sealing the iron doors before crossing to where Daphne stood by the window.

Moonlight washed her in silver, her golden hair spilling like fire down her shoulders. He paused behind her, slipping strong arms around her waist. His lips brushed her skin, his voice low against her ear.

“You are too far away, even when you stand in my arms,” he murmured.

Her smile curved softly. “And where should I be, my king?”

He turned her toward him, his dark gaze kindling with a hunger that was more than desire. “Here. Always here.”

The kiss he gave her was unhurried, reverent, as though rediscovering her. When he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, the sheets whispered beneath them, and the candles bent their flames toward the rhythm of their union.

His words—low, rough, tender—spilled against her skin. “Daphne, you are the fire that tempers me. Without you, I am only ash.”

Her hands clung to him as though she might lose him if she let go. Her body yielded, her heart blazed. And yet—

Her breath caught.

Across the chamber wall, a shadow moved—swift, deliberate. Too sharp to be candlelight, too human to be a trick of the eye.

For one heartbeat, she froze.

Zerach lifted his head, frowning. “What is it?”

She forced a smile, her pulse wild. “Nothing. A flicker of light.”

But her eyes lingered on the dark corners long after.

The days that followed brought more whispers of unease.

In the gardens at dawn, Daphne glimpsed a figure slip behind the hedges, gone before she could call out. At supper, Rosa entered the hall silently, her gaze darting to Daphne before lowering in studied modesty. Another evening, Daphne found her in the library, clutching a book that she hid quickly when their eyes met.

Each moment was small. Each moment explainable.

And yet Daphne’s instincts whispered louder than reason.

Another night came, and with it, Zerach’s touch. Their passion sparked like flint to flame, burning away the weight of rule, the shadows of war. His mouth was on hers, his hands fierce, his words a vow of possession and devotion.

But even in the fever of his embrace, Daphne’s eyes strayed. Toward the door.

And there, for the briefest breath—

a shadow shifted.

Watching.

Waiting.

Her heart stuttered. She shut her eyes against the fear, forcing herself deeper into Zerach’s arms.

But the thought clung to her, like a cold hand on the back of her neck:

They were not alone.