Chapter 46

For days, the palace halls whispered of one thing — the king’s silence.

After the council’s bold decree, no one had heard his voice or seen his face.

The throne remained empty. The crown rested on cold marble.

But the elders were not ready to give up.

They gathered once more beneath the towering arch of the council chamber — twelve old men whose faces carried the lines of wars, famine, and peace. They had served four kings before him, and they would not see the line of Arvane end because of one man’s grief.

Lord Galen spoke first. “He must understand that a kingdom without a queen is a heart without rhythm. If he continues this way, the fire of Arvane will dim.”

Another nodded. “The people already whisper. They think the gods have turned their backs on us.”

“And the prince?” said one with a long gray beard. “The boy’s powers grow stronger. The mark upon his back has not faded. If there is no mother to guide him, he may become the prophecy itself.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

At last, Galen stood. “Then we must persuade him — not as subjects, but as fathers who love this kingdom.”

And so, they prepared their argument, gathering words sharper than blades and truths heavier than gold.

The Gathering of Persuasion

That evening, the king stood in the grand hall before the council, his cloak trailing like night itself.

The room was dim except for the torches that flickered against stone walls, their light casting long shadows.

“My lords,” he began, his voice weary but still commanding, “I have already given my answer.”

Lord Galen bowed slightly. “Forgive us, Majesty, but you gave us your refusal. You never gave us your reason.”

Zerach’s gaze hardened. “My reason is my heart. I buried it with my queen.”

“Then hear ours,” Galen replied. “The kingdom cannot survive on grief. You are not the only one who lost her. The people lost their queen. The prince lost his mother. And now, they may lose their king to sorrow.”

Zerach clenched his jaw. “I have not abandoned my duties.”

“No,” another councilor said softly. “But you have abandoned yourself. And when a king abandons himself, the kingdom suffers.”

The words struck deep.

A younger councilor — the son of a high priest — stepped forward. “Forgive my boldness, my king, but when was the last time you smiled? When did you last stand among your people? When did you last look at your son without seeing her ghost?”

The king looked away.

Galen continued, his tone growing firmer. “Majesty, Queen Daphne was beloved. But love is not meant to be a tomb. It is meant to be a seed — to grow, to protect, to guide. Your people are ready for renewal. They are ready for balance. They are ready for a queen.”

Another voice rose: “The boy needs a mother. His powers grow unstable, and we fear what the gods may awaken if no one tames the fire within him.”

Zerach’s eyes flickered with pain. “He has me.”

“No, my king,” Galen said gently. “He has your protection, not your peace. And there is a difference.”

The room fell quiet. Only the crackle of the torches filled the air.

Finally, Galen stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “We beg you, my king. Do not let the memory of your love destroy what you both fought to build. If you truly loved Daphne… then honor her by saving the kingdom she cherished.”

Zerach closed his eyes, his heart twisting in agony.

They had spoken the truth.

The king said “As you all want me to marry another woman to become my queen and your queen

I will do it for the sake of my beloved late queen Daphne and the people she loved

Within hours, the city of Arvane transformed from a place of quiet routine into a storm of silk, jewels, and whispered ambition.

From the palace walls to the narrowest alleys, one name filled the air — the king.

Every noble house polished its daughters to perfection. Seamstresses worked through sleepless nights, spinning gowns of gold-threaded silk and moon-white linen. Caravans arrived from neighboring cities — from the desert of Nareth, from the icy north of Vestra, from the isles beyond the Silver Sea — each bringing noblewomen hungry for a crown.

But amid the excitement, not everyone felt joy.

Freda, quiet and pale, worked in the lower chambers of the palace, tending to the preparations for the ceremony.

Each day, her belly grew rounder.

Each day, her fear grew heavier.

She had hidden her secret well — loose robes, careful silence, sleepless nights. But now, as she watched the maids decorate the great hall with silver garlands, her heart twisted painfully.

So he will take another queen, she thought bitterly. And my child… will have no father.

