Chapter 4: The fire and dove

The fortress had always whispered about her—the golden-haired bride taken from Cural, the lamb married to a beast.

At first, they watched her with suspicion. She was too soft, too human, too fragile. The warriors sneered, calling her a pet who would weaken their king. The old women shook their heads, whispering that her gentleness would one day be the Horned King’s undoing. Even the children, winged and horned, peered at her from shadows as though she were a strange bird trapped among wolves.

But Daphne surprised them all.

She walked among the clans without fear. She smiled at the winged children, her laughter light as bells, unafraid when they tugged at her braids or asked questions in tongues she barely knew. She carried baskets of bread to the horned youths who sharpened their blades at dawn, and she listened to the tales of the elders with a patience no one expected from a queen stolen by war. She learned their songs, their dances, even their prayers to gods she had never known.

One evening, a horned child stumbled in the square, his knee scraping against stone. The crowd laughed at his clumsiness—such was their way—but Daphne swept forward, kneeling among them. She brushed away his tears, kissed his scraped skin, and lifted him into her arms as though he were her own. When she returned him to his mother, smiling despite the smear of blood on her gown, silence fell across the square. And then, for the first time, the fortress cheered her name.

From his balcony, Zerach watched it all. His people, his warriors, his wild children—calling not only for him, but for her.

A pang struck deep in his chest, sharp as the edge of a blade. Pride. It was a feeling he had not known since boyhood, before the world taught him that fire must always consume.

“She is mine,” he thought fiercely, gripping the railing until the stone cracked beneath his hand. But deeper still, another truth throbbed like a wound he dared not name: She is theirs too.

⸻

Yet peace does not linger long where vengeance has carved its throne.

Far away, in the golden halls of Songhai, whispers spread like wildfire. Messengers carried tales of the Horned King’s rise, of towns fallen under his banner, of Cural’s uneasy alliance bought with blood, and of the strange queen who sat by his side.

The elders trembled. The warriors spat his name like venom. The priests declared him a curse born of witchcraft, a blight sent to punish men for their pride.

And so, they planned.

In hidden chambers lit by oil lamps, generals traced maps with ink-stained fingers. Armies were raised. Spies crept into the forbidden forest. And upon their lips, a single command lingered like poison: tear the Horned King from his throne… and crush the golden dove who makes him human.

⸻

Unaware of the storm gathering beyond the trees, Daphne and Zerach’s bond only deepened.

Every night, the fortress walls shook with either their laughter or their passion. Every morning, his people saw a king softer than he had ever been, and a queen stronger than anyone had dared believe. Their love was not gentle—it was wildfire. She challenged him when others knelt, and he yielded to her when he would have slain another. Where he was fire, she was the dove that carried it without burning.

Yet shadows crept at the edges. The forest grew silent, birds no longer sang. Scouts returned whispering of strange tracks, of smoke that rose where no hearth should burn. Zerach’s jaw tightened with each report, though he told Daphne nothing.

One night, as the torches flickered low, he lay beside her in the stillness of their chamber. His hand, rough with scars, traced the curve of her cheek as though memorizing her.

“My dove,” he murmured, his voice raw, “if war comes, you must promise me something.”

She turned to him, her ocean-brown eyes shimmering in the firelight. “What is it?”

“If I fall…” His throat caught. Even kings bled when speaking of death. “You will live. You will carry my blood, my fire, my name. Promise me.”

Her heart clenched. She shook her head fiercely, tears stinging her eyes. “No, Zerach. Do not ask this of me. If you burn, I burn with you. For what is a dove without her fire?”

For the first time in years, the Horned King closed his eyes and trembled. Not from fear of war, but from fear of losing the only soul who had ever tamed him.

⸻

A month later, the storm broke.

At dawn, a horn bellowed from the edge of the forest, its cry sharp enough to rattle stone. Scouts burst through the gates, bloodied and breathless.

“They come!” one shouted.

“Songhai marches with ten thousand!” another gasped.

Panic erupted. Mothers clutched their children. Warriors seized their weapons. Wings beat the air in agitation.

Then Zerach stepped into the square.

Bare-chested but for war-paint black as shadow across his skin, his great horn glinted like obsidian under the rising sun. His presence stilled the chaos.

“Silence!” he thundered, his voice shaking the earth. Instantly, all obeyed.

He gazed upon his people—the horned, the winged, the tailed, the forsaken ones of the world. His voice rolled like thunder. “The men of Songhai come to burn us, to chain us, to call us monsters. But today we show them—we are not prey. We are fire. We are the storm. We are the future!”

A roar erupted, weapons clashing, wings unfurled to the sky.

On the balcony above, Daphne appeared. No silks graced her body that day. Instead, she wore leather armor, her golden hair braided like a warrior-maiden. At her hip gleamed a blade—one Zerach had forged with his own hand.

“My queen,” his voice softened as his eyes met hers. “Stay behind the walls.”

But Daphne’s chin lifted, fierce and unyielding. “No. If I am your queen, I will stand beside you. If your people must bleed, then let them see that I bleed too.”

His chest tightened with fear. For a heartbeat, he wished he could chain her to safety. Yet slowly, he nodded, pride warring with dread. “So be it. The fire and the dove will fight as one.”

⸻

The ground trembled.

Songhai’s army poured from the trees, ten thousand strong. Banners of black snapped against the wind, war drums thundered, and the morning sky darkened with arrows.

Zerach’s people surged to meet them. Horned warriors crashed against iron shields. Winged fighters rained spears from the clouds. The earth shook beneath the fury of the clash.

Zerach was the storm itself. His horn glowed faintly with otherworldly fire as he tore through soldiers, his axe splitting steel and bone in equal measure. His roar scattered horses, his shadow sent men fleeing.

Beside him, Daphne fought. Not with brute strength, but with grace—each swing of her sword precise, each strike fierce. When a soldier nearly cut down a horned child, it was Daphne’s blade that saved him. The people saw her—queen, warrior, dove of fire—and their cries of loyalty split the sky.

But Songhai’s numbers were vast. For every soldier they felled, more pressed forward. Arrows blotted the sun. Blood stained the earth.

A spear tore across Zerach’s side, crimson spilling down his torso. Daphne’s scream cut through the battle as she rushed to him, parrying a blade that would have struck his heart.

“Zerach!”

He caught her wrist, his golden eyes blazing. “Do not falter, dove. Look at them—our people rise because of you. Fight!”

And she did. Her fury matched his fire, her sword singing death in the chaos. She was no longer just a girl from Cural. She was the Queen of Fire, the dove reborn in flame.

⸻

By sunset, the field was ruin. Corpses littered the ground. Fires still burned. Cries of the wounded echoed into the dark.

But Songhai had not won. Their army pulled back to regroup, broken for now.

Bloodied, bruised, but unbroken, Zerach’s people lifted their weapons to the sky. And when they cried their loyalty, they cried not only for their king—but for their queen.

“Zerach!”

“Daphne!”

The Horned King and the Golden Dove. Fire and mercy, bound as one.