Chapter 17: silence of the Queen

The chamber still smelled of roses and wine when Rosa left, but to Daphne, the scent had turned to iron.

She stood motionless long after the door slammed shut, her pulse roaring in her ears. Her fingers brushed her throat as if to steady her breath, but the air refused to come easily. Rosa’s words replayed again and again—each one slicing deeper than the last.

“I am Rosa, daughter of Fatima… and I am here for revenge.”

That voice haunted her even in silence.

By the time the torches dimmed in the corridors and the palace fell to sleep, Daphne was still awake—sitting before her mirror, staring at her own reflection as if she might see guilt carved upon her skin.

Had she truly taken another woman’s place? Had love itself been built upon someone’s suffering?

Tears stung her eyes, but she wiped them away quickly. She could not afford weakness now. Not when the danger wore the face of family.

When Zerach entered her chamber the next morning, she hid her trembling hands behind the folds of her gown.

He came to her with a smile—warm, unknowing. “You look pale, my love. Are you unwell?”

Daphne forced a smile that felt like glass cracking. “Just a restless night. Nothing more.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, unaware of the tremor that followed. “Rest, then. The court will see to itself today.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Her lips parted, the truth fighting to break free. Tell him, her heart screamed. Tell him before it’s too late.

But the image of Rosa’s face—tear-streaked and furious—flashed before her.

If she told Zerach now, it would tear him apart. He had just begun to smile again, to believe his daughter had forgiven the past.

And what if he didn’t believe her? What if he saw only jealousy, mistrust, the fragile pride of a queen?

So she said nothing.

And that silence became her cage.

Days turned into weeks, and Rosa played her role with terrifying perfection.

She was everywhere—walking beside the king during council, laughing softly at his side during feasts, carrying flowers to Daphne’s room as though she were the most devoted daughter in the realm.

To everyone else, she was a vision of reconciliation.

But to Daphne, she was the whisper in the dark—the shadow that lingered just a heartbeat too long at the door, the presence she felt even when no one else was there.

Sometimes, when Daphne turned a corner, Rosa was already watching.

Sometimes, when she reached for her goblet, Rosa’s eyes flickered to it first.

And once, late in the night, Daphne woke to find her window unlatched, a single rose petal placed on her pillow.

The message was silent—but clear.

“I am still here.”

The queen tried to watch quietly, to gather proof before she spoke.

She sent her maid, Elara, to follow Rosa’s steps discreetly.

But two days later, Elara vanished.

They found her in the courtyard, claiming she’d fallen from the stairwell—though the bruises on her throat said otherwise. When Daphne asked what happened, Elara only shook her head in terror and whispered, “Don’t ask me, my queen… please don’t.”

After that, no one dared speak Rosa’s name in Daphne’s presence.

Even the walls seemed to listen.

Zerach, blind to the storm beneath his own roof, continued to smile. He believed the wounds of the past had healed. He walked through the palace with his arm around Rosa, laughing again, his golden eyes softer than they had been in years.

Daphne watched from the balcony one afternoon as they walked through the gardens. The sight should have warmed her heart—father and daughter reunited—but instead, it hollowed her.

The echo of Rosa’s words gnawed at her mind:

“He left my mother to die… and you took her place.”

Was Rosa lying? Or had Zerach truly buried truths he never told her?

The more Daphne thought about it, the more doubt spread like a sickness in her chest.

And still, she said nothing.

Her silence stretched into something heavy, almost poisonous. It filled her lungs until even her laughter felt false.

At night, she began to dream of Fatima—a woman she had never seen, yet whose sorrow clung to her like perfume. Sometimes she dreamed of Rosa standing beside a grave, whispering her mother’s name through the wind.

Other nights, she woke gasping, certain she’d heard footsteps in her room.

When she rose and checked, there was no one. Only the faint scent of roses in the air.

Then came the morning when the poison struck.

Daphne had been walking through the same gardens she once shared with Zerach, trying to find peace in the song of the fountains. The sun was gentle, and for once her heart was calm.

She lifted a teacup to her lips—and the world went red.

The taste was metallic, bitter. Her chest seized.

Then blood spilled from her mouth, her nose, her eyes.

The sky tilted; the world spun.

And as she fell to her knees, gasping for air, one thought burned through the haze of pain—

Rosa.

Hours later, when the healers declared she had been poisoned, the palace erupted in chaos.

Zerach’s rage shook the walls; the servants trembled; every corner of the kingdom whispered betrayal.

But Daphne, weak and pale on her bed, said nothing.

Because she knew.

And though she wanted to scream her truth—to cry Rosa’s name and end the lie once and for all—her heart still refused to speak the words that might shatter her husband’s world.

So she turned her face to the window, closed her eyes, and prayed for strength.

Outside, in the courtyard below, Rosa stood in the sunlight—smiling faintly as if nothing had ever happened.

And for the first time, Daphne understood that her silence might be the very weapon Rosa would use to destroy them all.