Chapter 30

The drums of war no longer echoed — they thundered.

For weeks, the air of the kingdom had changed. The laughter that once filled the streets after the queen’s pregnancy had faded, replaced by whispers of dread.

The city waited — breathless, uncertain.

Zerach had not slept properly in a month. His once-golden armor now sat permanently upon his shoulders, and his sword hung by his side even at meals. Every hour, he received reports from scouts and spies — all saying the same thing: the enemy is moving.

Amish, the kingdom of flame, had declared vengeance.

They had gathered their armies on the border and sworn to burn everything Zerach built.

Inside the palace, Daphne watched the days grow heavier. Each morning, she rose and found her husband pacing the courtyard, issuing commands to the captains.

Sometimes she would stand at the window, one hand resting on her belly, whispering to herself, “He’s protecting us. He’s protecting our child.”

But as the weeks passed, that reassurance began to crack. Zerach was there, yet far away — his eyes filled with a distant fire that frightened her more than the thought of war itself.

Eight months pregnant, Daphne moved like a ghost through the halls.

Her body had grown heavier, her steps slower, but it was not only the weight of the child that burdened her. It was fear — the quiet kind that sits in the bones and never leaves.

She could no longer sleep without waking to the sound of thunder — even when there was none.

The servants spoke in hushed tones, afraid of breaking her fragile calm.

Every evening, she waited for Zerach to return from the training grounds, hoping he would sit beside her, speak of anything but war.

But when he came, it was only to wash away blood and sweat, his jaw set, his eyes shadowed.

She tried to reach him.

“Zerach,” she said one night as he strapped on his armor again. “You’ve been preparing for weeks. The child grows restless — so do I. When will you rest?”

He turned, his expression softening for the first time in days. “When I know you are safe. When I know our people can sleep without fear.”

She placed a trembling hand on his chest. “I only feel safe when you’re beside me.”

He smiled faintly — but didn’t answer.

And just like that, he was gone again.

That night, the palace was eerily quiet. The torches along the hall flickered, their light dim and wavering against the wind.

Zerach had spent the entire day overseeing weapon distribution, shouting commands until his voice grew hoarse. His generals had argued, his men had trained until their bodies trembled.

But as the moon rose, something inside him shifted. He thought of Daphne — her tired eyes, the way she smiled through pain, the way her hand clutched her stomach protectively when she thought no one saw.

He realized he hadn’t spoken a full sentence of love to her in days.

Leaving his war room, he walked quietly toward her chambers, his boots echoing faintly on the marble floor.

When he entered, Daphne was awake, sitting by the window, brushing her hair slowly. The candlelight softened her features; she looked ethereal, like a dream he feared to touch.

“Zerach,” she whispered, turning. Her voice was both joy and relief.

He crossed the room in two strides and knelt before her, taking her hand. “I’ve been a fool,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t have to face this alone. I should’ve—”

Before he could finish, she pressed a finger to his lips. “You’re a king, my love. You carry the world on your shoulders. But promise me something…”

“Anything,” he said.

“Come back to me,” she whispered. “No matter what happens — come back to me and this child.”

He pressed his forehead against hers. “You have my word, my dove.”

For the first time in many nights, they held each other in silence — no war, no fear, only the steady beat of two hearts that longed to remain one.

But the moment was shattered when the doors burst open.

Two soldiers entered, breathless, kneeling before the king.

“Your Majesty!” one of them gasped. “The scouts have returned. The enemy has reached the valley — they wait for you at dawn!”

Zerach rose instantly, the softness in his face replaced by command. “Prepare the battalion. We ride before sunrise.”

“Already done, sire.”

Daphne’s hand clutched his sleeve, her eyes wide with dread. “Zerach—don’t go now, not tonight. You’ve barely rested—”

He turned to her, his voice steady but filled with sorrow. “If I delay, they’ll burn our borders by morning. I must go.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “And what about me? About us?”

He cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing away a tear. “You are my reason to fight, Daphne. I’ll return before the moon wanes — I swear it.”

Before she could speak again, he kissed her — a deep, desperate kiss that spoke every word he couldn’t say.

Then he turned, his cloak sweeping the floor, and was gone.

