Chapter 23: The ghost still breath

The palace had grown quiet again—but not peaceful.

Silence had a way of whispering the truth louder than words.

Rosa’s laughter still echoed through the marble corridors, light and graceful, a melody that once might have soothed Daphne’s heart. Now, it chilled her. The girl walked beside the king with all the softness of a daughter—but something about her eyes had changed. They gleamed with a hidden knowing, a secret Daphne could feel but not yet name.

Zerach, blinded by affection and guilt, saw none of it. He had forgiven Rosa completely, his heart moved by her tears and her apology. He wanted his family whole again—his wife, his daughter, his redemption.

But Daphne’s heart would not rest.

That night, as the moon bled pale light across the king’s balcony, Zerach came to her chambers. His steps were slow, uncertain. For a long while, he stood at the door, watching her.

She was brushing her hair, golden strands falling in silken waves down her back, her reflection soft in the mirror’s glow.

“May I come in?” he asked, his voice rough with something unspoken.

Daphne turned, her expression unreadable. “You never have to ask.”

Zerach stepped closer, stopping just behind her. Their eyes met in the mirror—hers calm, his shadowed by regret.

“I have failed you,” he said quietly. “All this pain, all this mistrust—it is because of me.”

She set the brush down and rose to face him. “You didn’t ask for this, Zerach.”

“But I let it happen.” His jaw tightened. “Rosa… she was broken when she came to us. I thought showing her kindness could heal what I’d destroyed long ago. But now, I fear it is tearing you apart.”

Her fingers brushed his cheek, gentle, forgiving. “You’re a king, not a god. You can’t heal everyone.”

He caught her hand and pressed it to his chest. “But I can try to heal you.”

The moment stretched between them, soft and charged. The fire crackled. The scent of jasmine drifted through the air. His thumb traced her lower lip, and her breath trembled as his eyes darkened with that familiar hunger—the kind that spoke not only of desire but of devotion.

“Zerach…” she whispered, but his name melted into a sigh as his lips found hers.

The kiss began slow, hesitant, as though they were rediscovering the language of one another. His hands slid to her waist, drawing her closer, until her heartbeat echoed against his chest. The world outside—the whispers, the poison, the lies—fell away. There was only them.

He lifted her, carried her to the bed with reverence, his horns catching the candlelight like a crown of flame. Their bodies moved with both longing and sorrow, love blooming in the cracks of everything that had gone wrong.

When they finally collapsed in each other’s arms, breathless and trembling, the silence between them was not empty—it was peace. For the first time in months, they had found it again.

“Don’t leave me,” she murmured against his neck.

“Never again,” he promised. “Even if the world burns for it.”

Morning came quietly, but Daphne’s heart was restless. Zerach was still asleep beside her, his arm draped protectively across her waist. She watched him for a long while, memorizing the steady rise and fall of his chest, before she gently slipped away.

There was something she needed to do.

By noon, she was on horseback, disguised once again in a cloak of deep green. The trail led her beyond the palace walls, past the rolling hills and into the mist-covered woodlands where Rosa once claimed she buried her mother.

The air grew colder the deeper she rode. Branches hung low like reaching fingers, and the smell of damp moss and forgotten prayers clung to everything.

Finally, she reached a small clearing—the supposed resting place of Fatima.

The grave was there, marked by a simple wooden cross. Weathered. Old. But something about it felt wrong. There were no flowers. No decay. The soil was too firm, the air too… alive.

Then she saw it.

Tiny footprints—fresh—trailing away from the grave and into the forest beyond.

Her heart pounded.

She followed.

The path wound through thick fog until she saw it: a small cottage hidden behind twisted pines, smoke curling faintly from the chimney.

Daphne dismounted and crept closer. Through the cracked window, she saw movement—someone pacing slowly, muttering under their breath.

A woman.

Older now, but with features strikingly familiar to Rosa’s. High cheekbones. Sharp, clever eyes. The same copper-brown hair.

Fatima. Alive.

Daphne’s breath caught.

The woman’s voice carried faintly through the window—hoarse, bitter, trembling with obsession.

“Has she done it yet?” Fatima muttered to herself, clutching a faded locket in her hand. “Has she made him pay? You will, won’t you, my Rosa… my sweet vengeance. You will finish what I could not.”

Daphne pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting the scream rising in her throat.

Rosa didn’t know. She truly believed her mother was dead—and yet Fatima, very much alive, had twisted her own child’s love into a weapon sharpened by lies.

Daphne rode back to the palace as dusk fell, every hoofbeat echoing like thunder in her chest.

When she entered the royal courtyard, Rosa was there—smiling, radiant, greeting the guards with grace. She turned at the sound of Daphne’s horse, her eyes warm and trusting.

“My queen,” she said sweetly, bowing. “You look tired. Have you been out?”

Daphne forced a small smile. “Just… clearing my head.”

Rosa stepped closer, her hand brushing Daphne’s arm gently. “You shouldn’t wander alone. There are dangers beyond these walls.”

Daphne’s heart twisted. If only you knew.

She nodded faintly. “You’re right, Rosa. There are dangers everywhere… even where we least expect them.”

Rosa’s brow furrowed slightly, but she said nothing more.

Daphne turned away, her cloak swirling around her as she walked toward the palace doors. She didn’t look back—but she felt Rosa’s gaze follow her until she disappeared inside.

That night, Daphne sat before her mirror again, her reflection pale and haunted. She now held the truth—but it was a truth wrapped in fire.

If she told Zerach that Fatima lived, Rosa would be shattered.

If she stayed silent, Fatima’s revenge would continue to grow.

And somewhere, in that dark cottage beyond the forest, the woman who should have been dead smiled into the firelight… whispering her daughter’s name.