Chapter 2:Taken by the horned king

Daphne's eighteenth birthday was the most beautiful and the most terrifying day of her life. The palace shone with flowers and silk, the streets were filled with music, and yet her heart was heavy. Everyone smiled for her, but their eyes were wet with tears. They loved her too much to hide the truth. Tonight was not only her birthday—it was the night the Horned King would come .

As the sun fell, the ground began to tremble. First softly, then like thunder. The sound of drums and horns filled the air. Fear swept through Cural. People ran to the palace gates as an army marched into the city.

At their center came the carriage—black iron plated with gold, wheels that glimmered like fire, and smoke of cedar and incense curling from its windows. The people of Cural wept as they fell to their knees. The Horned King had come to take his bride.

Inside the palace, Daphne stood in her golden gown, her ocean eyes fixed on the gates. Her father sat slumped on his throne, unable to meet her gaze. She felt her body trembling, but she lifted her chin and whispered to herself: If this is the price to keep them safe, I will pay it.

The gates opened. Soldiers in black armor stepped down, their voices echoing through the hall:

"By decree of the Horned King, we have come to claim his bride."

Every eye turned to Daphne. She could hear children crying, women praying, men silent in grief. Her chest tightened, but she took a single step forward, then another. She did not let them see her fear. She wanted her people to remember her as strong.

When she reached the carriage, its doors opened wide. The light of a hundred candles spilled out, and shadows flickered inside. For one last time she looked back at her city—the place of her childhood, her laughter, her peace. Tears burned her eyes, but she did not cry. She stepped inside, and the doors shut behind her like the closing of fate.

The scent of cedar filled the air. The cushions were rich with silk and fur. And then, from the dark corner of the carriage, two burning eyes opened.

Her breath caught.

Zerach.

The Horned King himself had been waiting.

"Daphne," he said. Her name on his lips was fire and command.

She should have been terrified. She should have screamed. But something deeper stirred inside her. For eight years she had feared him, imagined him, dreamed of him. Now he was here—taller, stronger, more magnificent than any man she had ever seen. His horn gleamed black like polished steel, his shoulders broad beneath his cloak of crimson and shadow.

Her heart raced as his hand lifted, brushing one golden strand of hair from her face. His touch was heat, branding her, and she shivered.

"You are mine," he whispered, voice low and heavy, as though the earth itself obeyed him.

The carriage rattled forward, carrying her away from Cural, carrying her into a new life she did not choose. Yet deep inside, Daphne knew something had shifted. This was not only fear. It was not only fate. Something dangerous and passionate was awakening inside her, and it terrified her even more than the man beside her.

That night, the fortress gates opened, and she stepped into his world. A world of shadows, fire, and power. A world where she was no longer princess of Cural—but the promised bride of the Horned King.

And as the doors of the fortress closed behind her, Daphne realized one truth that made her heart race:

Her story was no longer hers alone.

It belonged to him.

To Zerach.

The nights ahead would burn with fire.

The dawn of Daphne's eighteenth birthday broke with the sound of bells and the scent of flowers drifting through Cural's palace halls. Servants rushed about carrying baskets of roses, lilies, and golden ribbons, decorating the marble corridors with brightness and fragrance. Musicians tuned their instruments, and the city itself seemed to awaken in celebration of the princess whose kindness had been its light for so long.

But Daphne felt none of the joy that filled the air. Behind the silken curtains of her chamber, she sat before her mirror, her golden hair cascading down her shoulders, her ocean-blue eyes clouded with dread. Today was not only her birthday. Today was the day the pact sealed in blood would come to claim her.

Her heart pounded violently in her chest. This should have been the happiest day of my life… yet I feel as though I march toward my own funeral.

Her handmaiden entered with a trembling smile, holding a gown of white satin embroidered with silver thread. "My princess… the king commands that you wear this. He says it befits the dignity of a bride."

The word stung like a blade—bride. Not by choice, not for love, but by fear.

Yet as she touched the gown, her breath caught. Some part of her heart whispered against her will: What kind of man will he be? Monster… or king?

By afternoon, the palace was filled with nobles and courtiers gathered for her final birthday feast. They smiled with jeweled masks upon their faces, yet their eyes glistened with sorrow. Musicians played softly, but the melodies sounded like laments. Daphne walked among them, her white gown shimmering, her hair crowned with roses, her lips forced into gentle smiles as she embraced the children and comforted her maids.

Then, as the sun dipped low, a thunder shook the gates.

Drums rolled like distant storms. Horns blared through the city. The people rushed into the streets, and silence fell heavy as stone when they beheld the sight.

The army of the Horned King had arrived.

