Chapter 27: The last rose

The castle breathed in silence again. But it was not the silence of peace — it was the silence that comes after storms, heavy with things left unsaid.

Daphne could still hear the echoes of the night Fatima was exposed — the shouts, the shock, the way truth tore through the palace like thunder. Fatima’s greed had destroyed everything she touched — Zerach, Rosa, herself. She was dead now, her last scream swallowed by her own hatred.

But even death could not erase the poison she left behind.

And Daphne saw it, every day, in Rosa’s eyes.

Rosa had stopped speaking much after her mother’s death. She drifted through the marble halls like a ghost — quiet, graceful, but hollow. The laughter that once charmed the court was gone. She smiled when spoken to, but her eyes no longer glowed.

Sometimes Daphne would find her sitting in the rose garden, staring at the wilted flowers, her fingers brushing the dying petals.

“You should rest,” Daphne would whisper softly.

Rosa would nod without looking up. “Rest doesn’t bring the dead back, my queen.”

It broke Daphne’s heart every time.

She wanted to hate Rosa for what she had done — for the lies, the traps, the venom she had poured into the cracks of her marriage. But she couldn’t. Daphne saw the truth now — Rosa was not born of malice. She was shaped by it. Molded by a mother who had turned love into a weapon.

That night, Daphne stood at her balcony, her golden hair loose around her shoulders. The moon cast silver fire across her skin, and the cold air kissed her bare arms. She felt him before she heard him — that quiet, steady warmth that only one man carried.

Zerach stepped into the chamber, the door closing softly behind him. The torchlight caught the edge of his horn, the deep shadow of his chest, the softness in his golden eyes that only she ever saw.

“You should sleep,” he said gently.

“I couldn’t.” She turned to him, voice low. “Her face won’t leave my mind.”

He walked to her, his steps slow, deliberate, until he stood close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath. His hand came to rest on her waist, his thumb tracing slow circles against her skin.

“She will find her way back,” he murmured. “Guilt is a cruel thing, but even it cannot kill what is pure.”

Daphne looked up at him. “And if it does?”

He leaned closer, his forehead brushing hers. “Then we remind her what love feels like.”

Her heart softened. She smiled faintly, her fingers sliding up his arm, over the scars she’d come to know like words in a book written for her alone. “And who reminds you, my king?”

His answer came in the form of a kiss — slow, searching, as though he was tasting the promise of peace for the first time. Daphne melted into him, her hands tangling in his dark hair, her breath catching when his lips deepened the kiss.

The walls of the fortress seemed to fade away. The cold night became warmth, the ache of the past replaced by the rhythm of two hearts rediscovering each other.

He lifted her gently, carrying her to the bed draped in silk. The moonlight painted them in silver and shadow. His horn brushed her cheek as his lips trailed down her neck, whispering her name between kisses like a prayer he’d never dared to speak aloud.

“Daphne…”

Her hands traced the lines of his back, his shoulders trembling beneath her touch. “You’re shaking,” she whispered.

He smiled against her skin. “Because I almost lost you — twice.”

She silenced him with another kiss, slow and deep. “Then hold me,” she breathed. “Hold me until the world is right again.”

And he did.

That night, the fortress knew no war, no vengeance, no ghosts — only love. The kind that burned quietly, fiercely, healing every wound they had left on each other.

When morning came, Zerach woke to find Daphne still in his arms, her golden hair tangled against his chest, her breath soft and steady. He brushed his fingers through her hair, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

For the first time in months, he smiled without sorrow.

Days passed. Daphne tried harder than ever to reach Rosa.

She joined her in the gardens, in the library, even at the temple where Rosa prayed in silence. Sometimes, she would take Rosa’s hand gently and tell her stories — of her own mother, of Cural before the war, of laughter that once filled the air like sunlight.

Rosa listened but rarely spoke. The shadows under her eyes deepened, her face paler by the day.

One evening, Daphne brought her a rose — bright red, newly bloomed from the winter soil.

“It’s beautiful,” Rosa said quietly.

“It’s you,” Daphne replied. “Still alive. Still capable of blooming, even after the frost.”

Rosa’s eyes shimmered, tears she wouldn’t let fall. “You shouldn’t forgive me. Not after everything I did.”

Daphne shook her head softly. “Forgiveness isn’t about deserving. It’s about freeing both our hearts.”

