Chapter 18: zerach ‘s investigation

The palace had never known such silence.

Not even during the war, not even when the fortress gates had burned—no, this silence was deeper. It was fear.

By nightfall, every corridor glowed with torchlight. Guards marched with drawn blades. Servants knelt trembling in the great hall as the throne of the Horned King stood like a judgment seat over them all.

At its foot, Zerach sat, his face carved from fury itself. His golden eyes—once bright with warmth—now burned like molten metal.

The throne room doors shut with a thunderous echo. No one dared to breathe.

Daphne’s chair beside him stood empty. Her absence screamed louder than any voice.

“The queen was poisoned,” Zerach said, his voice deep, restrained, but deadly. “And until I know who dared it, none will leave this hall.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered court—terrified whispers, gasps, prayers.

Behind the king stood Rosa. Her head was bowed, her hands folded demurely. She wore white—a vision of innocence. To the untrained eye, she looked like grief itself.

But her lips curled, just slightly, when no one was watching.

The questioning began.

One by one, Zerach called them forward—the cooks, the guards, the handmaidens. Each trembled as they spoke, swearing innocence, swearing loyalty.

Daphne’s maids were last—twelve girls dressed in pale linen, eyes wide with terror.

“Who served the queen this morning?” Zerach demanded.

Silence.

Then, one small voice answered. “I did, my lord. Maria.”

The young maid stepped forward, kneeling low, her hands shaking as she held the tray she had carried that morning.

The same tray that had nearly delivered death to the queen.

Zerach’s gaze darkened. “You poisoned her?”

Maria’s tears spilled instantly. “No, my king! I would never! I swear on my life, on the gods—”

But before she could finish, others spoke.

“She’s lying!” one maid cried.

“Yes! She always spoke ill of the queen,” said another. “She said humans don’t belong on the throne!”

“She hates her! She’s said so many times she’d rather serve the king than his human wife!”

Each word was like a stone thrown into the fire.

Maria’s sobs grew desperate. “Please! I said foolish things, yes—but I love our queen! I didn’t do this! I didn’t—”

Her gaze darted wildly, pleading for mercy, for truth—until it landed on Rosa.

Rosa met her eyes with an expression so calm, so cold, that Maria’s voice faltered.

“I saw—” she stammered, trembling. “I saw someone… someone dressed in black, with a mask. After I left the queen’s chambers, they were there—”

“Enough.” Rosa’s voice sliced through the air like a blade.

She stepped forward, her white gown brushing the floor, her tone gentle yet commanding. “You speak of masked figures to save yourself. Do not insult my father’s intelligence.”

Zerach turned toward her slightly, frowning. “Rosa—”

But Rosa bowed her head, her voice lowering into a melody of concern. “Father, please. The queen is dying. We cannot allow her poisoner to weave lies. The others have spoken—this one bears guilt in her own words.”

The court shifted uneasily. The guards glanced between the king and his daughter.

Zerach’s jaw tightened. He looked at Maria again. Her tears fell silently, staining the marble beneath her knees.

“I swear it wasn’t me,” she whispered. “Please, my king. Please…”

Rosa’s eyes flickered—sharp, almost impatient.

“Guards,” she said softly. “Take her.”

Zerach did not stop them.

Maria screamed as she was dragged from the hall, her voice echoing long after the doors closed.

“Beat her until she confesses!” Rosa commanded, her calm smile never faltering.

The king’s silence gave permission.

And in that silence, the palace felt the shadow of something darker than poison.

Later that night, Zerach paced the queen’s chamber like a caged storm.

Daphne lay weak upon her bed, pale as snow, the scent of herbs and medicine heavy in the air. Her lips parted when she saw him, but he spoke first.

“The healer says you will recover,” he said, trying to steady his voice. “But whoever did this—will wish they hadn’t lived to try.”

She tried to reach for his hand, but her strength failed. “Zerach… you must not—”

“Do not speak of mercy,” he cut in, his anger raw. “Someone sought your death. I will not rest until—”

His voice broke. For a heartbeat, the king was just a man—frightened, desperate, holding on to what he almost lost.

Daphne wanted to tell him everything—to tell him it wasn’t Maria, to tell him it was Rosa, that it had always been Rosa.

But the words stuck in her throat.

Her husband’s eyes glowed with a kind of blind faith whenever he said Rosa’s name. He believed his daughter incapable of darkness, incapable of lies.

And what if she was wrong? What if grief and suspicion were making her see ghosts where there were none?

So she said nothing.

Again.

Rosa visited that night.

She came quietly, a cup of warm tea in her hands and a soft smile on her lips.

“How are you feeling, my queen?” she asked sweetly.

Daphne looked up at her—at those eyes, so like her father’s—and forced herself to answer, “Better, thanks to the healers.”

Rosa sat at the edge of her bed, setting the cup down on the table beside her.

“You must be careful now,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Daphne’s face. “The palace can be… dangerous. You never know who might wish you harm.”

Something in her tone made Daphne’s skin crawl.

“Rosa,” she said quietly, “why are you doing this?”

Rosa’s smile widened just enough to show her teeth.

“Because peace is a lie,” she whispered. “And I’m only giving you what my mother was given—suffering.”

Daphne froze.

Rosa rose, her expression softening again as if nothing had happened. She smoothed her dress and bowed.

“Rest well, my queen,” she said sweetly. “You’ll need your strength.”

When the door closed behind her, Daphne finally allowed herself to shake.

The poison might have left her veins—but its shadow still lingered in her heart.

And in that moment, she realized something dreadful.

Rosa was no longer just in the palace.

She was inside every silence, every secret, every unspoken fear.

And the true war had only just begun.