Chapter 49

The night was still, painted in silver by the full moon that floated above the palace towers. The city of Sungai slept in rare peace, unaware that inside the royal chambers, fate was once again stirring.

Freda’s cry broke the silence.

It began as a low moan, but soon turned into a scream that echoed through the marble corridors. Servants rushed like shadows, carrying bowls of warm water, white linens, and burning lamps that cast trembling gold light upon the walls.

“Call the king!” Mira shouted. “Now!”

Zerach was in the council hall, going through scrolls of treaties and battle reports when the guard burst in, breathless. “My king—Her Majesty—she’s in labor!”

The parchment slipped from Zerach’s hands.

For a heartbeat, the world went silent around him. Then, with the strength of fear itself, he rose from his seat and ran. His footsteps thundered through the corridors as his memories raced with him — the last time he had heard screams like these was eleven years ago, when Daphne had fought for her life bringing Lucien into the world.

This time, he would not lose another woman he loved.

He burst through the chamber doors. Freda lay on the bed, drenched in sweat, her face pale and twisted in pain. Mira was by her side, giving orders with fierce calmness.

Zerach rushed to her side. “Freda… I’m here,” he breathed, kneeling beside her.

She tried to smile through the pain, reaching for his hand. “You shouldn’t see me like this,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“I’ll see you like this a thousand times, if it means you live,” he said, gripping her hand tightly.

Another contraction hit. She screamed again, tears streaking down her face. The midwives surrounded her, urging her to breathe. Zerach could barely stand still — every sound, every moment of silence between her cries tore

The night was still, painted in silver by the full moon that floated above the palace towers. The city of Sungai slept in rare peace, unaware that inside the royal chambers, fate was once again stirring.

Freda’s cry shattered the silence.

It began as a trembling whisper of pain, then grew into a scream that tore through the marble corridors. Servants scattered like startled birds. Lamps were lit, doors thrown open, and Mira’s firm voice rose above the chaos, commanding calm.

“Boil water! Bring clean sheets!” she shouted. “And someone—fetch the king!”

In the council hall, Zerach was poring over ancient scrolls when the doors burst open.

“My king—Her Majesty—it’s time!”

For a heartbeat, Zerach didn’t move. His eyes darkened, memories flashing before him like lightning. Daphne’s screams. The scent of blood. Her final breath. His knees had once been stained with her blood — and now, another woman he loved was fighting for life in the same bed.

He ran.

The guards moved aside as the king stormed through the corridors, his cloak billowing like a shadow. He pushed the chamber doors open, breathless.

Freda lay on the bed, pale and trembling, sweat clinging to her skin. Mira was beside her, holding her hand and murmuring soft encouragements.

“Freda!” Zerach called, rushing to her side.

Her eyes fluttered open. “My king…” she whispered weakly, her voice cracking between gasps. “You shouldn’t see me like this.”

Zerach knelt beside her and gripped her hand tightly. “I will not leave your side this time,” he said, voice breaking. “Not again.”

Outside the window, lightning cracked across the dark sky, echoing his fear. The palace seemed to hold its breath.

“Push!” Mira commanded. “Don’t stop now!”

Freda screamed, clutching Zerach’s hand until her nails dug into his skin. He winced but didn’t move. Her pain was his punishment, his redemption — a chance to face the ghosts that still haunted him.

The door creaked softly. A small figure stood there, his eyes wide with worry.

Lucien.

Still dressed in his sleeping robe, his hair tousled, he clutched his pillow like a shield. His horns, small and smooth, glowed faintly in the candlelight — a reflection of his father’s lineage, yet softer, almost innocent.

“Father?” he whispered.

Zerach turned sharply. “Lucien, go back to your room.”

“But I heard screaming—”

“Please,” Zerach said, his tone gentler now. “Your stepmother needs all the calm she can get. Go wait in your chamber. I’ll come to you soon.”

Lucien hesitated, torn between fear and the instinct to stay. But the look in his father’s eyes left no room for argument. He nodded slowly and stepped back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

Still, he didn’t leave.

He sat just outside the door, listening — every cry, every muffled command from Mira cut through him like blades. He buried his face in his knees, whispering small prayers to the gods his mother once told him about, though he barely remembered her face.

Inside, the storm of labor reached its height.

Freda’s screams grew hoarse, her strength fading. Mira leaned close, eyes focused. “The child’s crowning. One more push!”

Freda gasped, shaking her head weakly. “I can’t—”

“You can,” Zerach urged, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. “You are stronger than this pain, Freda. You’re the queen of Sungai. You are my heart.”

