Chapter 43

Heavy and watchful, the moon was full that night, casting a pale light over the lonely palace.

Its glow spilled through the high glass windows of the royal chamber, where King Zerach sat alone, his heart drowning in shadows.

The table before him was littered with half-empty cups and bottles. The sharp scent of royal wine hung like a ghost, mixing with the faint fragrance of sandalwood Daphne used to love.

He lifted another cup to his lips, his hands trembling as the liquid burned down his throat. His eyes were red, not from drink alone, but from grief — grief that had never healed.

“My Daphne…” he whispered, his voice thick with longing. “You left me in a world that has forgotten how to breathe.”

He stared at her portrait — the one he had ordered painted after her death.

She smiled down at him with that same calm grace that once steadied his heart. But tonight, the smile only deepened his agony.

“Why did you leave me with this curse?” he murmured, his words slurring slightly. “Why must I raise a son who carries a mark that could destroy us all? If you were here… if only you were here…”

He poured himself another cup and another until the room spun in gold and crimson. He slumped back in his chair, his crown resting crookedly on his head, his heart heavy and broken.

Then — a soft knock.

He groaned. “Who dares disturb me?”

A quiet, hesitant voice answered. “My king, I’m here to clear the table. You’ve been here all evening. Please, you should rest.”

He didn’t respond. The door creaked open, and a young woman stepped inside.

Freda.

Her beauty was unintentional — born of grace rather than vanity. Her skin glowed like sunset bronze; her hair, dark and wavy, fell to her shoulders in soft curls. Her eyes were wide and full of concern, but behind them hid a gentleness that had always caught the king’s notice — though he had never said it aloud.

“My king,” she said softly, lowering her head. “You’ve had enough. Let me take the rest away.”

Zerach turned his gaze toward her, but the room tilted. Through the haze of drink and memory, her figure blurred — and suddenly, he saw Daphne.

The same curve of lips.

The same calmness in her movements.

The same eyes that once looked at him with love and forgiveness.

“Daphne…” he whispered, standing abruptly.

Freda froze, unsure of what to do. “My king?”

He staggered toward her, his voice trembling with disbelief. “It’s you… You came back to me.”

Before she could step aside, he cupped her face with both hands, staring into her eyes as if they were the only truth in the world.

“My love…” he whispered, his breath warm and unsteady. “I missed you. So much.”

Freda’s breath caught in her throat. She knew he was drunk — but the pain in his eyes was real, raw, and desperate. “My king, please—”

He silenced her with a kiss — soft at first, fragile, then deepening with the ache of years. She gasped, startled, but the king’s tears wet her cheeks, and for a moment her heart twisted in pity.

He wasn’t kissing her — not truly.

He was kissing the memory of his lost queen.

He pressed his forehead against hers, whispering between breaths, “You came back to me. You found your way home.”

“Your Majesty…” she tried again, trembling. “It’s me, Freda.”

But her words melted in the heat of his grief. The wine had blurred his senses, and his loneliness drowned out all reason. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her as if afraid she would vanish again.

He started to kiss her waist softly and gently, and he started going down from her waist, raised her gown, and continued his kisses, Am not Queen Daphne Freda said again but but before she could continue the king gently opened her legs wider, and with passion and desire he continued

Freda's moans gradually began louder and louder as cums drops continuously from her tight, he pushed her to the bed jumping and climbing her like a lion finally catching his prey.

The candles flickered wildly. The moonlight shifted. The night blurred into whispers, sighs, and the sound of two broken hearts trying to forget what the world had taken from them.

The palace slept, unaware that the king’s grief had led him into forbidden arms.

Hours passed before silence finally reclaimed the chamber. The candles died down one by one, leaving only the faint silver of the moon to watch over them.

When dawn came, it crept slowly through the curtains — pale and merciless.

Zerach stirred, his head heavy. His body ached, his mouth dry, the taste of wine and guilt thick on his tongue. He groaned softly, rubbing his temples.

“What… happened…” he whispered to himself.

Then he froze.

Beside him, under the tangled sheets, lay someone.

His heart slammed against his ribs. He turned slowly — and what he saw struck him like lightning.

It wasn’t Daphne.

It wasn’t his beloved wife who should have been lying there.

It was Freda.

The palace attendant. The one who served him faithfully, silently — and now lay beside him, her hair spread across the pillow like dark silk, her face soft in sleep.

His throat tightened. Horror and shame washed over him all at once. He stumbled out of bed, clutching the edge of the table to steady himself. His head spun. His chest burned.

“What have I done…” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Daphne… forgive me…”

He stared down at Freda, guilt clawing at his insides.

He remembered her eyes last night — wide, innocent, filled with pity.

And he remembered his own words — calling her by another name, touching her with a love that wasn’t hers.

He felt sick.

A soft sound pulled him from his thoughts. Freda stirred, slowly opening her eyes. When she saw him standing there, her face turned pale.

“My king…” she said quietly, sitting up and clutching the blanket to her chest. “I—”

He cut her off, raising a trembling hand. “Don’t.”

Silence filled the room — heavy and suffocating.

Zerach turned away, his voice low and shaking. “You mustn’t speak of this. Not to anyone. Not a word, do you hear me?”

Freda looked down, her heart aching. “My king, you were grieving. You thought I was—”

He turned sharply, eyes blazing with a mix of fear and shame. “Don’t say her name. Please… don’t.”

Tears welled in his eyes. “I have betrayed her memory,” he whispered. “The woman I swore to love beyond death itself… and I…”

He couldn’t finish.

Freda rose slowly, the blanket still around her shoulders. She wanted to reach out to him, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but she saw the torment in his face — the king who had conquered empires was now crushed by his own heart.

“My king,” she said softly, “I will tell no one. What happened will remain between us. I swear it.”

Zerach looked at her for a long moment, searching her face for judgment but finding none. Only compassion — and something else, something he couldn’t name.

He nodded slowly. “You must forget this night ever happened. For your sake… and for mine.”

“I understand.”

He sighed, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world had fallen on them. “Freda… I never meant to hurt you. I was lost in grief. You did nothing wrong.”

Her lips trembled. “I know, my king.”

He turned away again, staring at the portrait of Daphne on the wall. The morning light kissed her painted face, making her look almost alive. His voice broke as he whispered, “Forgive me, my love. I am still yours — even in my weakness.”

Freda stood quietly for a moment, her heart torn between guilt and pity. Then she bowed deeply. “Rest, my king. I’ll leave now.”

She turned to go, her footsteps soft against the marble floor. But before she reached the door, he spoke again, barely audible.

“Freda…”

She paused. “Yes, my king?”

He didn’t look at her. “Thank you. For staying… when I was breaking.”

Her eyes glistened. “Always, my king,” she whispered — then slipped out, leaving him alone with his ghosts.

Zerach sank to his knees beside the bed, pressing his hands against his face as tears finally broke free.

The great King of the Beast Realm — strong, fearless, unyielding — wept like a man who had lost everything twice.

Outside, the morning sun rose high above the palace walls, warm and golden. But inside the king’s chamber, it only revealed the emptiness he could no longer hide.

And though no one would ever know what happened that night, the guilt would follow him like a shadow — silent, unrelenting, and eternal.