Chapter 45

Two moons had passed since that fateful night —

the night when guilt was sown in the heart of a king, and silence became the cruelest chain binding them both.

The palace of Arvane stood still under the silver gaze of dawn, its once-proud towers now draped in quiet melancholy. Servants walked lightly through the marble halls, afraid of the king’s mood. Since the death of Queen Daphne eleven years ago, they had seen him grieve — but never like this. Now, even his grief seemed poisoned by something darker.

King Zerach had changed.

He no longer attended the royal gardens where Daphne’s favorite lilies bloomed, nor did he join the people in festivals or prayers. The throne room — once filled with laughter and light — had become a chamber of shadows.

Every evening, he would sit alone with a cup of untouched wine, eyes distant, haunted.

And though no one spoke it aloud, all who served him knew: he was running from a ghost.

Freda’s Burden

In a quiet corner of the palace, Freda stood before her mirror, one hand resting on her stomach. The reflection that met her gaze no longer belonged to the cheerful maid who once smiled easily. Her face was pale, her eyes dim, and beneath her dress, the faint curve of her belly could no longer be hidden.

It had been two months since that night — two months since she had felt the weight of the king’s arms around her, two months since shame and longing began to war inside her chest.

And in those two months, he hadn’t looked her in the eye again.

He passed her in the halls without a word, always with his head bowed or his gaze fixed elsewhere. At first, she tried to convince herself he was protecting her — that his silence was mercy, not rejection. But as the weeks stretched into months, she began to understand the truth.

He wasn’t protecting her.

He was running from her — from the reminder of what he had done.

Now, Freda’s heart was a battlefield.

The child growing inside her was both a blessing and a curse — a piece of the man she loved, and a living symbol of his betrayal.

She had dreamed once of being loved, even secretly. But now, even her dreams refused to comfort her.

That evening, the palace bells tolled thrice — a sound that meant the High Council had gathered.

The message came swiftly to the king’s study: “Your presence is required, my liege.”

Zerach sighed heavily, setting aside the parchment he hadn’t truly been reading. His mind had been wandering again — to Daphne, to Freda, to the silence that followed him like a curse.

He adjusted the dark cloak upon his shoulders and began the long walk to the council chamber.

The echo of his boots against marble felt too loud in the empty hallways.

When he entered the grand room, twelve councilmen rose in greeting. The chamber was vast — circular, lined with high columns and banners that bore the kingdom’s sigil, a phoenix wreathed in flame.

At the far end, beneath the carved sigil, sat Lord Galen, the oldest and most respected among them. His silver hair gleamed under the torchlight, and his sharp eyes missed nothing.

“My king,” Galen began with a deep bow. “We thank you for honoring our call.”

Zerach raised a hand. “What matter demands the presence of all twelve?”

The men exchanged looks — cautious, deliberate. Then Galen spoke again. “Your Majesty, forgive our boldness, but this concerns the future of the throne… and the heart of the kingdom itself.”

The king’s expression hardened. “Speak plainly, Lord Galen.”

“My king,” Galen said slowly, “it has been eleven years since the death of Queen Daphne. Eleven years since the throne beside yours has remained empty.”

Zerach’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“During those years,” Galen continued, “you have served faithfully, led the army, and guarded this land. Yet the kingdom has grown uneasy. The people whisper. They say the throne is half-lived — that the fire of Arvane burns without balance. A king without a queen is a sky without stars.”

Zerach’s gaze fell. “I am aware of the people’s whispers.”

“Then you must also know,” another councilor interjected, “that your son, Prince Lucien, grows without a mother’s hand to guide him. He is a bright boy, but his powers stir unpredictably. He needs nurture, gentleness, balance — a mother’s warmth. Without it, he may become something none of us can control.”

The words stung deeper than any blade. Zerach remembered the night of the fire — Lucien’s terrified eyes, his trembling voice. The boy’s nightmares had only worsened.

But the thought of another woman sitting upon Daphne’s throne…

No. He could not bear it.

“My heart,” Zerach said quietly, “was buried with Daphne. I have no room left to offer another.”

Galen’s voice softened, yet his tone remained firm. “Your Majesty, you are not merely a man. You are a king. And kings belong first to their people. The council has spoken and reached a decision.”

He paused.

Every eye in the chamber fixed on the king.

“It is the will of the council,” Galen declared, “that you take another queen before the next full moon.”

