Chapter 44

The morning sun rose dim and weary over the palace of Sungai, spilling pale light through the tall crystal windows. King Zerach sat motionless in his chamber, his eyes hollow, his thoughts miles away. The air was thick with the scent of wine and regret — a heavy reminder of the night he wished to erase.

He could still feel it — the warmth of her skin, the sound of her trembling breath, the way he had whispered Daphne’s name while holding another. When he had finally stirred from his drunken sleep, the truth struck him like lightning.

It wasn’t Daphne he had embraced.

It was Freda — one of the young maidens who served him faithfully since the queen’s passing.

She had been the one who entered to clear away his goblets. The one who had tried to stop him. The one who had whispered, “My king, please… I am not Queen Daphne…”

And yet, blinded by grief and wine, he had seen only the face of his lost love.

When dawn crept in, Zerach sat upright in bed, cold sweat running down his chest. Freda lay beside him, her long golden-brown hair scattered across the sheets, her eyes wide open and glistening with tears. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence screamed louder than thunder.

Zerach’s voice trembled.

“Freda… what have I done?”

Freda looked away, clutching the blanket to her chest. Her lips quivered, but her voice was soft.

“You mourned your queen, my king. I tried to stop you, but your heart was too broken. I am not angry… only frightened.”

Zerach rose to his feet, pacing in confusion and guilt. He ran his hands through his hair, whispering Daphne’s name again and again as if saying it could turn back time.

“I have betrayed her,” he murmured. “I have betrayed the woman who gave her life for this kingdom… for me…”

Freda stood slowly, wrapping a cloth around herself. “My king,” she said gently, “what happened last night will remain between us. No one will ever hear of it. Please — for your peace, and for mine.”

Zerach turned to her, eyes pleading. “Freda, you must swear it. Swear by the blood of Sungai that you will not speak of this.”

Tears glimmered on her cheeks as she nodded. “I swear, my king.”

He took her hand — not in desire, but in remorse — and kissed it with trembling lips. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

Then he left her standing in the cold chamber, as guilt shadowed his every step.

A Week Later

The palace returned to its usual rhythm, but Zerach’s heart never settled. The echo of Daphne’s laughter seemed to follow him through every hall, every corridor. Sometimes he would look toward the balcony and swear he saw her — standing in her old white gown, smiling faintly before vanishing into mist.

At night, his dreams tormented him. He would see Daphne standing at the edge of their old garden, holding a baby wrapped in silver cloth — whispering words he could never understand. Every time he tried to reach her, the garden would burst into flames, and he would wake up drenched in sweat.

Freda, too, carried her secret like a curse. She began to feel ill, pale and dizzy in the mornings. Mira, now head of the palace maids, noticed her fainting one day near the fountain and immediately took her to the royal healer.

The diagnosis came softly, like a whisper.

Freda was with child.

Her knees weakened. She grabbed the edge of the healer’s table and tried to steady her breath. A child… the king’s child.

She pressed her palm against her flat stomach and whispered, “No… this cannot be.”

Fear flooded her. What if the king found out? What if the council finds out ?what will behold me and my unborn child?

That night, Freda went to her chamber and fell to her knees. “Oh spirits of the moon,” she cried, “forgive me. I never meant to betray my queen. Let this child be innocent.

While the palace hid its new secret, Lucien’s own curse began to stir again. The boy had grown taller, sharper, more restless. His horns had curved elegantly behind his ears, but his eyes — his eyes sometimes burned like the heart of a flame. Zerach tried to ignore it. Tried to believe it was just youth and power. But he knew. Deep down, he knew.

One afternoon, as Lucien trained in the courtyard with his swordmaster, the sky suddenly darkened. Clouds rolled like furious beasts, and the ground trembled beneath them. Lucien dropped his blade, clutching his chest as pain burned down his spine.

“Lucien!” the master shouted. “Are you all right?”

But before anyone could reach him, Lucien’s eyes flashed red. His shadow stretched unnaturally long across the ground — twisting and snarling like something alive. The birds fled from the towers. The torches went out.

Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. Lucien collapsed.

Zerach ran to him, holding his son close. “Lucien! My son, talk to me!”

When the boy opened his eyes again, they were back to their usual soft amber. “Father,” he whispered, trembling, “they were calling me again…”

Zerach froze. “Who?”

“The people in my dream,” Lucien said weakly. “They said they’re waiting for me… and for her.”

Zerach’s heart thudded painfully. “For her?”

“Yes. They said the light must meet the flame, or the world will burn.”

Zerach felt the blood drain from his face. He had heard those words before — in the ancient prophecy told to every Sungai ruler. The “light” and the “flame.” The twin-born curse that would either save the world or end it.

He stared down at his trembling son and whispered, “Dear gods… what have we done?”

In the Woods

Far beyond the city, Lyra sat quietly by the lake, watching her reflection ripple in the moonlight. Mira sat nearby, weaving herbs into ropes, but her eyes never left the girl.

Lyra dipped her feet in the water and spoke softly, “Mother, sometimes I feel like someone is calling my name.”

Mira looked up. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Lyra said. “It’s a boy’s voice. Sometimes he’s crying. Sometimes he’s angry.”

Mira’s hand froze on the rope. “Lyra,” she said firmly, “you must not answer that voice. Promise me.”

Lyra turned, confused. “But he sounds lonely.”

“Promise me!” Mira shouted, standing suddenly. The echo of her voice startled the birds from the trees.

Lyra nodded slowly. “I promise, mother…”

But as the night deepened, Lyra couldn’t sleep. The same whisper floated through her window — soft, pleading, familiar.

“Lyra… Lyra…”

And far away, in his own bed, Lucien whispered into the darkness, “Who are you?”

The moon hung heavy between them — one light, one flame, both unaware of the fate tying their souls together.

That night, as the palace slept, Zerach stood on the balcony alone, clutching Daphne’s old necklace in his fist. The stars above looked like scattered tears. He whispered, “If only you could tell me what to do, my love…”

A gust of wind brushed past him, carrying a faint scent — lavender and rain, Daphne’s scent. His heart stopped. Slowly, he turned toward the mirror.

For a brief second, he saw her — standing behind him, smiling sadly, her eyes full of sorrow and forgiveness.

“Daphne?” he whispered.

But she vanished before he could reach her.

Behind him, a sudden cry echoed through the hall — a maid’s scream from Freda’s room.

The king’s heart dropped.

The curse had awakened again.