Chapter 3: After Daphne’s passionate Nights

Days passed.

Life within the fortress was unlike anything Daphne had known. Her every need was tended to, yet the weight of chains hung invisibly around her.

Her chamber was vast, decorated with gold, ivory, and silks stolen from conquered lands. Servants bowed to her, addressed her as "Queen," and clothed her in gowns finer than those she wore in Cural. But Daphne felt no joy in these gifts. Every wall whispered of her captivity, every jewel reminded her of the price her people had paid.

The fortress itself was alive with strange sights. Horned men trained in the courtyards, their blades gleaming under the sun. Women with wings soared across the skies, carrying messages between the towers. Children with tails and ears sharpened like blades played with fire and shadow as if it were their birthright.

Daphne often watched them in secret, torn between awe and fear. These were not monsters, as her people had been taught. They were people, living, breathing, laughing… though touched by powers she could not understand.

Her maids were kind, though mysterious. One had eyes that glowed faintly in the dark. Another could vanish from sight when startled. They tended to Daphne with care, but when she asked about their pasts, their voices grew quiet. They too had suffered under men like her father.

At night, Daphne sat by her window, staring into the forest, whispering to herself:

"I am not broken. I will endure."

It was on the tenth night that the Horned King came to her.

The heavy doors opened, and silence fell. Zerach entered, clad not in his war furs but in a cloak of black silk, his golden eyes glinting beneath the torchlight. The servants bowed and fled, leaving Daphne alone with him.

Her heart pounded, but she did not rise from her seat by the window. She kept her eyes fixed on the moonlight spilling across the floor, steadying her breath.

"Do you hate me, golden dove?" Zerach's voice rumbled, low and calm.

Daphne turned slowly. "I do not hate. But I do not love you either."

He smirked. "Honesty. Rare, here." He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing hers. "Most women tremble. They beg. They weep. But you look at me as if I am a man, not a monster."

Her chin lifted. "Because a monster does not speak. A monster does not keep oaths. You spared my city. That makes you many things, Zerach, but not a monster."

For a moment, silence stretched. His eyes burned into hers, as if searching for weakness.

"You speak boldly," he said at last, his tone edged with amusement. "But boldness can cost you dearly here."

"And fear," she replied softly, "costs more."

The air thickened between them. Zerach studied her—the way her golden hair caught the firelight, the unyielding steel in her ocean eyes. Something stirred within him, something both dangerous and unfamiliar.

He leaned down, so close she could feel the heat of his breath. "You will not break, will you?"

Daphne's voice trembled, but her words did not falter. "No. Not for you. Not for anyone."

Zerach's lips curved into a slow, dark smile. "Good."

He straightened, his cloak sweeping the ground like wings of shadow. "I do not want a broken queen. I want one who stands. One who burns."

Then, without another word, he turned and left her chamber, the echo of his steps lingering long after he was gone.

Daphne sat frozen, her chest rising and falling with rapid breath. She touched her lips, still tingling from his nearness, and whispered to herself, trembling:

"What manner of man… have I been given to?"

It was on the night of the blood moon.

The fortress held a feast in honor of Zerach's victories, but Daphne felt restless. She wandered to the balcony of her chamber, the moonlight painting her skin silver. Her golden hair shimmered, her ocean eyes deep with unspoken questions.

Behind her, she felt him before she heard him. Zerach.

"You look like fire," he said, his voice low.

Daphne turned, her breath catching. "And you look like shadow."

He stepped closer, each movement slow, deliberate. His hand reached up, brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. She trembled, but she did not pull away.

"Tell me, golden dove," he murmured, his eyes burning into hers. "Do you still fear me?"

Her lips parted. "Yes."

His hand lingered against her cheek. "Good. Fear keeps the fire alive."

Their eyes locked, and in that moment, fear and desire tangled like threads of fate. His mouth met hers—rough at first, as if claiming what was his, then deepening into something neither could resist. Daphne clutched at his chest, feeling the iron strength of his body, while his arms pulled her close, as though the world itself would tear them apart.

The night grew long. Passion turned to fire, fire to surrender, and surrender to something neither dared name.

By dawn, Daphne lay beneath the silks, her head against his chest, his horn casting a shadow across her golden hair. Zerach's hand rested protectively on her back, his breath steady in sleep.

For the first time, she did not feel like a prisoner.

For the first time, she wondered if she was becoming something more.

Morning light spilled across the chamber, touching Daphne's bare shoulder as she stirred.

For a fleeting moment, she forgot the fortress, the oaths, the chains of her fate. She only felt the steady thrum of Zerach's heartbeat beneath her ear, the warmth of his body against hers, the weight of his arm curled protectively around her waist.

When she tried to rise, his grip tightened.

"You would leave my bed so soon?" Zerach's voice was low, husky from sleep.

Daphne smiled faintly, her cheeks flushing. "I thought kings rose early to rule."

His golden eyes opened, glinting with amusement. "And queens rule beside them. But this morning, let the world wait."

She laughed softly—her first true laugh in his presence. And he stared at her, as if the sound itself was a treasure worth more than all his conquests.

The days that followed softened their edges.

Daphne discovered that Zerach, despite his ruthless reputation, carried a gentleness few ever saw. He brought her rare flowers from the forbidden forest, their petals glowing faintly with magic. He shared meals with her in silence, listening to her speak of her people, her memories, her dreams.

One night, when she shivered from the cold, he draped his own cloak around her shoulders. "No fire burns hotter than my cloak," he teased, though his eyes were serious.

Another night, she traced the scar along his chest, asking where it came from. He told her of a battle he fought at fifteen, where he killed three men with his bare hands after they struck him down. Her fingers lingered on the scar, her lips brushing it, and for once the mighty Horned King closed his eyes, surrendering to her touch.

It began with stolen glances.

Then with hands that lingered longer than they should.

And soon, the fortress walls bore witness to nights that burned brighter than any flame.

On the balcony under the stars, Zerach pulled her close, his horn brushing against her golden hair as he kissed her with hunger.

In the baths carved from hot springs, she let the water embrace them as his hands explored her, her laughter echoing off the stone.

In the quiet of her chamber, she pressed her lips to his horn, and he shuddered, whispering her name like a prayer he had never known.

Each night, passion consumed them—sometimes fierce and desperate, sometimes slow and tender. But always, always, their eyes met as if no one else in the world existed.

And each morning after, Zerach would hold her long after dawn, as if afraid she would vanish if he let go.

But it was not only passion that grew.

Daphne began to see the cracks in his armor—the boy who once lost his mother, the man who carried a kingdom's weight on his shoulders. And Zerach began to see more than a bride taken by oath. He saw a queen whose spirit could stand beside his, whose kindness could soothe even his deepest rage.

One night, when they lay tangled in silks, Daphne whispered, "Do you ever regret the path you chose? The wars, the blood, the vengeance?"

Zerach was silent for a long time. Then he pressed his lips to her forehead and murmured, "Only when I look at you. For you make me wish I had been more than the king of shadows."

Tears pricked her eyes, but she kissed him deeply, fiercely, until neither of them could think of shadows anymore.

From fear to fire, from fire to love—the golden dove and the horned king began to write a story that neither destiny nor disbelief could unmake.