She pressed a trembling hand to her stomach. The child inside stirred, a soft kick beneath her palm. “Hush,” she whispered. “You are mine. You will always be mine.”

But as she spoke, her tears fell freely.

The Day of Selection

Seven days passed.

The sun rose over Arvane in a sky of molten gold. The palace gates opened at dawn, and carriages rolled in one after another, each bearing a princess, a noblewoman, or a high priest’s daughter.

By midday, the grand hall shimmered like a vision from a dream. The chandeliers glowed with enchanted fire. The air smelled of roses and spice. Rows of councilors sat on either side, and before them, upon the dais, stood the throne — the seat of the king, gleaming like dawn.

Then the trumpets sounded.

King Zerach entered, cloaked in royal crimson, his crown gleaming. The hall fell into absolute silence.

Lucien walked beside him, dressed in white and gold, his young face composed but curious.

The king took his seat, his expression unreadable.

He looked older, perhaps wiser — yet beneath his calm, a storm brewed.

Daphne’s voice still echoed in his mind. “Let the fire burn again.”

Lord Galen rose and addressed the gathered maidens.

“Today,” he declared, “our beloved king will choose the woman who shall sit beside him, guide his son, and rule our great kingdom. Let each present herself with grace, and let the gods bear witness to his choice.”

One by one, the maidens came forward.

Princess Liora of Nareth — tall and regal, dressed in gold and desert gems — bowed gracefully. “May my beauty reflect the sun that guides you, my king.”

Lady Evelin of Vestra followed — pale as snow, her silver hair flowing like frost. “I offer not beauty but wisdom, my lord. My mother was a priestess; I will counsel you with truth.”

Then came dozens more — Lady Mara, the blacksmith’s daughter whose inventions had saved soldiers in war; the twin daughters of Lord Farel; the timid priest’s niece who brought him a white dove as a symbol of peace.

Each woman bowed, smiled, and curtsied. Each spoke words of promise and devotion.

But the king’s face remained still — neither pleased nor displeased.

He watched, yet his mind drifted elsewhere.

Every gesture, every smile reminded him of Daphne — her laughter, her voice, the way her hand fit in his.

At the edge of the hall, unnoticed among the servants, stood Freda.

She carried a silver tray of wine goblets, her head bowed, her face hidden under a thin veil. Her heart pounded so hard she thought the others could hear it.

When she looked up and saw Zerach — his face, his eyes, the same man who had once whispered her name in the dark — she almost dropped the tray.

She quickly turned away, her tears threatening to fall.

Hours passed. The final maiden stepped forward.

Lord Galen stood once more. “My king, the time has come. Choose among these worthy daughters of Arvane and beyond — choose she who shall stand beside you and restore the balance of the throne.”

The hall fell into utter silence.

All eyes turned to the king.

Zerach stood slowly, his heavy robe rustling softly against the marble floor.

He looked around the hall — at the beauty, the grace, the ambition that filled it — but none of it reached his heart.

He saw only ghosts.

He saw Daphne’s face in every flicker of light, in every tremble of candle flame.

Then, as his gaze drifted past the crowd, it stopped — at the far side of the hall, where Freda stood, her head bowed, clutching the silver tray like a lifeline.

His breath caught.

The memory of that night — her trembling voice, her kindness, her innocence — struck him like lightning.

And beneath it all, Daphne’s voice echoed in his mind: “Love again. Let the fire burn.”

The silence in the hall grew unbearable. The council shifted uneasily. The young maidens exchanged nervous glances.

Finally, Zerach descended from the dais.

Each step he took echoed like thunder through the marble chamber.

He walked past the noble daughters, past the princesses and priestesses, past the women who held their breath, hoping his eyes would meet theirs.

But his gaze never wavered.

He walked straight to the corner — to Freda.

The tray trembled in her hands.

“My king,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You shouldn’t—”

Before she could finish, Zerach took her trembling hand and turned her gently toward the crowd.

Gasps filled the air.

“I have made my choice,” the king said clearly, his deep voice carrying across the hall. “My bride… stands before you.”