Armored riders clad in black steel rode at the front, their spears tipped with crimson banners bearing the sigil of the curved horn. Behind them, endless ranks of warriors filled the horizon—winged men whose shadows darkened the sky, horned women cloaked in smoke, beast-legged hunters with eyes that gleamed like predators. And at the center, pulled by obsidian steeds that snorted fire, came a carriage of iron and gold, vast and terrible, its sides engraved with beasts unknown, its wheels crushing the stones beneath it.

The gates of Cural opened not by command but by fear.

The palace shook as the carriage rolled into the courtyard. Its doors swung wide, and for a breathless moment, all eyes strained toward its dark interior.

Then he stepped forth.

Zerach.

The Horned King.

He was taller than any man in the court, his shoulders broad as a fortress wall, his skin bronzed by fire and battle. From his forehead curved the black horn, sharp as a blade, glinting like obsidian beneath the torches. His eyes burned with a steady flame, not wild but commanding, as though all around him were dust and he alone was carved of stone. He wore no crown, yet every step he took made kings seem like servants.

Daphne's breath caught in her throat. Fear coursed through her veins, but mingled with it—against her will—was fascination.

He is not human… yet he is not beast. He is something more.

The hall knelt as he approached, but Daphne stood frozen. His gaze fell upon her, heavy as chains, unyielding as destiny. And yet within that fire she saw something she had not expected—recognition. As though he had waited years for this moment, as though every war he had fought, every city he had burned, had been but a path leading here. To her.

Without a word, he extended his hand.

Her heart thundered. The hall was silent. Slowly, trembling, Daphne placed her hand in his. His grip was firm, warm, commanding, yet not cruel. For the first time, her body betrayed her, a shiver coursing through her not of fear but of something she dared not name.

The doors of the golden carriage closed, sealing her fate.

The journey was silent save for the pounding of hooves. Daphne sat opposite him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes cast down though she felt his gaze upon her every moment. Finally, unable to bear the weight of silence, she whispered, "Why me?"

His voice was deep, like thunder restrained. "Because you stopped me. Years ago, when the world was ash in my hands, when kings knelt and cities burned—you stood before me with tears in your eyes, and my blade froze. No god could have stayed my hand, but you did. That day I swore you would be mine."

Her lips parted, but no words came. Her chest heaved, her heart warring with itself. Hatred… awe… fear… and a pull she could not deny.

The carriage rumbled through forests and mountains until at last it reached the Forbidden Fortress. Built into the black stone of the cliffs, it rose like a crown of iron, torches blazing along its battlements. Warriors cheered as they entered, chanting, "Horned King! Horned King!" The sound shook the very earth.

Zerach led her through the vast halls of shadow and flame until they reached his chamber. The doors closed behind them, and silence fell.

Daphne stood trembling in the center of the room, her white gown gleaming like moonlight against the darkness. He approached slowly, his presence filling the space, his eyes locked upon her with a hunger she could not escape.

Her voice was a whisper. "If I must be your bride… then let it be as a queen, not a prisoner."

A rare flicker of a smile touched his lips. "You are no prisoner, Daphne. You are mine."

The words ignited something within her. Fear melted into fire. She lifted her chin, her ocean eyes burning now with defiance—and longing. "Then claim me."

And he did.

That night, the fortress walls trembled not with the roar of war but with the union of fire and gold. His hands were strong yet reverent as they traced the curves of her body, his lips fierce yet tender as they found hers. Every breath was a battle, every kiss a surrender. She wept against him, not with sorrow but with release, as though every chain upon her heart broke in his embrace.

Passion consumed them. Again and again, through the long hours of night, she yielded and yet conquered, was taken and yet took in return. His power was vast, his hunger endless, but his touch carried a strange gentleness, as though beneath the Horned King still beat the heart of a man who remembered what it was to love.

Daphne's thoughts burned as her body did. This is madness… yet why does my soul feel whole only in his arms?

Days turned to nights, and nights to days, but time lost meaning within those chambers. Every night he came to her, and every night she found herself falling deeper, the fire between them growing brighter. What began as duty became desire. What began as fear became devotion.

She would wake tangled in his arms, her golden hair spread across his chest, his horn gleaming in the pale light of dawn. Sometimes he whispered her name as though it were a prayer. Sometimes she touched his face in silence, marveling at the man who had once been her people's terror, now her world.

And yet, though passion bound them, destiny waited beyond those walls.

One night, after their fiercest union yet, Daphne lay against him, her body trembling, her heart racing. She lifted her gaze to his burning eyes and whispered, "If you are shadow, then let me be flame. Burn me, Zerach… but do not let me fade."

He pressed his lips to her hair, his voice low and raw. "You will not fade, Daphne. You will rise. Beside me, you will rule a world remade."

Her heart ached at his words. For in them she heard both promise… and warning.

Outside, the drums of war began to beat once more.

And within her, a truth stirred—she was no longer only Cural's daughter. She was the bride of fire and shadow.

The next chapter of her fate had already begun.