Chapter 29: The coming Heir, The coming Danger

The news struck the kingdom like thunder breaking through a stormless sky.

At first, there was disbelief. Then the word spread — not through messengers or proclamations, but through the trembling voices of those who heard it first-hand.

The queen was with child.

The rumor ignited hearts like wildfire from the marketplace to the docks, from the temples to the farthest fields. The grief that had haunted Cural since Rosa’s death began to lift. For the first time in months, laughter returned to the streets.

Mothers clutched their children with renewed faith. Men embraced one another as if peace itself had been born anew. The air carried something unfamiliar — hope.

By the time Queen Daphne’s carriage arrived at the city gates, the roads were already crowded. Women from every corner of the land filled the path leading to the palace, their baskets overflowing with gifts — tiny embroidered cloths, jars of milk, golden trinkets, and protection charms.

When the gates finally opened, they poured in like a living river of joy.

Daphne, startled yet smiling, stood in the courtyard surrounded by petals the people had thrown in celebration. She had seen parades before, royal feasts and coronations — but never this. Never the raw love of a people reborn.

Inside the palace, her maids tried to calm the chaos as wave after wave of women begged for an audience.

At last, the guards allowed a small group into the queen’s chamber. The scent of rosewater filled the air as the first woman bowed low, her voice trembling with pride.

“I am Adira, head of the market women, my queen,” she said, lifting a basket wrapped in fine cloth. “We bring our humble gifts. Baby milk, soft linen, little shoes woven from the finest cotton. No gold, no silver — only the things a mother’s hands can make.”

Daphne’s heart swelled. She reached for the woman’s rough hands and clasped them. “You honor me, Adira. And you honor the child I carry.”

Another woman stepped forward, her eyes bright with tears. “I am Maera, wife of the city blacksmith. My husband forged this small bracelet for the child. May it guard him from harm, as your love guards us.”

The bracelet gleamed — a small ring of silver, etched with runes of protection. Daphne’s voice softened. “Tell your husband I will wear it close to my heart until the day my child can wear it himself.”

A third woman, older than the rest, stepped forward. Her face bore the lines of time and wisdom. “I was midwife to your mother-in-law,” she said with reverence. “And I will be here when your time comes, my queen. You are not alone.”

Tears glimmered in Daphne’s eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

The women lingered, speaking blessings, laughter rising between them. For a brief, fragile hour, the palace felt alive again. The shadows that had lingered in its halls receded beneath the warmth of shared joy.

When the women left, Daphne stood before her mirror, cradling her stomach with trembling hands. For the first time, she let herself truly feel it — the life inside her, tiny and fierce, like a spark caught between her palms.

Time began to move differently.

Weeks became months, and with each one, the queen’s body changed — her figure softening, her step slowing, her eyes glowing with a strange new radiance.

By the fifth month, the entire kingdom treated her like the first woman ever to bear life. Everywhere she went, people bowed lower, smiled brighter. Her cravings became the stuff of legend: sweetbread at midnight, wildberries before dawn. Even the cooks began to compete for her favor, inventing dishes just to see her smile.

But beneath all the laughter, a quiet truth remained — Daphne was the second woman in history to carry what the world called a demon child.

The people of Cural, now loyal to Zerach, no longer feared their king — but they remembered the stories. Horned kings, winged heirs, blood touched by ancient fire.

Some whispered blessings. Some whispered fear.

Yet Zerach silenced them all.

He kept Daphne surrounded by healers, guards, and attendants day and night. He forbade her to ride, to climb the tower stairs, or even to walk beyond the rose gardens.

“My dove,” he told her one morning, “I have fought wars and faced monsters, but nothing frightens me more than losing you.”

She smiled faintly, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “You forget, my king — I’m stronger than I look.”

He chuckled, but his eyes were heavy. He remembered the prophecy whispered to him years ago — that a child born of fire and dove would bring peace to the cursed line of kings. But prophecy had always come hand in hand with loss.

Still, Daphne had insisted.

They had been married two years; she was barely twenty, and her heart longed for motherhood. The kingdom needed an heir. And so, against his fears, he had given in — and love had given them life.

The Seventh Month

By the seventh month, Daphne’s belly had grown full and round, her every movement slower, her laughter richer.

