Chapter 31

The sky was still bleeding when Zerach opened his eyes.

He woke to the taste of iron and smoke — the battlefield reeking of death and rain. His body was half-buried under mud, his armor split, his horn chipped at the edge. All around him, the valley of Arveth lay in ruin — blackened banners, broken swords, and the cries of dying men.

For a moment, he couldn’t move. His ribs screamed with pain, and his left arm hung limp at his side. The last thing he remembered was charging through the enemy’s front line, the roar of his warriors beside him — then the explosion, a wall of fire that threw him from his horse.

Now there was silence. Only the rain.

Then, faintly, through the storm, came a voice — not from the living, but from the heart.

“Zerach…”

Daphne’s voice.

He froze. He would know that voice in death itself.

“Daphne?” he whispered hoarsely, though no one was near. “My dove?”

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of jasmine — her scent — impossibly here, among the corpses. A chill ran down his spine.

He forced himself to move, clawing his way up from the mud. Around him, his soldiers stirred — those who still breathed. His captain, Arven, crawled toward him, blood streaming down his face.

“My king — you live!” Arven rasped.

Zerach gritted his teeth and hauled himself upright. His legs trembled, but his will was iron.

“Report.”

“We fought them to the ridge,” Arven coughed. “But they brought shadow-fire — cursed mages from the east. We were outnumbered three to one. The men… they thought you were dead, Majesty. They retreated toward the northern woods.”

Zerach’s gaze hardened. “Then they still live. Gather who you can. We ride home.”

Arven hesitated. “Home? But the field—”

“My queen carries my child,” Zerach said, his voice low but burning. “If I fall here, she falls with me. We return — now.”

He tore a strip of cloth from a fallen soldier, bound his bleeding arm, and mounted the nearest horse still standing. His blood dripped into the rain, his body screaming with pain, but none of it mattered.

He could feel something — a pull in his chest, fierce and desperate.

Daphne was calling him.

Inside the fortress, the world had collapsed into chaos.

The queen’s screams echoed down the corridors, louder than the storm outside. Maids ran through the halls with towels and water, soldiers cleared the passageways for the royal midwives, and the high priestess of life knelt by Daphne’s bed, chanting prayers through tears.

The scent of blood filled the chamber.

Daphne lay half-conscious, her golden hair matted with sweat, her face pale as ivory.

“She’s bleeding too fast!” one of the healers cried. “If the contractions don’t stop—”

“They can’t stop now,” the midwife snapped. “The child’s coming too soon — the womb is open, and the queen’s fading. We must save at least one.”

Elyra, Daphne’s closest handmaiden, gripped the queen’s hand tightly. “You will not die here, my lady. You will not.”

Daphne’s lips trembled. “Zerach… where is he?”

Elyra bit her lip hard to keep from crying. “He’s coming. I know he is.”

Daphne tried to smile — a small, broken curve of her mouth. “Tell him… tell him I waited.”

Then another wave of pain tore through her body, and she screamed.

The rain turned to a storm. Zerach rode like a madman, his horse slipping through mud and corpses, lightning flashing over his horns.

Behind him, a handful of loyal soldiers followed, their armor dented, faces pale with exhaustion.

“Majesty!” Arven called out. “If we ride through the night, the beasts will hunt us!”

“Then let them!” Zerach snarled. “No creature in this world will keep me from her!”

His chest burned with every breath, but his mind was on one thing — Daphne, lying in their bed, whispering his name. He could almost feel her pain through the distance. Every heartbeat was agony, every mile a lifetime.

Hold on, he thought fiercely. Just hold on, my dove.

“Push, my queen! Please — push!” the midwife pleaded.

Daphne barely heard her. Her world had narrowed to flashes of white pain and thunder. She could feel the baby’s weight, the tearing, the pressure — but her strength was gone.

Her voice was a whisper. “I can’t…”

“You must,” Elyra sobbed, “for him, for your child—”

Daphne’s eyes fluttered open. For a moment, she saw not the chamber, but the battlefield — flames and lightning, and in the middle of it, Zerach, wounded and screaming her name.

She felt his fear. His love. His promise.

And somehow, from the edge of death, she found her will again.

With a ragged cry, she pushed one last time.

A moment later, the cry of a newborn broke through the storm.

The midwife fell to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’s a boy!” she shouted. “A prince! The heir lives!”

