Chapter 25: The serpent ‘s whisper

The nights had grown warmer, but the air inside the palace was heavy—thick with the scent of unspoken truths and the faint whisper of something waiting to unravel.

Daphne often found herself on the balcony of her chambers, gazing into the dark forest where Fatima hid. Every shadow seemed to breathe secrets. Every breeze felt like a whisper calling her name. Yet when she turned, it was always him—Zerach—standing behind her, tall and watchful, a quiet storm in his eyes.

“Still thinking of her?” he asked one evening, his voice rough but tender. The moonlight caught the curve of his horns, the faint glow of his war tattoos that now marked him not as a monster, but as a king softened by love.

Daphne didn’t lie. “Sometimes. It’s strange how peace feels like a fragile thing. I keep waiting for the sound of it breaking.”

He moved closer, his warmth swallowing the chill around her. “Then let it break,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “And I’ll build it back for you every time.”

She smiled faintly, though her eyes shimmered with a sadness he could never quite erase. “You always make promises as if you’re immortal.”

He touched her lips, his thumb gentle. “Maybe I am, when I’m with you.”

The way he said it made her heart ache. And before she could speak, he kissed her—slowly at first, a question she answered with her hands sliding to his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, his breath mingling with hers, and for a moment the world stopped trembling. He lifted her easily, setting her on the marble railing, his hand at her waist steady and sure.

When their lips parted, they stayed close, foreheads touching, their hearts beating to the same rhythm.

“Stay with me tonight,” he whispered.

“I was never anywhere else,” she breathed.

That night, they didn’t speak much. They simply were. He traced the lines of her shoulders as if memorizing her anew, while she drew shapes over the scars that marked his chest, each one a story of battle, of pain, of survival. And between the candlelight and the slow fall of dawn, they found again the part of love that was quiet—no fire, no fury, just two souls clinging to the peace they’d made from chaos.

But peace never stayed.

Rosa had grown quiet lately. Not sullen, not cruel—simply quiet. She smiled when spoken to, trained with the healers, laughed with the guards, and yet, Daphne could see it: the shadow of confusion behind her grace. The same confusion Daphne had once seen in her own reflection when she first came to this fortress of horns and fire.

And so, Daphne tried.

She began spending mornings with Rosa, under the shaded arches of the palace gardens. They would sit by the fountain, its waters clear and calm, lilies floating gently on the surface.

“I’ve been reading the old hymns,” Rosa said one day, her voice light. “Mother used to say the gods of the old world listened only to those who sang from pain.”

“Then the gods must have loved her very much,” Daphne replied softly.

Rosa laughed, but it faltered. “She said pain made us real. Do you believe that, my queen?”

Daphne hesitated, then reached for her hand. “Pain makes us strong, yes. But love—love makes us alive.”

Something flickered in Rosa’s eyes, something Daphne could not yet name. Maybe doubt. Maybe longing.

“You speak of love as if it’s easy,” Rosa said.

“No,” Daphne said gently, her gaze drifting to the trees. “It’s the hardest thing there is.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, only the wind speaking for them. Then Rosa turned, her expression softening. “I used to think you hated me.”

“I never hated you,” Daphne whispered. “I feared losing you.”

Rosa blinked, startled. “Losing me?”

“Yes. To grief. To anger. To someone else’s voice telling you who you must be.”

Daphne’s tone trembled slightly. “Your mother loved you, Rosa. But I don’t think she wanted you to become her shadow.”

Rosa’s hands tightened in her lap, knuckles white. “How would you know what she wanted?”

Because she’s alive, Daphne almost said. Because I saw her. Because she’s still weaving her poison from the woods.

But she swallowed it down. It wasn’t time yet.

“Because I’m a mother too,” Daphne finally said. “And mothers—no matter how lost—want their children to find peace, not vengeance.”

Rosa looked away, tears glinting like glass on her lashes. “Peace… I don’t even know what that means anymore.”

Daphne wanted to reach for her again, but Rosa rose abruptly. “Forgive me, my queen. I have duties.”

And just like that, the moment slipped away.

That night, Daphne found herself walking the moonlit halls alone. The quiet pressed against her chest until she could hardly breathe. She paused at the great doors of the throne room, hearing faint murmurs inside—Zerach’s voice, low and strained, and Rosa’s, soft and trembling.

“Father,” Rosa was saying, “sometimes I feel I don’t belong here. The people still look at me and see the ghost of her—the mother you took from them.”

Zerach’s reply was heavy with pain. “You are not her, Rosa. You are mine.”

“But she haunts me,” Rosa whispered. “I dream of her face. I hear her voice.”

Daphne froze. Her blood turned to ice.

Fatima’s voice? The serpent had already begun to whisper.

Far beyond the fortress walls, in the hidden cottage cloaked by mist, Fatima stood before her mirror. Her reflection stared back, older, sharper, more furious. Around her, strange herbs burned, and the air shimmered with faint magic.

On the table lay a bowl of dark water. When she moved her fingers above it, the surface rippled—and Rosa’s face appeared within.

“Sweet girl,” Fatima cooed. “Do you hear me, my dove?”

Rosa stirred in her sleep miles away, her brow creased, her lips parting as if to answer.

“You are doing well,” Fatima whispered, her eyes gleaming. “He trusts you. The queen pities you. Let her. Let her come closer. When the time comes, she will not see the dagger until it’s in her heart.”

The water shivered. Fatima smiled—a cruel, quiet curve of lips that could make the gods themselves shiver.

“My vengeance lives in you, Rosa. And soon, the fire king and his golden dove will burn together.”

Days passed. The fortress seemed calm, but under its stillness, danger coiled tighter with each dawn.

Zerach had grown restless. The forest scouts had reported strange lights near the old hills, shapes moving in the mist. And though Daphne said nothing, she knew what it meant—Fatima was stirring, and her reach was spreading.

To keep the peace, Zerach often held banquets, hoping laughter could smother unease. One evening, music filled the hall again. The nobles drank, the servants danced, and for a time, it almost felt like before.

Daphne sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his. He leaned close, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

“You’re watching her again,” he murmured.

Daphne didn’t deny it. “I can’t help it.”

“She’s a child, Daphne.”

“She’s her mother’s child,” she corrected quietly. “And that should scare you.”

He sighed. “Then what should I do? Lock her away?”

“No,” she whispered. “Love her. That’s what she’s fighting against.”

He looked at her then—really looked. “And you?”

“I’ll keep loving her too,” she said. “Even if it destroys me.”

Zerach’s eyes softened, admiration and sorrow blending into one. He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “You are stronger than I ever deserved.”

“And you,” she said, smiling faintly, “are far more human than you think.”

When he kissed her this time, it wasn’t desperate or wild—it was slow, reverent, like a prayer whispered before dawn. And though the hall roared with life around them, it felt as if the world had paused to watch them remember what love meant.

But somewhere in the forest, the serpent’s whisper carried on the wind, seeping through stone and dream alike.

And in the dark silence of her room, Rosa stirred once more—her hand brushing her mother’s locket as she murmured words she didn’t remember learning.

“Soon,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering open.

Far away, Fatima smiled into the fire.

The serpent’s plan was almost complete.