Chapter 33

Months passed, and the seasons shifted gently over the kingdom. Grief had not vanished, but time, in its strange mercy, had softened it. Zerach ruled with quiet strength again, though the shadow of loss still lingered behind his eyes. The people whispered that the gods had taken his light away, not knowing that a secret heartbeat still echoed within the kingdom’s walls.

Far from the palace, in a hidden valley surrounded by silver-leaved trees, a small cottage glowed softly under the morning sun. Inside it, a child laughed — clear, bright, and alive. Lyra. Her golden curls fell in waves like her mother’s, her eyes deep blue like the calmest part of the sea. She had grown strong and wild, untouched by courtly sorrow.

The midwife, old Mira — the only soul who knew the truth — watched her run barefoot through the grass. “Careful, my little star,” she said softly. “The world doesn’t yet know your name.”

Lyra only giggled, clutching a wooden carving in her hand — two small figures side by side.

Because she was not truly alone.

Every month, Mira made the same quiet journey to the edge of the kingdom, to the marble garden where the royal tombs rested. There, beneath the carved sigil of a flame and crown, lay a small stone engraved:

“Lucien Reigns. Born of light. Lived for love.”

The boy who should have grown beside her — who had drawn his first breath only to give it back to the stars.

Zerach himself had chosen the name. He’d held the boy only once — so small, so fragile. “Lucien,” he had whispered, tears burning his eyes. “May your light guide me when all else fades.”

He never knew that his son’s twin lived still — a secret wrapped in lullabies and moonlight.

A year passed. Lyra learned to walk, to speak, to laugh like sunshine breaking through mist. Mira often sat by the fire, whispering to her of her mother. “You have her smile,” she’d say, brushing a curl from the child’s cheek. “And your father’s fire in your eyes.”

Lyra would listen, her little hands reaching for the locket Mira always wore — the one Daphne had clutched in her final breath. Inside was a single strand of golden hair, a promise that love outlasts even death.

The forest was not silent that morning—it was mourning.

Even the wind moved softly, as though afraid to stir the ashes of the past.

King Zerach rode ahead of his hunting party, his black stallion threading through the silver mist. His cloak of shadow-colored fur brushed against the leaves, leaving traces of dew on its edge. Every dawn, he came to the same woods. Every dawn, he hunted—but never truly for prey.

He hunted for peace. For something to fill the hollow where Daphne’s laughter once lived.

It had been a year since her death, yet her voice lingered like sunlight behind the clouds. The kingdom had changed, the city still half-broken from the war and the grief that followed. The people had found reasons to live again, but their king had not.

He ruled, yes. He conquered, he commanded—but in the stillness of the night, he was just a man standing beside an empty bed.

Even now, the forest whispered her name.

He dismounted, motioning for his men to remain behind. “I’ll go alone,” he said. His voice, low and rough, carried the weight of command that allowed no question.

The warriors bowed and retreated, leaving their king to walk among the trees.

The scent of wild jasmine reached him—the same scent Daphne once wore. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he could almost hear her laughter echo through the leaves, soft and distant. His chest tightened.

“Daphne,” he whispered to the wind. “You promised you would never leave me…”

The forest replied only with birdsong.

Then—

A rustle.

Zerach’s eyes snapped open. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his blade. “Who goes there?” he called, his voice slicing through the silence.

No answer.

Only another rustle. Then a giggle—a small, bell-like sound that made him pause.

From behind a cluster of ferns, something tiny and bright emerged.

A child.

She couldn’t have been more than a year old, dressed in a pale linen gown that had seen better days. Her golden curls shimmered in the shafts of sunlight breaking through the trees. She blinked up at him with wide, ocean-blue eyes—eyes so heartbreakingly familiar that the world seemed to tilt.

Zerach froze.

The air left his lungs in a single breath.

The child tilted her head, studying him with curiosity. Then, as if she recognized something ancient in his face, she giggled again and toddled toward him, her little feet crunching on the leaves.

“Dada!” she chirped, lifting her small hands toward him. “Dada!”

The word struck like lightning.

He stumbled a step backward, his heart pounding violently against his ribs.

The way she said it—so sure, so innocent—was the same way Daphne once whispered his name in the dark. The same tone, the same warmth.

Zerach dropped to one knee before her, his eyes wide, his hand trembling as he reached for her.

“Little one…” he breathed. “Who are you?”

But before his fingers could touch her soft curls, a voice screamed through the trees.

“Lyra!”

A woman burst into the clearing—older, her gray hair wrapped in a loose braid, her eyes wide with panic. She froze at the sight of the king and dropped to her knees instantly.

