Chapter 28 : A New life inside Daphne’s womb

The palace had grown quiet—too quiet.

Silence now ruled where laughter once danced.

The echo of Rosa’s death lingered like smoke that refused to fade. Her absence was a wound no one could close, and though weeks had passed, the grief still bled through marble and gold. Every room whispered her name. Every servant stepped softly, afraid to disturb the ghosts that had taken residence in the halls.

Once, the palace of Cural had been a living thing—a place of light and music, of feasts and fragrant gardens. Now it stood like a tomb wrapped in silk. The chandeliers still glittered, but their glow felt hollow.

The people outside the palace walls felt it too.

The city that once brimmed with laughter now mourned in uneasy quiet. Merchants closed their shops early. Musicians refused to play. Children stopped gathering by the fountains where they once tossed petals into the water for luck. The whispers spread fast and sharp like the wind—

The king has lost his joy.

The queen weeps in silence.

The gods have turned away.

Even the air seemed heavier, filled with a tension no one could name.

Zerach, the Horned King—the man who once led armies and bent nations to his will—had never looked so mortal.

He tried to be strong for his people.

Each dawn he rode through the quiet streets in a black cloak instead of armor, speaking gently to his citizens, promising that the kingdom would heal. His voice carried warmth, but his eyes betrayed him—they were the eyes of a man who had seen too much loss.

At night, he stood on the royal balcony, gazing at the dark horizon. The torches below flickered like dying stars, and the wind whispered Rosa’s name through the courtyards. He would stay there for hours, unmoving, until Daphne came to find him, her hands trembling as she touched his arm.

“Zerach,” she would whisper. “Come inside. It’s cold.”

But even when he obeyed, his silence followed him like a shadow that refused to leave.

Daphne carried her own silence.

The queen of Cural, once radiant as sunlight, had grown pale. Her golden hair no longer shone with life. Her eyes, deep and blue as the ocean, were rimmed with exhaustion. She smiled still—but it was the kind of smile that held itself together by force.

She could not bear to see Zerach’s pain, and yet she shared it. Rosa’s death had broken something fragile within them both.

But as days became weeks, Daphne began to feel a change that she could not understand.

It started with weariness. A heaviness in her limbs that refused to leave. Then came the dizziness, a strange trembling whenever she stood too long beneath the sun.

Her appetite vanished. The sight of food, especially meat, turned her stomach. There were mornings she could not rise from bed, her hands clutching her chest as waves of nausea came and went like tides.

Her maids whispered among themselves.

“She’s not eating again,” said one.

“She barely slept,” said another.

“Her skin glows like fever,” murmured a third.

But Daphne said nothing. She forced herself to smile, to walk, to visit the city as she always had.

She told herself it was grief.

That her body was simply mourning the way her heart was.

Zerach noticed everything.

He would come to her chambers and find her by the window, lost in thought, her hair unbraided and loose down her back.

“Are you unwell?” he would ask gently, kneeling beside her chair.

Her hand would reach out to touch his face, her voice soft. “I am fine, my king. The world simply feels heavier than before.”

He would take her hand, press his lips to her palm, and whisper, “Then let me carry some of its weight.”

But there were burdens no one could share.

Some nights, Daphne would wake in a sweat, her heart racing wildly for no reason. Other nights she would cry quietly into her pillow, ashamed of her weakness, afraid that if she showed too much sorrow, Zerach would break completely.

And yet, deep within her—a spark flickered. Something new. Something she could not name.

The first time she felt it, she was tending to the garden.

The roses Rosa once cared for had begun to bloom again, defying the cold. Daphne knelt among them, touching each petal as if blessing it. But as she rose to her feet, a sudden wave of warmth spread through her belly—a flutter, light as a heartbeat.

She froze.

Her hand rested there, over her stomach.

It happened again, faint and brief, but real.

Her breath caught. Her heart raced.

