Chapter 20: Rosa manipulation grew stronger

The palace had grown colder.

Not by winter’s hand, but by something darker—silent, creeping, invisible.

Daphne felt it in the way the servants bowed without meeting her eyes, in the whispers that died the moment she entered a room.

Once, this palace had breathed with warmth and laughter. Now it watched her, waiting.

And at the center of it all stood Rosa.

Rosa, with her soft words and perfect smiles. Rosa, who now accompanied Zerach to council meetings and dinners, standing at his side as though she were the queen herself.

Every time Daphne tried to speak, Rosa was already there—interrupting with grace, twisting words into subtle poison.

“She’s been under so much strain, Father,” Rosa said one afternoon, when Daphne dared to question a suspicious budget for palace security. “You know how fragile her health has been since the incident.”

The ministers nodded, pity flickering in their eyes. Zerach sighed softly and told Daphne to rest.

Rest.

That word became a chain.

Days turned into weeks, and Daphne’s patience thinned to a thread. She tried everything—subtle inquiries, quiet observations, secret notes to loyal servants—but Rosa was always one step ahead.

One morning, she discovered her own handwriting forged on a letter she had never written. A letter that praised Rosa and urged the ministers to accept her as an advisor.

The letter was found conveniently in Daphne’s study, sealed with her crest.

Zerach had looked at her that day, his expression torn.

“Daphne,” he said quietly, “I want to believe you. But every time you accuse Rosa, there’s nothing to prove it. Do you realize how this looks?”

Her voice trembled. “It looks like she’s winning, Zerach. Because she is.”

He turned away, pain shadowing his features. “You’re letting jealousy blind you. You need to stop seeing ghosts.”

Ghosts.

The word cut deeper than any blade.

That night, Daphne sat alone in her chambers, the moonlight spilling across the floor like spilled milk. Her hands shook as she unrolled parchment after parchment, going through every record, every trace of Rosa’s existence.

There was something missing. Something no one had questioned.

Who was Rosa before she came here?

She knew the name Fatima, whispered like a curse once in the halls—but nothing more.

Daphne’s decision was made before dawn broke.

She buckled her sleeves, wrapped a dark cloak around her shoulders, and slipped away from the palace under the guise of a simple errand.

The journey to the outskirts was long. Dusty roads wound through valleys that smelled of rain and ash. The further she went, the rougher the world became—the kind of place where no carriages passed and the air tasted of forgotten sorrow.

At last, she arrived at a small, ruined village. The roofs sagged, the wells were dry, and the people who lived there looked at her with the hollow eyes of those who had stopped believing in miracles.

She approached an old woman sitting near a dying fire, her back curved, her hands trembling as she spun a torn piece of fabric.

“Excuse me,” Daphne said softly, pulling back her hood. “Do you know of a woman named Fatima? And her daughter, Rosa?”

The old woman froze. Her wrinkled hands stilled. Then, very slowly, she lifted her gaze.

“Fatima…” she whispered. “Aye. I knew her. Poor soul.”

“What happened to her?” Daphne asked, kneeling. “Please, I need to know.”

The old woman spat into the dirt. “She died. Starved and cursed. Said she once served a great man—one who promised her love, riches, and a place in his palace. But when she fell with child, he cast her out like a stray dog.”

Daphne’s heart slammed against her ribs. “Who was the man?”

The woman looked at her sharply. “Who else but the king himself?”

Daphne went cold.

The woman continued, bitterness sharpening her words. “Fatima waited for him. Said he’d come for her. She believed till the day she died. The girl—Rosa—grew up on hatred and hunger. Swore she’d make the palace burn for what it took from her.”

Daphne’s throat closed. “So it’s true…”

The woman nodded slowly. “When Fatima died, Rosa vanished. Some say she went north—to the city. Others say she made a deal with something dark. Whatever the truth, child, if Rosa’s in your palace…”

Her eyes turned fearful. “Then you’ve already lost more than you know.”

Daphne rode back to the capital before dawn, the world spinning around her. Every word the old woman spoke echoed through her skull like a bell tolling for the dead.

Zerach cast her mother out.

Rosa was born in vengeance.

And now she stood beside the king himself—wearing a smile that could kill.

When she reached the palace gates, dawn was just beginning to rise. The guards bowed, unaware of the storm brewing in their queen’s eyes.

Daphne went straight to her chamber, her hands trembling as she shut the doors.

She needed to think. To plan.

But before she could even breathe, a knock came at her door.

“Your Majesty?” a servant’s voice said. “Lady Rosa wishes to speak with you.”

Daphne froze.

She turned toward the door, her pulse pounding. For a moment, the old woman’s words burned in her mind.

“If Rosa’s in your palace… then you’ve already lost.”

By the time Daphne returned to the palace, dusk had fallen. The guards bowed as she passed, unaware that their queen’s hands were trembling beneath her cloak.

She entered her chambers silently, the truth burning behind her eyes.

Rosa’s revenge. Fatima’s pain. Zerach’s sin.

The whole palace was standing on bones built from a lie.

A soft knock came at her door.

Daphne turned sharply.

“Your Majesty,” a servant said. “Lady Rosa wishes to see you.”

Daphne’s throat went dry. “Send her in.”

The door opened. Rosa entered, glowing with false grace, her lips curved in a faint, mocking smile.

“Good evening, Stepmother,” she said sweetly. “You look pale. Have you been… traveling?”

Daphne stared at her, heart hammering. She saw it now—the cruelty behind the smile, the madness flickering in her golden eyes.

Rosa stepped closer, voice soft and venomous. “You’ve been digging in graves that should’ve stayed buried, haven’t you?”

Daphne’s blood turned to ice.

Rosa leaned in, her breath brushing Daphne’s ear.

“My mother may be dead, but her anger isn’t. And now… it lives through me.”

She smiled—slow, cruel, victorious.

“I am Rosa, daughter of Fatima. The child your king abandoned. And I will destroy everything you hold dear before I let this palace forget his name.”

Her laughter echoed through the room—cold, bright, and deadly.

And Daphne realized then that the poison in her veins was nothing compared to the venom standing before her.