Elyra sobbed in relief — but the joy didn’t last.

“The queen—” one of the healers gasped. “She’s fading!”

They turned — Daphne lay motionless, her chest rising shallowly. Her lips were blue, her skin slick with blood.

“Her heart!” someone shouted. “She’s losing too much!”

The priestess pressed her hands over Daphne’s chest, chanting a resurrection hymn. Magic flickered faintly — then faltered.

“She’s too weak,” the priestess whispered. “She needs him. She needs the king.”

Elyra knelt beside her mistress, clutching her hand. “Hold on, my queen. He’s coming. Please — don’t leave before he sees your son.”

The rain had turned to mist by dawn. The city walls glimmered faintly in the distance.

Zerach’s horse stumbled, nearly collapsing, but he spurred it forward. His armor was soaked, his wounds reopened, yet he felt nothing but fire in his veins.

When the palace gates came into view, he shouted hoarsely, “Open! It’s your king!”

The guards, stunned, fell to their knees, scrambling to lift the gates. As Zerach galloped through, his people gasped — their king, alive but bloodied, eyes blazing like stormfire.

He didn’t stop for ceremony. He threw himself from the saddle and stormed through the corridors, the scent of blood and incense guiding him to her.

He burst into the chamber.

“Daphne!”

The midwives froze. Elyra turned, tears streaking her cheeks. In her arms, a small bundle swaddled in white — the newborn, crying softly.

But on the bed — Daphne lay still.

Zerach’s heart stopped.

He rushed forward, falling to his knees beside her. “No,” he whispered, shaking her gently. “No, my dove, wake up.”

Her eyes were half-closed, her breathing shallow. “Zerach…” she whispered faintly, as if from another world.

“I’m here,” he said, gripping her hand tightly. “I came back. Just like I promised.”

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. “You… kept your word.”

He leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers. “Don’t leave me now. Not when our son is here.”

At the word son, her lips trembled in a faint smile. “A boy?”

Zerach nodded. “Strong as his mother.”

She laughed weakly — a sound like wind through glass. “Then he’ll rule well.”

Her hand moved to his cheek. “Hold him for me.”

Elyra stepped forward, gently placing the baby in his arms. The child was tiny, pink, his eyes barely open. Zerach looked down, and for the first time in his life, he wept openly.

“He’s perfect,” he whispered.

When he looked back at Daphne, she was staring at the two of them — her gaze filled with peace.

“Promise me,” she whispered. “If I sleep… you’ll tell him I loved him first.”

He gripped her hand, trembling. “Don’t say that. You’re not leaving. You’ll raise him yourself.”

But her eyes were already growing distant, unfocused. “Zerach… I’m so tired.”

“Then rest, my love. Rest, and wake again.”

Her lips curved faintly, her fingers brushing the baby’s cheek. “He has your eyes…”

Her hand fell limp.

Zerach froze. “Daphne?”

The priestess whispered, “She’s gone.”

The world fell silent.

Zerach’s roar of grief shook the walls.

Hours passed, though time meant nothing anymore. The storm cleared, sunlight breaking through the clouds — cruel and golden, as if mocking the pain below.

In the royal chambers, silence hung heavy.

Zerach sat beside the bed, Daphne’s hand cold in his. The baby slept quietly in a cradle nearby, unaware that the warmth he’d felt had already left the world.

No one dared enter. Not the priests, not the guards, not even Elyra. Only once, a servant peeked in and saw the king — his head bowed, tears falling on the queen’s pale fingers.

Outside, the bells tolled — once for life, once for death.

The people who had celebrated the coming of an heir now wept in the streets. For every cry of joy, there was one of mourning.

And in the chamber where love had once burned like fire, only ashes remained.

By dusk, the king finally rose. His face was pale, streaked with dirt and tears. He walked to the cradle and stared at the child — his son, his future, his last link to the woman who had tamed the beast in him.

He knelt beside the cradle and whispered, “Your mother saved this kingdom more than I ever did. You will know her name. You will carry her fire.”

He lifted the baby gently, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Then he turned to Daphne’s still form.

“I came back to you,” he said softly. “And you kept your promise, too.”

He laid a single white rose on her chest — Rosa’s flower, now pure again — and walked into the night, the infant in his arms, the kingdom’s fate resting in his hands.