Chapter 22: The truth beneath the grave

The palace no longer felt like home.

Since Rosa’s sudden return to grace, the halls had grown colder, quieter—filled with whispers that died as soon as Daphne entered a room. Every servant’s glance seemed to hold questions she could not answer, and every corner echoed with the laughter of the girl she was learning not to trust.

Zerach had tried to heal the cracks between them. He had come to her chambers with soft words and weary eyes, begging her to believe that Rosa was nothing more than a lost daughter, a wounded child seeking love.

And Daphne had tried. Gods, she had tried.

But every time she saw Rosa standing too close to him, her heart would twist painfully in her chest.

That evening, rain swept through the palace grounds in silver curtains, drumming softly against the stained-glass windows. Daphne sat by the fire in her chamber, staring into the flames as shadows danced across her face.

Her maid had left hours ago. Zerach had gone to his war councils. The night stretched long and hollow, filled with questions that refused to fade.

She couldn’t rest.

Not until she knew the truth.

Rosa had said her mother died seventeen years ago. That she had buried her in a small village beyond the southern woods, a place so poor it was barely marked on any map. But Daphne’s instincts screamed that something didn’t fit—the timing, the lack of witnesses, the perfect tragedy wrapped too neatly in sorrow.

And so, she decided to go.

She disguised herself as a common traveler—no jewels, no crown, just a dark cloak and a horse named Veil. The rain did not deter her. It fell in relentless sheets, soaking through her garments, chilling her to the bone. But she rode on, her resolve sharper than the storm.

Hours later, the faint lights of a border village shimmered ahead. The air smelled of wet earth and firewood. Chickens huddled under carts, and smoke drifted from crooked chimneys.

When Daphne entered the only inn in sight, a few villagers turned to stare. But an old herbalist near the fire lifted her head and smiled faintly.

“Looking for shelter, my lady?”

Daphne hesitated. “No… I’m looking for someone. Her name was Fatima. She lived here… long ago. With her daughter.”

At the mention of the name, the woman’s smile faltered.

“Fatima,” she whispered, glancing around as if the walls might be listening. “Ah, that one… many thought she’d died years back.”

“Thought?” Daphne’s pulse quickened. “You mean—”

The woman leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Fatima still lives. She’s a ghost that breathes, if you ask me. Lives alone by the old shrine in the forest. Hasn’t aged a day, though grief should’ve killed her. People say she talks to shadows.”

Daphne’s throat tightened. “But her daughter said she died.”

The old woman gave a bitter chuckle. “That’s what Fatima wanted her to believe. She told the girl to go find her father—to make him remember. Said it would heal her pain.” The woman’s eyes hardened. “But that was never the truth. She sent Rosa to the palace to hurt him. To hurt them all.”

Daphne staggered back, her heart pounding. “So she lied to her own child?”

“Lied?” The woman shook her head slowly. “No, my lady. She shaped her. Forged her from pain and hate. You don’t need chains to raise a weapon. Only a wound that never heals.”

By the time Daphne left the village, dawn had begun to break. The forest loomed behind her, heavy with mist and secrets. She wanted to see Fatima with her own eyes—to confront the woman who had twisted an innocent child into an enemy—but she couldn’t. Not yet.

Not without proof.

Not without a plan.

When she returned to the palace, her hair was soaked, her hands numb, and her soul trembling. She slipped into her chamber unseen, only to find Zerach waiting by the fire.

He rose at once, relief and anger blending in his voice. “Where were you, Daphne? The guards said you vanished before dawn—do you have any idea—”

“I went to the village,” she interrupted softly.

He froze. “…The one Rosa spoke of?”

She nodded, her voice shaking. “Zerach, her mother isn’t dead.”

The silence that followed was sharp as a blade.

Zerach’s breath left him in a single, disbelieving sound. “That’s impossible. I saw her burial mark. I saw—”

“She faked it,” Daphne said, tears in her eyes. “She’s alive. And she sent Rosa here—not for peace, not for love—but for vengeance.”

Zerach’s horns caught the firelight as he turned away, his expression torn between disbelief and fury. “No… no, she couldn’t. Fatima was gentle, soft. She loved me once.”

“Maybe she did,” Daphne whispered. “But she also hated what you became.”

His eyes snapped to hers, wounded. “What I became?”

“A king,” she said. “And the man who left her behind.”

The words hung heavy between them. Then slowly, Zerach sank into a chair, his hands trembling against his knees.

“If what you say is true…” he murmured, voice hollow, “then Rosa is a pawn. Used by her own mother to destroy us both.”

Daphne reached out, touching his shoulder gently. “Then we must be careful. We cannot accuse her until we know for sure. If Rosa learns that her mother lives… I fear what she might become.”

Zerach nodded slowly, though his gaze had hardened into something dark. “Then we’ll watch her. And when the truth shows itself, we’ll end this.”

That night, as the candles burned low, Daphne lay awake beside her husband, staring at the ceiling as his steady breathing filled the silence. Her mind was restless—too full of faces and lies.

In her heart, something whispered that Fatima’s revenge had only just begun.

Because even though she now knew the truth, there was one question that gnawed at her with every passing hour:

If Rosa truly didn’t know that her mother was alive…

then who was the figure Daphne had seen in the palace garden last night, cloaked in the same shade of midnight as the woods where Fatima lived?

Did Rosa truly not know… or had Fatima’s daughter been pretending all along?