She looked at him through a haze of tears — his words were the anchor she needed. Her grip tightened. One final cry tore through her lips as she gave one last push.

A moment of silence followed. The air thickened, the world itself seemed to pause.

Then—

A cry.

Sharp. Pure. Alive.

A baby’s wail filled the room like music.

Mira smiled, tears glistening in her eyes as she lifted the newborn. “It’s a boy, my king. A healthy boy.”

Zerach froze, staring at the tiny creature wrapped in white silk. A boy. His heart trembled with a strange mix of joy and terror. Slowly, he reached out his hands. The baby opened his eyes — a deep golden hue, bright and untainted — and the moment their gazes met, something inside Zerach shattered and healed all at once.

“Kael,” he whispered. “His name shall be Kael.”

Freda smiled faintly, exhaustion softening her features. “Kael,” she repeated, voice fragile. “Our son.”

Zerach leaned close, pressing his lips to her forehead. “You’ve given Sungai another dawn.”

Outside, Lucien’s ears caught the faint sound of crying. He blinked and pressed his ear against the door, a small smile spreading across his face. “A baby…” he murmured. “I have a brother.”

The storm faded, leaving behind only the sound of rain softly kissing the windows.

When the doors finally opened, Lucien leapt to his feet. Mira stepped out, smiling tiredly. “Your Majesty wants to see you.”

Lucien rushed inside, his heart racing. Freda lay weak but radiant, her hair damp and tangled, her arms cradling the newborn. Zerach sat beside her, his expression softened with awe.

“Come,” Zerach said, beckoning his son closer. “Meet your brother.”

Lucien approached quietly, his eyes wide. He looked down at the baby wrapped in silk, so small, his tiny hand gripping Freda’s finger.

“What’s his name?” Lucien asked softly.

“Kael,” Freda said. “Your brother, Kael.”

Lucien smiled shyly. “Hello, Kael,” he whispered. “I’m Lucien. I’ll protect you.”

Freda’s heart swelled at the words. She reached out, brushing Lucien’s cheek. “You already sound like a prince, Lucien.”

Zerach’s gaze lingered on the two of them — the son of his past and the son of his present — and for the first time in years, he felt something close to peace.

The following morning, the news of the royal birth spread through the kingdom like wildfire. Bells rang across the city, markets erupted in cheers, and families poured into the streets, dancing and singing praises to their king and queen.

For days, Songaii basked in joy.

Zerach ordered a feast that lasted three days and three nights. Lanterns floated in the sky, music echoed through the valleys, and the people rejoiced as if they’d been granted new life.

Yet, deep inside the king’s heart, a shadow remained.

He watched Freda sleep beside their newborn, her face serene, her hand resting on Kael’s chest. Her breathing was steady, strong — nothing like Daphne’s fading gasps from years ago. Still, the fear lingered. The fear that happiness, for him, was always borrowed, never owned.

Lucien had refused to leave his brother’s side since the birth. He would sit by the cradle for hours, humming the same lullabies Daphne once sang to him. Sometimes, Zerach would find the boy asleep on the floor, his hand resting on Kael’s small arm, as if to guard him from unseen danger.

One evening, Freda woke and found the king standing by the window, lost in thought.

“You’re quiet,” she said gently, adjusting the blanket around Kael. “Aren’t you happy?”

“I am,” he replied, still staring out at the moonlit courtyard. “More than I thought I could be again.”

“Then why do you look so burdened?”

He turned to her slowly. “Because every time I find happiness, it feels like the gods are watching… waiting to take it back.”

Freda reached for his hand. “Maybe they’re not waiting to take it away,” she said softly. “Maybe they’re watching to see if you’ll finally believe you deserve it.”

He looked at her — really looked — and for a moment, the ache in his chest loosened. He knelt beside her and kissed her hand. “You’ve given me more light than you’ll ever know.”

Freda smiled, eyes glistening. “Then promise me something, my king.”

“Anything.”

“When Kael grows, don’t let the past chain him. Don’t let the mistakes of those before him define who he becomes.”

Zerach nodded solemnly. “He will be free.”

Outside, Lucien stood at the doorway, listening quietly. The words touched something deep within him. He didn’t fully understand why his father spoke of chains and mistakes — but a part of him, something ancient, stirred in his blood.

He glanced at baby Kael and smiled faintly. “I’ll make sure you’re safe,” he whispered to his sleeping brother. “Even from me.”

The candlelight flickered. The night air softened.

And somewhere, beyond the quiet walls of the palace, fate turned a silent page — toward new beginnings, and darker storms yet to come.