But Rosa’s lips trembled. “Then why do I still feel her voice in my head? My mother’s voice. It tells me I don’t deserve your kindness.”

Daphne’s chest ached. She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Rosa’s face. “Then let my voice be louder.”

For a moment, Rosa leaned into her touch. But then — she stepped back, eyes distant, haunted.

That night, the storm returned.

The sky cracked open with thunder as rain lashed the fortress walls. Daphne woke to the sound of the wind howling through the corridors — and something else. A scream.

She threw on her cloak and ran.

The sound led her to the east tower — Rosa’s chamber. Guards stood frozen outside, uncertain, frightened. Daphne pushed past them and burst inside.

Rosa stood by the window, her hair wild, her gown soaked from rain that blew in through the open shutters. In her trembling hands was the same rose Daphne had given her — its petals now crushed and bleeding red across her palms.

“Rosa!” Daphne cried, rushing forward. “What are you doing?”

Rosa turned, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t live with it anymore, my queen. Her lies, my sins… I destroyed everything that ever loved me.”

“You didn’t destroy anything,” Daphne pleaded, stepping closer. “You were deceived, like the rest of us. You can still make this right. Let me help you.”

But Rosa shook her head, sobbing. “You don’t understand… I see her every night. She whispers to me from the dark. I can’t silence her anymore.”

The thunder cracked again, lighting the room in a blinding flash — and in that instant, Daphne saw it. The rope. The stool beneath Rosa’s feet.

“Rosa, no!” Daphne shouted, lunging forward. She caught her just in time, dragging her away from the window, both of them crashing to the floor. Rosa wept in Daphne’s arms, trembling violently.

“Shh,” Daphne whispered, stroking her hair. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

But Rosa only whispered back, voice broken: “No one is safe when love turns to hate.”

For days afterward, Daphne refused to leave Rosa’s side. She had the rope burned, the windows sealed, guards placed nearby. She sang to her sometimes, old lullabies from her homeland. She begged Zerach to speak with her too, to show her that the past didn’t have to define the present.

Zerach did — he came every evening, speaking softly, patiently, telling Rosa stories of when she was little, of Fatima before the greed, of the family they might have been.

And slowly, Rosa began to smile again. Small, fragile, but real.

It gave Daphne hope.

Until the night it didn’t.

It was late — the moon hidden, the air thick with rain again. Daphne had fallen asleep beside Zerach when the knock came.

A guard’s trembling voice: “My king… my queen… it’s the princess.”

They ran.

When they reached her chamber, everything was quiet. Too quiet.

The candles had burned low. The window stood open, the curtains fluttering softly. And there, beneath the old rose tree in the courtyard below, lay a still figure in white.

Daphne screamed. Zerach’s heart stopped.

They rushed down, the world blurring into grief and disbelief. Rain soaked through their clothes as they knelt beside her. Rosa’s hair fanned out like a halo around her pale face, her hands folded over her chest — still clutching the crushed rose.

Zerach lifted her gently, holding her against his chest as Daphne pressed her trembling hands to the girl’s cheek.

“She’s cold,” Daphne whispered. “Zerach, she’s so cold…”

He said nothing. His golden eyes were hollow, his jaw trembling as he held the girl who had once called him father.

Daphne’s tears fell freely now, mingling with the rain. She brushed Rosa’s hair back and whispered through sobs, “You were loved, Rosa. Even when you couldn’t see it. Even when you thought you didn’t deserve it.”

Zerach’s voice broke beside her. “She was my daughter. My blood. And I could not save her.”

Daphne turned to him, her hand finding his. “She’s at peace now. The storm is over.”

They sat there for a long time, the rain falling around them, the dawn breaking slowly beyond the mountains.

And in the garden, where a thousand roses grew, one red bloom fell from its stem — its petals scattering across the ground like drops of blood.

That morning, the fortress mourned not just for the princess, but for everything that had been lost — innocence, trust, and all the love that vengeance had stolen.

Daphne and Zerach stood together, Rosa’s body between them, wrapped in white silk. The king’s hand rested over his queen’s, their fingers entwined, bound by grief and by something deeper — the unspoken promise that they would never let darkness win again.

The wind carried the scent of roses through the air as Daphne whispered one last time:

“Goodnight, my sweet Rosa. You were the last rose of the storm.”