“Forgive her, my lord!” she gasped, clutching the child to her chest. “She meant no harm, she wandered off from the cottage—please, forgive us!”

Zerach rose slowly, towering over her. “Your child,” he said softly, “called me father.”

The woman’s face drained of color. “She—she’s just a babe, my lord. She doesn’t know words truly yet. She calls every man she sees that.”

“Does she?” Zerach murmured. His gaze dropped to the girl, who peeked from the woman’s arms, still smiling at him—still radiant, unafraid.

“What is her name?” he asked.

“Lyra,” the woman whispered.

He repeated it slowly, tasting the name as if it were something sacred. “Lyra.”

His chest constricted. That name—so light, so melodic—it carried the sound of her.

He crouched down, bringing his gaze level with the little girl’s. “Lyra,” he said again.

The child giggled. “Dada!”

The woman—Mira, the king suddenly recalled, the midwife who had aided Daphne’s birth—bowed so low her forehead brushed the dirt. “Your Majesty, she does not mean it. Forgive her for disturbing your hunt.”

Zerach stared at Mira, his mind spinning, his instincts screaming that this was no chance encounter. “Where is her father?” he asked.

“She… she has none, my lord. The mother—” Mira swallowed, looking at the ground. “She died giving birth.”

Zerach felt something twist deep inside him. His voice softened. “And you care for her?”

Mira nodded quickly. “Yes, my lord. She’s mine now. Just a poor widow’s child.”

His golden eyes lingered on the child for a long moment, unable to look away. The curls, the small hands, the blue eyes that seemed to carry starlight—they were Daphne’s.

Everything about her was Daphne’s.

He wanted to ask more—to demand the truth—but something in Mira’s trembling stopped him. He knew fear when he saw it. Whatever truth she carried, she guarded it like a wound that could never heal.

At last, he nodded. “Go,” he said quietly. “The forest is no place for children.”

Mira exhaled in relief, clutching Lyra close. “Thank you, my king. Blessings upon your reign.”

As she turned away, Lyra reached over Mira’s shoulder, her tiny hand outstretched toward him.

“Dada!” she called again, her voice fading as the mist swallowed her small figure.

Zerach stood there long after they vanished, staring at the place where the child had been.

The world felt heavier and lighter all at once.

That night, he dreamed of Daphne.

She came to him not as a ghost, but as she had been—alive, laughing, her golden hair flowing around her face. She stood by a cradle, singing softly. When he stepped closer, he saw two babes sleeping within—one wrapped in white, one in black.

Her gaze met his, full of love and sorrow. “You were never meant to lose both,” she whispered. “One still carries the light.”

He reached for her, but she faded with the dawn.

Morning broke over the fortress. The king woke drenched in sweat, her voice still echoing in his ears.

He called for his advisor at once. “Find me the woman named Mira,” he ordered. “She lives in the outskirts, near the eastern wood.”

But Mira was gone. Vanished overnight, her cottage abandoned.

Only the faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air.

Days passed, but the child’s voice haunted him. Dada… Dada…

He would pause in the corridors, half-expecting to see her golden curls flash by.

Even the servants whispered—of how the king had begun to smile again, faintly, quietly. Of how he sometimes went to the gardens at night and stared at the stars, his hands clasped behind his back, whispering the same name: Lyra.

The kingdom noticed the change. The people thought their king was finally healing. But inside him, the wound only deepened.

He began sending scouts—discreet ones—to search the border villages. He never said what he was looking for, only that there was a “lost light” he needed to find.

And in the deep woods, Mira watched from afar, clutching Lyra close, whispering to her,

“Not yet, little one. Not yet. The truth will break him before it saves him.”

But fate had already chosen its path.

Because on the seventh day after the hunt, the royal court received a message from a traveler—a merchant woman from the borderlands—who spoke of a child in the woods with golden curls and eyes like the queen who once was.

The hall fell silent when Zerach heard.

His goblet fell from his hand, spilling wine across the stone floor like blood.

“Bring her to me,” he said, his voice a whisper of command.

That night, when all was quiet, he walked again into the woods—alone this time. The moonlight guided his path. He followed it to the old hunting trail, to the same spot where he had first seen her.

There, beneath the silver trees, a child’s laugh rang again.

He turned—and there she was.

Lyra.

Running barefoot through the grass, her curls wild, her laughter brighter than the stars.

He fell to his knees as she ran into his arms without fear, wrapping her tiny hands around his neck.

For a heartbeat, he could not breathe. Tears—tears he thought he’d forgotten—burned down his cheeks.

“My little light,” he whispered, holding her tight.

And for the first time in a year, the forest was alive again.