Her hair shone like sunlight over gold, her skin radiant even beneath her weariness. She had grown softer, yes — but in her softness, she carried the strength of an entire kingdom.

She was hungrier than ever, sending servants scurrying through the kitchens at all hours. She devoured bread and fruit and honey with abandon, laughing at her own greed. “The child is impatient,” she would say. “He eats for both of us.”

Zerach pretended to scold her but adored her all the more for it. He often sat by her as she napped, tracing the curve of her stomach with his hand, feeling the faint kicks beneath his palm.

“He’s strong,” he murmured once, his voice full of awe.

“She,” Daphne corrected, smiling sleepily.

He leaned down and kissed her belly. “Then she will rule with her mother’s heart — and her father’s fire.”

Night of Firelight

One quiet night, as the moon hung low and silver over the gardens, Daphne lay half-asleep in her chamber. The curtains fluttered with the soft breath of the night wind.

Then she felt it — a warm hand, tracing the side of her neck.

Her eyes fluttered open. Zerach stood beside the bed, his armor gone, his gaze tender and dark. “You’re awake,” he murmured.

She smiled faintly. “Not anymore.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, then another to her neck. His touch was reverent, almost fearful — as though he worshipped her very breath.

“Zerach,” she whispered, her heart racing.

He silenced her with another kiss — gentle at first, then deeper, filled with every longing they had held back for months. His hands moved carefully, tracing the curve of her body, his breath warm against her skin.

But when he tried to draw her closer, she stopped him, her fingers trembling against his chest.

“You can’t,” she whispered, her voice soft but firm. “It could harm the baby.”

He smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “Then I’ll be gentle. I promise.”

His words were a vow.

The night unfolded like a slow flame — tender, patient, filled with laughter and sighs. They didn’t chase passion but peace — the kind only love could bring after war and loss. When at last the candles burned low, he held her close, his breath steady against her hair, their hearts beating in perfect rhythm.

And for the first time in a long while, they both slept without fear.

The Dawn of Unrest

Morning came pale and heavy with rain.

The queen did not wake easily. Her body ached pleasantly, her dreams filled with warmth and whispers. But as the dawn grew stronger, the echo of footsteps broke the peace.

Her maid, Elyra, rushed in — her face white as linen.

“My queen!” she cried. “My queen, forgive me, but I must speak!”

Daphne blinked, still dazed. “Elyra? What is it?”

The girl clutched a sealed parchment in trembling hands. “A messenger came at dawn — from the borders. The city of Amish… they’ve declared war.”

The words hung in the air like thunder.

Daphne sat upright, the silks sliding off her shoulders. “War?” she whispered.

“Yes, my queen,” Elyra said, her voice shaking. “They sent threats through flame. They claim the horned king’s reign has angered the gods. They march toward our borders even now.”

Daphne’s heartbeat thundered in her chest. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Then her eyes darted to the empty side of the bed. Zerach was gone.

Her voice broke into a whisper. “When… when did he leave?”

“Before sunrise, Majesty,” Elyra said. “He went with the generals. They say the message reached him first.”

The queen’s hands trembled as she pressed them over her heart. Of course, he had gone. Of course, he hadn’t told her. He’d promised he would never leave her again — but the call of war had always been stronger than promises.

She rose slowly, her gown heavy around her. The room spun, her vision blurring for a moment, but she steadied herself on the edge of the bed.

She walked to the window, parting the curtains. The courtyard below was chaos — soldiers preparing weapons, horses saddled, messengers running in all directions.

Beyond the gates, the dark horizon seemed to swallow the light.

Daphne pressed her hand against the cold glass, whispering to herself:

“Not again… please, not again.”

Her mind filled with memories of the last war — of blood, of loss, of Rosa. In the night she almost lost Zerach.

She turned, her reflection staring back at her in the mirror — pale, frightened, and carrying the future within her.

In that moment, she felt both stronger and smaller than ever before.

She touched her stomach gently. “You must hold on,” she whispered. “For him. For me.”

The palace trembled faintly as distant thunder rolled — or perhaps it was the sound of drums beyond the walls.

And as the first horn of battle echoed across the mountains, the queen closed her eyes, her heart a storm of fear and love.

Outside, the world was preparing for war.

Inside, she prayed that love would be enough to survive it.