Chapter 48

For the first time in eleven long years, the royal palace no longer echoed with grief — it sang.

The air smelled of laughter, of freshly cut flowers, of cinnamon bread baking in the kitchens. Servants no longer whispered in sorrowed tones; instead, they hummed tunes while working.

The kingdom of Arvane, once shadowed by the loss of its queen, had found light again — in the gentle smile of Queen Freda.

It had been eight months since the wedding.

Eight months since the King’s solemn heart began to beat with life again.

And eight months since the little secret beneath Freda’s heart began to grow — visible now, glowing with the soft curve of motherhood.

The gardens of the palace were alive again.

Every morning, Freda would walk along the marble paths, her hands resting protectively over her belly, smiling as the sun spilled golden light across the fountains.

Children of the servants followed her, playing around her skirts. The people adored her — she was not a queen who sat behind jeweled veils, but one who laughed with the maids and shared her food with the guards.

The city spoke of her kindness.

“She’s the queen who brings rain in drought,” the farmers said.

“She smiles like sunrise,” whispered the women in the markets.

And for the first time, even the council — though once doubtful — bowed with genuine respect.

Lucien, now twelve, had changed.

Once restless and fierce, he had softened.

The fire in his eyes had dimmed into warmth.

Every afternoon, he would run through the corridors, his laughter echoing through the marble halls. He followed Freda everywhere — to the gardens, to the library, to the training grounds.

“Mother!” he called her for the first time one bright morning as she tended to the rose bushes.

Freda froze, the word piercing her heart with joy. She turned and smiled through tears.

“My son,” she whispered, and drew him into her arms.

From that day, their bond grew stronger. She read him stories before bed — tales of heroes and kings, of the gods’ kindness and their wrath.

She taught him patience, how to speak gently to those below him, how to smile even when the crown felt heavy.

Zerach would often stand by the door, watching them from afar, his heart swelling with a bittersweet ache.

It reminded him of Daphne and Lucien when he was little — yet different. Freda had brought something even Daphne never could: peace.

At night, when the palace grew silent, the king and Freda would sit together on the balcony overlooking the city. The moon would bathe them in silver light as they shared quiet conversations.

Freda often placed his hand on her stomach.

“He’s strong,” she would say softly. “He kicks every time he hears your voice.”

Zerach smiled faintly. “Then he already knows who rules this palace.”

She laughed, leaning on his shoulder. “He knows who loves him.”

There were nights when the king found himself simply watching her sleep.

The way her chest rose and fell gently.

The way her hair shimmered under moonlight.

He didn’t know when it happened — when guilt turned to gratitude, when sorrow turned to love.

All he knew was that Freda’s presence had become his refuge.

She never spoke harshly. Never demanded. Never judged.

Her love was quiet, patient, unshakable — and that terrified him.

Because deep inside, King Zerach knew the truth: happiness was never meant to stay long in his world.

When Freda’s belly grew rounder, the city rejoiced.

For the first time in years, the palace gates were thrown open for celebration.

Priests lit incense and chanted blessings for the unborn child.

Women gathered in the courtyards, singing songs of fertility and renewal.

From the highest towers, golden banners fluttered — the mark of royal blessing.

It felt as if the gods themselves smiled upon Arvane once more.

Even the darkest corners of the kingdom stirred with hope. Traders offered gifts to the palace — silk, spices, carved charms — and children danced in the streets.

Everywhere, there was laughter.

Everywhere, there was peace.

And yet, on some nights, when the moon hung heavy and crimson, the king would wake suddenly — drenched in sweat, his chest tight.

In his dreams, he would see two lights — one golden, one red — circling each other before vanishing into a storm.

He would turn to Freda sleeping peacefully beside him, his hand trembling.

Then he would whisper into the darkness,

“Let this peace last… even if it costs me everything.”

King Zerach devoted his days to training Lucien.

They rode together at dawn, hunted together in the woods, sparred in the training ring until sunset.

Lucien was quick, bold, and full of energy — but unlike before, there was patience in his strength.

He often spoke of his baby brother-to-be.

“Father,” he said one morning, laughing as he practiced sword swings, “I’ll teach him how to fight like you taught me.”

The king chuckled. “He might not be interested in fighting, my boy.”

Lucien grinned, his tiny horns glinting under sunlight. “Then I’ll protect him. Always.”

Zerach stopped, looking at his son for a long moment. Then he smiled — proud, but also haunted.

“You will,” he said softly. “You’ll protect him from everything. Even from himself, if you must.”

Lucien didn’t understand the weight in his father’s tone — but he nodded earnestly.

Freda’s love for Lucien was genuine. She never tried to replace Daphne, nor did she demand the boy call her “Mother.”

It came naturally — through every warm meal, every hug, every bedtime story.

When he was sick, she stayed up all night, cooling his forehead with wet cloths.

When he trained, she sat in the shade, clapping for every swing and strike.

She had become the heart of the palace — the voice of gentleness, the reason people smiled.

Even the elders in the council began to bow to her without suspicion.

“Perhaps the gods truly sent her,” they whispered among themselves.

Nine Months of Happiness

Time flowed softly, like a lullaby.

The ninth month came — the time of harvest, when the city glowed golden with fields of grain.

The palace was a home of joy and expectation.

Lucien often placed his head against Freda’s belly, whispering to the baby.

“I’ll show you the garden, the one with the big fountain,” he said. “And I’ll tell you stories about Mother Daphne too. You’ll like her.”

Freda smiled and ran her fingers through his hair. “You’re already a wonderful brother.”

The king entered the room, pausing at the sight before him — his wife glowing with life, his son laughing beside her.

For a moment, the world felt right.

He crossed the room and wrapped them both in his arms.

“My heart,” he whispered. “My light. Both of you.”

They stayed like that for a long time — a perfect, fragile moment the world seemed to hold its breath for.

Outside, the wind whispered softly through the trees.

The bells in the temple chimed — low, rhythmic, peaceful.

And as the sun set that evening, painting the palace in gold, King Zerach smiled quietly to himself.

He had seen too much darkness.

He knew joy never stayed forever.

But for now — just for now — he allowed himself to believe in it.

The laughter, the warmth, the love.

The unborn child that kicked beneath Freda’s heart.

The son who finally called him “Father” with pride.

The queen who healed what he thought could never be healed.

For nine months, the palace of Arvane glowed brighter than it had in a century.

And somewhere deep within that light, the shadows waited — watching, patient, knowing that peace this perfect could not last forever.