Chapter 7 : zerach and Rosa the head maid

The days that followed seemed wrapped in velvet. Though the world beyond the fortress whispered of unrest, within the palace walls Daphne and Zerach lived as if time itself bent to their union.

Mornings found them together at the high balcony, where dawn spilled gold across the horizon. Daphne would stand with her hair loose, the light catching it like fire, while Zerach’s great hand rested on the small of her back. He said little then, but his silence was not distance — it was reverence. He watched her as though she were the first dawn he had ever seen.

Afternoons drew them into the gardens. The black roses that thrived only in his cursed soil had begun to bloom again, strange and beautiful against the pale sky. Daphne would pluck a single blossom, pressing it to her lips before setting it in his hair with a laugh. And though he was a king forged of battle and vengeance, he let her. His warriors turned their eyes away, uneasy to see their fearsome lord crowned in flowers, yet in Daphne’s smile he wore it as proudly as any crown of iron.

Nights, however, belonged to them alone. Their chamber became a kingdom of fire and shadow. Zerach’s passion was unyielding, fierce, but it had softened in her presence — no longer a storm that devoured, but a flame that cherished even as it burned. He traced her skin as though it were parchment, writing his claim in every touch, every kiss. Daphne answered him with a devotion that left her trembling, her whispers breaking into gasps that echoed against the stone.

In those hours, she did not see the Horned King. She saw only the man — scarred, haunted, yet hers. And though she had once feared his touch, now she feared only its absence.

But harmony, like glass, is easily marred.

It began subtly. A servant dismissed too quickly when she entered a corridor. Two generals exchanging a look when Zerach’s hand lingered over hers in the council chamber. At first, she thought herself imagining it. Yet when she turned, their gazes always slid away, their silence sharper than words.

One evening, after a night of fevered love, she lay with her cheek against his chest, listening to the steady thunder of his heart. Moonlight painted him silver, softening the cruel lines of his face. She toyed with the curve of his horn, smiling faintly.

“Do you ever wonder,” she murmured, “if the world envies us?”

His hand slid down her back, heavy, protective. “Let them envy. Let them choke on it. I have you, and that is conquest enough.”

Her lips curved at his answer, but unease lingered at the edges of her thoughts. She had seen envy before — envy did not stay quiet. It sharpened into knives when left unchecked.

Another night, as they dined alone in the smaller hall, a goblet was brought to her. Zerach himself lifted it, pressing it into her hands with a smile. She drank, trusting him more than her own breath. But even as the wine warmed her throat, she caught a flicker of something in his gaze — not doubt of her, but of the world around them. His smile dimmed. His hand lingered too long at the hilt of the dagger at his side.

“Why do you look so, my king?” she asked softly.

His eyes held hers, dark as burning coal. “Because there are shadows I cannot cut down. Shadows that smile and bow before me, while hiding their blades.”

Her heart tightened, but she said nothing. Instead, she rose and went to him, sliding onto his lap, cradling his jaw between her hands. “Then let me be your light. If shadows wait, we will face them together.”

His arms closed around her at once, pulling her against him. His kiss was deep, consuming, as though her words had torn open some wound he could not name.

That night, their passion was not wild but lingering, slow, reverent. He worshiped every inch of her, and she answered with devotion fierce enough to burn kingdoms. Yet beneath the sweetness, she felt it: a tension in him, a coil wound too tight. He loved her with the desperation of a man who knew something was slipping beyond his reach.

And though Daphne whispered her faith into his skin, though she pressed her heart against his as if to fuse them together, sleep would not claim her when at last he rested.

For even in their perfect harmony, she heard it — the faint echo of discord. A secret chord struck in silence.

The world beyond their bed was shifting, and the first cracks in their kingdom of fire and silk had begun to show.

The whispers came first.

They floated through the corridors like smoke — soft, poisonous, impossible to grasp. Servants bent their heads, voices low, yet Daphne heard them. She always did.

The King favors the head maid too much.

Rosa lingers in his chambers when the Queen is gone.

It is said he cannot resist her touch.

At first, Daphne dismissed them as venom. The court was full of envy, full of mouths eager to poison what they could not touch. But envy, she knew, was a seed. Left unchecked, it grew into thorns. And soon, the whispers clung to her mind even when Zerach’s arms wrapped tightly around her.

One night, when the chamber was bathed in firelight, Zerach reached for her. His eyes burned with the same hunger she had once drowned in, his lips tracing the curve of her neck. But Daphne stiffened, her body refusing to melt into his as it always had.

“I am tired,” she whispered, pressing her palm against his chest to hold him back.

His horned head tilted, his gaze shadowed. “Tired?”

“Yes. Tomorrow is heavy. I must rest.”

He growled low, as though the excuse wounded him more than any blade. “I will not be kept from you, Daphne.”

His mouth claimed hers with insistence, his hand sliding beneath her gown. And though she yielded at last, her body did not answer him. She lay still, silent, her heart a stone in her chest. His passion was fire, but she offered him no spark in return.

When he finally slept, she stared at the ceiling, her throat raw with words unsaid.