Chapter 8 : zerach forgotten daughter “ROSA”

The next morning, she left her chambers early, saying she would walk the gardens alone. Yet unease dragged her back, her steps quick, her heart unsteady. She returned to the palace quietly, her feet barely whispering across the stone floors.

As she neared Zerach’s chambers, she stopped. The door was ajar. And through the opening she saw her.

Rosa.

The head maid stood close to the king — too close. Her hand lingered at his arm, her eyes lifted to him with something that was not servitude. And worse — he did not push her away. His expression was unreadable, but he let her linger, let her presence brush the air between them.

Daphne froze, her breath shattering in her chest. For a moment, she thought she would storm in, demand answers, unleash the fury that clawed at her throat. But no sound came. No step forward. She simply turned, her face pale, her heart thunderous, and walked away.

Days bled into nights, and the vision haunted her.

She began to notice more. Rosa’s presence at every corner. Rosa’s hand brushing against the king’s as she poured his wine. Rosa’s laugh — light, practiced — drifting from places Daphne did not expect. And Zerach… Zerach did not forbid it. He allowed her nearness, allowed her whispers. Sometimes Daphne caught them together when the hallways were hushed — their bodies angled close, their words too low to hear. Once, she swore she saw him bend, his forehead brushing Rosa’s hair.

It was enough. More than enough.

Daphne’s love turned brittle. She moved through the palace like a ghost, her golden gowns heavy, her smile forced. Zerach would reach for her, try to draw her back into his arms, but she flinched, offered him only fragments of what she once gave freely. He did not understand. Or worse — he did not care.

Then came the journey.

Daphne traveled to the border provinces, a queen’s duty, her heart heavy and aching. She told herself she needed the distance, that the whispers would fade if she was not there to hear them. Yet every night away, the thought gnawed at her: Rosa in her place. Rosa in his arms.

When she returned, weary from the road, she went first not to her own chambers, but to his. Perhaps to prove herself wrong, perhaps to find him waiting as he once always had.

But when she pushed open the door, the world split.

There, on her matrimonial bed, lay her husband — her king, her storm, her beloved — entwined with Rosa. The head maid’s hair spilled over his chest, her hands upon him, his arms pulling her close as though she were the fire he craved.

Daphne’s scream tore the silence, raw, unholy.

“Has it come to this, Zerach?” Her voice cracked, shaking the very walls. “Have you fallen so low you bring her into my bed?”

Zerach’s head jerked up, his horn casting cruel shadows across the wall. His eyes burned, but whether with guilt or fury she could not tell. Rosa clung tighter, as though daring to claim what was not hers.

Daphne’s heart shattered, but her voice was iron. “You were my life, Zerach. My flame. And you chose to smother me with shadows.”

The chamber trembled with silence, the air sharp as a blade. For the first time, she saw her love not as fire, but as ruin.

And she knew nothing would ever be the same.

The palace had always been a place of whispers, but lately, they carried sharper edges.

The King keeps the head maid too close.

The Queen’s smile has faded.

Perhaps Rosa has stolen the throne’s fire.

Daphne heard them in the corridors, at feasts, even among her own ladies. At first, she dismissed them as the jealous inventions of idle tongues. Yet the poison crept into her heart nonetheless.

Rosa had appeared in the palace only months ago — a quiet, diligent maid with eyes too sharp, too knowing. She moved with unusual boldness for a servant, her presence often near the King. And Zerach… he allowed it. He spoke to her in low tones, dismissed others so that she alone remained, and looked at her in ways Daphne could not understand.

The Queen began to withdraw. Nights once filled with laughter and flame turned cold. When Zerach came to her bed, she often turned away.

“I am tired,” she whispered one night, pushing his hand gently aside.

“Tired?” His voice was low, wounded. “You turn me away now?”

She said nothing. And though he claimed her that night, Daphne gave him nothing in return. No warmth, no fire, no kiss. Only silence.

Suspicion grew sharper the next morning when Daphne returned early from her walk. Passing the King’s chamber, she saw through the open door: Rosa, standing close, her hand brushing his sleeve. Zerach bent low to hear her, his expression softer than Daphne had seen in months.

Her breath hitched. Her heart twisted. She fled before they saw her.

From that day, everything she witnessed became another wound. Rosa standing too near at council. Rosa lingering after others had left. Rosa and the King walking together in hushed conversation by torchlight. Once, Daphne swore she saw Rosa’s hand clutch his in the shadows, and Zerach did not pull away.

The whispers of betrayal grew unbearable.

Weeks later, when duty pulled Daphne to the provinces, she left the palace with a heart heavy as stone. Yet even away, suspicion gnawed at her. Would he let Rosa slip into her place?

When she returned at last, weary from the road, she went straight to their chamber.

And there, she found them.

Rosa lay across the King’s chest, his arm wrapped around her. Their closeness, their whispers, their ease together — it was a lover’s scene.

Daphne’s scream tore through the chamber like a blade.

“Has it come to this, Zerach? My king, my husband, with a maid upon our bed?”

Zerach’s head snapped up, fury and shock blazing in his eyes. But before he could speak, Rosa fell to her knees before him, clutching his hand as tears streaked her face.

“No!” she cried. “No, it is not as it seems. Forgive me, my Queen… but I am no thief, no temptress. I am his daughter.”

The chamber froze.

Daphne staggered back as though struck. The word rang in her ears like thunder: Daughter.

Zerach’s face went pale, his storm-dark eyes widening with disbelief. “What did you say?”

Rosa’s voice trembled, yet her eyes shone with fierce resolve. “I am your blood, my lord. The child left behind when you rode to war. I came not as maid to serve, but as daughter to be known. To be claimed.”

Daphne’s heart pounded in her chest. Rage, betrayal, confusion — all warred within her.

If Rosa spoke truth, then the whispers, the closeness, the secrecy… were they born of shame and hidden blood, not lust? Or was this another web of lies spun to shatter her bond with the King?

She stood trembling, her voice breaking as she whispered:

“Daughter… or deceiver?”

And the chamber darkened, silence pressing like the weight of a storm that had not yet broken.