The heavy doors closed, and with them went the last warmth of her heart.

The next two days stretched into eternity.

The city watched the horizon, waiting for banners — for messengers — for any sign of victory or defeat. But none came.

The markets grew silent. Children were kept indoors. Every sound — every gust of wind — made the people flinch.

In the palace, Daphne wandered like a lost spirit.

Each hour that passed without news carved a deeper line of fear into her soul. Her maids tried to soothe her, bringing food she could not eat, offering prayers she could not believe in.

At night, she lay awake, clutching the pillow where Zerach had slept, breathing in the fading scent of him.

“Please,” she whispered to the empty room. “Let him come home. Let him see our child.”

But the silence only answered.

By the third day, the heavens themselves seemed to mourn.

The skies turned black, and rain began to fall — heavy and relentless. The thunder rolled across the city like the footsteps of doom.

It was near midnight when the knock came.

Daphne had dozed fitfully, dreaming of fire and swords, when her maid burst into the chamber — soaked, pale, trembling. Behind her stood a messenger, mud splattered across his uniform, his breath ragged.

“My queen,” he said, bowing low. “Forgive me… but I bring grave news.”

Daphne rose, one hand on her belly, the other clutching the bedpost for balance. “Speak.”

The messenger hesitated, glancing at her swelling stomach. “It’s about the king.”

Her pulse quickened. “What about him?”

“There was an ambush on the eastern ridge—”

He didn’t finish.

Daphne’s breath caught, her eyes widening in terror. “No…”

“My queen, the reports are unclear,” he said quickly, trying to soften the blow. “But there are rumors—he may be—”

She didn’t let him finish. Her knees buckled, a cry tearing from her throat.

Elyra rushed forward to catch her, shouting for help.

Then Daphne’s body began to shake violently — her breathing ragged, her vision spinning.

The messenger stumbled back, terrified.

“Fetch the physician!” Elyra screamed. “Now!”

Daphne clutched her stomach, pain ripping through her like lightning. “The baby—!” she gasped.

Blood splattered onto the floor, dark and sudden.

The maids screamed. The guards outside rushed in. Within seconds, chaos filled the room.

They carried her through the rain-soaked corridors, her cries echoing off the marble walls.

Every flash of lightning illuminated her pale face, her lips trembling in agony. She tried to breathe, to push through the pain, but fear strangled her.

Zerach.

She whispered his name again and again, as though saying it could bring him back.

When they reached the royal infirmary, the midwives were already there — trembling, pale, clutching towels and water.

“Lay her down! Quickly!”

“She’s losing too much blood!”

“Fetch the priestess — now!”

Daphne writhed on the bed, her body convulsing with pain. The child was not ready, not yet — but the grief had torn open something deep within her.

Hours passed.

Her screams grew hoarse, then faint. The candles around her burned low.

The midwives whispered prayers between instructions, sweat and tears mingling on their faces.

“She’s fading,” one murmured. “The queen can’t endure much longer.”

Another wiped the blood from Daphne’s legs and whispered, “Push, my queen, please — push for your child.”

But Daphne had no strength left. Her arms fell limp. Her vision blurred.

All she could see in her mind was Zerach’s face — smiling, promising her he’d return.

“Zerach,” she whispered weakly, tears streaming down her temples. “Please… don’t leave me… I can’t… not alone.”

Thunder roared outside, shaking the glass.

A nurse leaned close, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead. “He’ll come back, Majesty,” she whispered. “He’ll come back.”

But in her heart, Daphne felt only emptiness.

The pain dulled. The world turned distant, muffled, fading.

Somewhere far away, a midwife shouted — something about the child’s position, about hope. But to Daphne, the voices sounded like echoes underwater.

She thought of Rosa’s laughter, of Fatima’s deceit, of all the death this kingdom had seen. And then she thought of the tiny heartbeat inside her — the only piece of love she still had.

“Live,” she whispered, barely audible. “Live… even if I can’t.”

Her eyes closed, her hand slipping from the midwife’s grip as thunder rolled once more across the heavens.

Outside, the rain turned red with dawn.

And somewhere beyond the mountains, a horn blew faintly — the horn of returning soldiers.

But inside the palace, no one knew yet whether it was victory… or loss.