Chapter 15: The storm of truth

The palace no longer sang.

Gone were the music, the laughter, the echo of servants bustling through sunlit corridors.

Now, silence ruled — heavy and suffocating, broken only by the soft creak of doors and the distant toll of bells that mourned what was not yet lost.

Daphne had survived.

But she had not returned unchanged.

She awoke three days after the poison, breath shallow, body weak, her mind veiled in fog. The scent of herbs clung to her skin, and the light that filtered through the curtains felt too bright, too sharp.

Zerach was there, as always, sitting motionless beside her bed. His eyes — usually molten gold — were dark now, rimmed with sleeplessness. When she stirred, he rose at once.

“Daphne,” he whispered, and her name cracked like prayer on his lips.

Her voice was barely a breath. “You… stayed.”

“Always,” he murmured, taking her hand and pressing his lips to it. His touch trembled — a rare thing for the Horned King. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“You almost did,” she said faintly, her eyes searching his. “The poison… it wasn’t random. Someone wanted me dead.”

He stiffened but said nothing.

“Zerach,” she continued, her tone soft but steady, “you must have seen it too. You must know who did this.”

His gaze faltered. “I will not accuse my own blood.”

Her heart clenched. “So you have thought it.”

He said nothing. Silence was his answer.

Daphne’s eyes turned away, tears glistening like shards of broken glass. She loved him — gods, she loved him — but the wall between them had begun to rise.

He wanted to protect her. Yet in doing so, he was blinding himself.

That night, when the healers had left and the candles burned low, Daphne rose from her bed, her legs trembling but her will fierce. She moved to the mirror, gazing at the woman who looked back — pale, thin, a ghost of herself.

Her fingers brushed the bruised veins along her neck.

“Why?” she whispered to her reflection. “Why would she do this?”

In the mirror’s faint sheen, she thought she saw movement — a shadow flickering at the edges, lips curling in a faint smile.

“Because you have what she never did,” the shadow breathed.

Daphne spun, heart racing, but the room was empty. Only the echo of her pulse filled her ears.

She pressed a hand to her chest, her breaths shallow. “Rosa,” she whispered. “What have you become?”

Far away, deep beneath the ruins of the old temple, Rosa knelt before the black pool once more. The curse had begun to eat away at her — veins of darkness crawling beneath her skin, her eyes now flickering between violet and red.

The shadow spoke again, its voice like silk and flame.

“Your father’s magic bought her another sunrise. Each heartbeat she draws now feeds your decay. You are bound, little one. Blood to blood, life to life.”

Rosa’s hands clenched. “I wanted him to suffer… not her.”

The shadow circled her like smoke. “Yet she stands between you and him. Between memory and revenge. Can you bear that?”

Rosa’s lips trembled. “I… don’t know anymore.”

“Then let me teach you,” the shadow whispered. “Let me show you how to make him truly remember your mother’s pain.”

A single tear rolled down Rosa’s cheek, glowing faintly violet as it hit the stone. The pool rippled — and within it, she saw her reflection twist into something unrecognizable.

Her own voice echoed back at her:

“You are the curse now.”

Back at the palace, Daphne’s strength slowly returned. She walked again, though each step was fragile. She smiled for Zerach’s sake, pretending that the nightmares didn’t wake her screaming — that the whispers she heard in the corridors were only dreams.

But she watched.

Always, she watched.

Once, she saw Rosa speaking to a servant near the stables — the same servant who had disappeared the next day. Another time, she noticed the girl slip something small into the pocket of the royal cook.

When Daphne questioned him, the man turned pale and swore he knew nothing — but fear lingered in his eyes.

And each time Daphne thought of confronting Zerach, she hesitated.

He had suffered enough, she told herself. He needed peace, not accusation.

Yet peace and silence were beginning to feel like chains.

One evening, as thunder rumbled across the horizon, Daphne stood on the balcony wrapped in a shawl. The wind whipped her hair, carrying the scent of rain.

Behind her, Zerach approached, his presence heavy with unspoken things.

“You shouldn’t be out in the cold,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her waist.

She leaned back into him, eyes distant. “You’ve been distant too.”

He stiffened slightly. “There’s much to manage. The people… the rumors—”

“Rumors about your daughter?” she asked quietly.

The silence between them was long, sharp as a blade.

Finally, he said, “You think she did it.”

“I don’t want to,” Daphne whispered. “But every time I look at her, I see your face in hers — and something else. Something cruel. I feel her eyes on me, always watching.”

He turned her gently, his expression torn. “Rosa is all that remains of a sin I cannot undo. If I lose her, I lose the last piece of who I was before I became this.”

“And if she takes your future with her?” Daphne whispered, her eyes shining. “What then, my king?”

He looked away, unable to answer.

That night, sleep eluded them both. Zerach sat by the fire, lost in thought. Daphne lay awake beside him, listening to the soft crackle of flames.

When she finally drifted off, she dreamed of the garden — the same place she had fallen days before.

Only this time, the flowers were black, and Rosa stood among them, holding a cup of blood and smiling.

“You can’t save him,” Rosa whispered in the dream. “You can’t save anyone.”

Daphne jerked awake, her breath trembling, the echo of that voice lingering in the dark.