The words echoed in the room like thunder.

Zerach’s hands clenched. “You dare command me?”

“No, my king,” Galen replied steadily. “We plead with you. The kingdom needs its queen. The prince needs a mother. And you… you need to be whole again.”

Zerach’s breath came hard and shallow. He looked from one face to another — old men, loyal men, who had stood by him through wars and winters. None of them were his enemies. Yet at that moment, he hated them all.

Finally, he turned away.

“Leave me,” he said. “All of you.”

The councilmen bowed and departed in silence. Only Galen lingered a moment longer.

“My king,” he said softly before leaving, “sometimes the heart must be broken twice before it remembers how to heal.”

Then he was gone.

Hours passed. The torches dimmed. The palace slept.

But in the king’s chamber, the candles still burned. Zerach sat alone, Daphne’s crown resting before him — the silver circlet she had once worn, delicate and radiant. His fingers brushed its edges.

The memory of her voice returned, gentle and teasing: “If ever you find yourself lost, my love, follow the lilies. They will always lead you home.”

He whispered into the silence, “And if I cannot find the lilies?”

No answer. Only the echo of his own despair.

Freda, meanwhile, wandered the palace garden under the moonlight, a cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The night air was cold, but her thoughts were louder than the chill.

She had overheard the council’s words. Servants whispered fast, and word traveled quickly among the maids. “The king will take a new queen.”

The phrase repeated in her mind until her heart began to ache.

A new queen.

A new woman to sit beside him, to smile at him, to raise Lucien — and perhaps one day, to bear another child.

Her hand drifted once more to her belly. “What about you?” she whispered to the life growing inside her. “What place do you have in his world now?”

Her tears fell silently onto the soil.

The Lily Garden

Before dawn, Zerach found himself walking through the gardens for the first time in months.

The lilies were still there — pale, fragrant, glistening with dew. Daphne’s lilies.

He knelt among them, closing his eyes. “If this is punishment, then let it be so. But if you still watch over me, Daphne… tell me what I should do.”

The wind stirred. The petals rustled like whispered words.

And then — a voice. Soft. Faint. Familiar.

“You already know.”

Zerach’s eyes flew open. He looked around wildly, but no one was there.

Yet deep down, he understood what she meant.

He knew what he must do — even if it broke him again.

The next morning, a messenger was sent across the kingdom. Invitations were prepared for the noble houses. The council announced that the king would, at last, choose a new queen.

The castle erupted in activity. Maids scrubbed the halls. Florists filled vases with lilies and roses. Music was prepared.

But through it all, Freda remained in the shadows, trembling.

That evening, she stood by the doorway of the great hall as the king entered, regal yet empty-eyed. He took his place upon the throne. The nobles bowed, the council smiled — and she stood unseen, holding the secret he had long since buried.

Her gaze met his, just once.

For a heartbeat, time froze.

She wanted to scream the truth — Tell them! Tell them about our child! — but her throat refused to move.

Instead, she lowered her eyes, her tears falling silently to the marble floor.

The Announcement

When the hall fell silent, Lord Galen stepped forward.

“My king, the kingdom rejoices to see its light return. We have gathered noblewomen from the far provinces — each worthy to wear the crown beside you.”

Zerach rose slowly, his gaze sweeping across the room. His voice was calm, but his heart thundered.

“I thank the council,” he said, “and the people of Arvane. But before I make any choice…”

He looked toward the lilies arranged at the foot of the throne.

“…there is something I must say.”

The hall waited.

“Once, I swore before heaven and earth to love one woman only — to guard her heart, her throne, and her name. I failed her.” His voice wavered slightly, but he steadied it. “And though I may sit upon this throne, I am not free from the chains of that failure. I cannot give what no longer belongs to me.”

The room fell utterly still.

“My decision,” the king said, “is to keep the queen’s throne empty — until the heavens themselves decree otherwise.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Galen’s face darkened, but he said nothing.

Freda, from the shadows, pressed a hand to her lips, fighting back a sob.

She didn’t know whether to feel pain or pride.

When the hall finally emptied, the king walked quietly to the window overlooking the sea.

The wind howled softly, carrying the faint scent of lilies and rain.

He closed his eyes.

“I’ve lost you once, Daphne,” he whispered. “I won’t lose what’s left of you again.”

And yet, even as he spoke, the sound of a distant heartbeat seemed to echo faintly — the life of a child he did not yet know existed.