Chapter 24: The Grave that lied

The forest was a cathedral of shadows.

Mist wound itself around the trees like ghosts, and the moon’s thin light barely pierced the canopy. The deeper Daphne rode, the more the world behind her — the marble palace, the guarded courtyards, the weight of her crown — seemed to dissolve into silence. Only the echo of her horse’s hooves and the frantic rhythm of her heart kept her company.

She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The air here was different, colder, heavy with secrets. Even the birds had abandoned their songs, as if unwilling to speak of what lay buried in this part of the world.

Her destination waited ahead — a grave said to belong to Fatima, Rosa’s mother.

The woman who was supposed to be dead.

But Daphne’s instincts screamed otherwise.

She had heard whispers. Servants who lowered their voices when she entered. A gardener who mentioned finding footprints too small and too fresh near the burial grounds. None of it made sense. And yet, something inside Daphne refused to rest until she saw the truth with her own eyes.

The path narrowed. Roots clawed at her horse’s hooves, branches snatched at her hair. The moon disappeared behind a veil of clouds, and she was left to navigate by the pulse of dread guiding her deeper into the woods.

When at last the trees thinned, the clearing revealed itself — small, forgotten, and still.

There it was.

The grave.

A single wooden cross, weathered and cracked, leaned slightly in the damp soil. Time had devoured the carving of the name, but Daphne knew what it once said. Fatima.

She dismounted, her boots sinking into the soft earth. A shiver climbed her spine.

For a moment, she almost believed it — that beneath this ground lay the woman whose death had started it all. Rosa’s pain, Zerach’s guilt, the fragile thread that held their strange family together.

And yet…

Something was wrong.

The soil was too smooth. The grass too green. No sign of decay, no scent of earth recently disturbed. It was as if the forest itself refused to claim this grave.

Daphne crouched, brushing her fingers over the mound.

Then she saw it — faint, but unmistakable — footprints. Small, narrow, and fresh. Leading away from the cross and vanishing into the mist.

Her blood ran cold.

She rose quickly, her gaze snapping toward the shadows. Every instinct screamed to turn back. To pretend she hadn’t seen. To run to Zerach’s arms and bury the truth in his heartbeat.

But Daphne was no longer the frightened girl who’d been traded to the Horned King.

She was his queen now. And she would not live beneath another lie.

She followed the tracks.

The air thickened, rich with the smell of pine and rain. Somewhere far off, an owl hooted — a lonely sound that made her pulse race faster. Each step drew her closer to a faint glow ahead, a flickering orange halo in the dark.

A house.

No — a cottage. Hidden deep in the woods, as if the earth itself had tried to swallow it whole.

Smoke rose from the chimney. Light spilled through the cracks of its warped windows. Daphne crept closer, her breath trembling in the cold.

Inside, a woman moved.

Daphne froze.

She looked older now, but her features were unmistakable — sharp cheekbones, copper hair threaded with gray, eyes like Rosa’s but colder, harder.

Fatima.

Alive.

The shock hit Daphne so hard she had to grip the window ledge to keep from falling.

Her throat closed. Her heart thundered. She wanted to scream, to demand how, why, but no sound would come.

Inside, Fatima paced before the fire, muttering to herself. Her fingers clutched a small silver locket — the kind worn by mothers who never forget.

“You’ll do it, won’t you, my Rosa?” she whispered, voice trembling with bitterness. “You’ll finish what I could not. You’ll make him pay. The king, the witch who calls herself queen… they’ll burn. All of them will burn.”

Daphne’s stomach turned to ice.

Rosa. Sweet, kind Rosa — who had laughed with her in the gardens, who had called her “mother.”

She had no idea her real mother still lived, feeding her vengeance like poison through the walls of her heart.

Daphne pressed a hand to her mouth, forcing down a sob. Her mind reeled with the weight of it. The lies, the manipulation, the danger coiling unseen beneath her own roof.

She stumbled back from the window, her boots crunching softly against the dead leaves. The sound was too loud in the silence.

Inside, Fatima stopped moving.

Her head turned sharply toward the window.

Daphne froze.

The firelight flickered across the woman’s face as she peered into the darkness, suspicion flickering in her eyes. “Who’s there?” Fatima hissed.

Daphne held her breath. Every instinct screamed to run, but she dared not move.

A moment passed. Another. Then Fatima turned away, muttering again, lost in her madness.

Only then did Daphne slip back into the trees.

She didn’t breathe until she reached her horse. Her hands shook so violently she could barely grasp the reins. The forest seemed to close behind her, swallowing all trace of what she’d seen.

By the time she reached the palace, the sun had begun to sink.

The guards greeted her with polite bows, unaware of the storm that brewed behind her calm expression. Every stone of the fortress felt heavier now, every torch shadowed by what she carried inside.

Rosa was waiting in the courtyard.

She looked radiant in the golden light — her copper hair braided with pearls, her smile warm as she greeted the servants. The picture of innocence.

But Daphne knew now that innocence was the cruelest illusion of all.

“My queen,” Rosa said brightly, turning to her. “You’re back. Were you out riding?”

“Yes,” Daphne replied softly. “The air helps me think.”

Rosa’s gaze lingered on her face. “You look pale. I hope nothing troubled you.”

Daphne forced a small smile. “Nothing that won’t pass.”

Rosa reached out, her hand brushing Daphne’s sleeve with sisterly affection. “You must be careful. The woods can be dangerous.”

You have no idea, Daphne thought.

Aloud, she said, “I’ll remember that.”

Their eyes met — warm, trusting, perfect — and yet Daphne swore she saw a flicker, a shadow deep in Rosa’s gaze. Something hidden. Something waiting.

That night, sleep would not come.

She sat before her mirror, her hair loose around her shoulders, her reflection pale and haunted. The candlelight trembled in the glass, like her pulse.

Fatima was alive.

Rosa’s loyalty, her tenderness — all of it was built upon lies whispered by a vengeful ghost of a mother. And Daphne knew what that meant.

The peace Zerach had fought for was a fragile dream.

And dreams, she knew, were the first things to burn.

She rose and crossed to the balcony, the cold night air biting her skin. The forest loomed in the distance, dark and endless. Somewhere out there, a woman watched and waited — a mother who had traded love for hate, and daughter for vengeance.

Daphne gripped the railing until her knuckles turned white.

Tears burned her eyes, but she would not let them fall.

“Not again,” she whispered to the night. “You won’t take him from me. You won’t take us.”

The wind howled in reply, carrying the faint echo of laughter — soft, distant, and cruel.

And though Daphne could not see her, Fatima smiled in the darkness, whispering into the firelight:

“Then let the game begin.”