And then she dismissed it. It’s just nerves, she told herself. Or hunger. Or exhaustion.

Still, the feeling lingered, soft and mysterious.

That evening, she walked through the palace gardens once more. The sunset painted the sky with shades of fire and blood, and the fountain at the center of the courtyard shimmered gold.

Zerach was away in council, discussing the unrest among his people. She had wanted to wait for him, to dine together, but her head felt too light, her stomach too unsettled. So she wandered, hoping the evening air would calm her.

The air smelled of jasmine and rain. The marble path glistened faintly under her slippers.

She paused by the tree where Rosa’s memorial had been laid. The flowers there were beginning to wither, but Daphne still came every day.

“Rosa,” she whispered. “If you can hear me, I hope you’ve found peace. I hope you forgive us.”

Her voice broke, and a tear fell, staining the petal of a red rose.

She turned to leave—then everything tilted.

A rush of dizziness hit her like a wave. The garden spun. The scent of flowers grew too strong, choking her senses.

“Your Majesty!” cried her maiden, rushing forward.

But Daphne’s knees gave way before she could answer. The last thing she saw was the sky, fading from gold to black, before her world went silent.

When she woke, she was not in her chamber.

Soft candles burned in the corners of the room, and the faint sound of rain echoed outside. Her body felt weightless, her vision still hazy.

“Daphne!”

Zerach was beside her instantly, his voice breaking as he clasped her hand. His eyes were red-rimmed with worry, his horned crown cast aside on the table beside the bed.

“What happened?” she whispered weakly.

“You fainted,” he said, his voice trembling. “You were pale as snow. I carried you myself. The physician came. She’s still examining you—”

As if summoned, the door opened. The royal healer, a woman old as winter and gentle as moonlight, stepped inside. She bowed low to the king and queen, her eyes calm but gleaming with something unspoken.

“My lord, my lady,” she said softly, “you need not fear. The queen is not in danger.”

Zerach straightened. “Not in danger? She collapsed!”

The old woman smiled faintly. “Not from sickness. Not from grief. Her body is not failing—it is… transforming.”

Daphne blinked in confusion. “Transforming?”

The healer’s expression softened. She approached the bedside and took Daphne’s wrist, feeling her pulse. Then she pressed a hand lightly to her abdomen.

“The signs are clear,” she said. “The nausea, the dizziness, the fainting. They are not curses—they are blessings. Her Majesty’s heart beats for more than herself now.”

Zerach frowned, not yet understanding. “What do you mean?”

The healer looked up, her eyes shining.

“I mean, my king, your queen carries life within her. She is with child.”

The words hung in the air like music breaking through years of silence.

Zerach’s breath caught in his throat. For the first time in months, his body trembled not from sorrow—but from wonder.

“With… child?” he repeated, his voice almost a whisper.

The healer nodded. “A month, perhaps a little more. The fainting was the body’s way of protecting the new life. She needs rest—and care. But there is no danger.”

Daphne’s eyes widened. She sat up slowly, one hand trembling as it fell to her stomach.

A soft gasp escaped her lips. Tears welled in her eyes—not of pain, but disbelief.

“Zerach…” she breathed, looking at him. “A child…”

The king knelt beside her bed, his hands covering hers, his eyes filled with fire and light.

“A child,” he repeated, his voice breaking. “Our child.”

For the first time in what felt like eternity, the silence that filled the palace was not one of grief.

It was the silence of hope.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The air smelled fresh again, alive. The torches burned brighter, their flames swaying as if to the rhythm of new beginnings.

And inside that quiet chamber, beneath the soft glow of candlelight, the king and queen held each other—hearts trembling, tears mingling, souls reborn.

The grief of death had finally given way to the miracle of life.

And though neither said it aloud, they both felt it—the gods had not turned away after all.

They had simply been waiting for this moment.

The moment when sorrow would break open, and something beautiful would grow in its place.

⸻

The queen was one month with child.