The night was heavy with silence, yet Daphne's thoughts were louder than any storm.
She sat upon the edge of her bed, golden hair tumbling in loose waves down her shoulders, her white nightgown clinging to the shape of her body as though spun from mist. The candles had burned low, their flames trembling against the velvet darkness of her chamber, but still she could not sleep. Her heart throbbed wildly in her chest, as if it had long known what her mind tried in vain to resist.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow her childhood would be over. Tomorrow, the Horned King would come for her.
She pressed her hands over her breast, willing herself to calm, but the heat beneath her skin betrayed her. It was not only fear that filled her veins tonight—it was something darker, something she dared not name aloud.
Why do I tremble for him? Why does my body burn at the thought of a man I have never touched?
She had tried to deny it, tried to pray it away in the temple, tried to bury it beneath silk sheets and whispered prayers. But the truth clawed at her every night, ruthless and undeniable: the shadow of the Horned King did not only frighten her. It consumed her.
In her mind, he was more than the monster her father spoke of. She saw him as fire and shadow both—his tall frame draped in black, his golden eyes burning with a hunger that devoured reason. She imagined his horn brushing her skin as he bent to claim her lips, his strength caging her body in a prison she would not resist.
Her cheeks burned, and she buried her face in her palms. Gods forgive me…
But when she closed her eyes, the visions grew stronger. She could almost hear his voice, low and commanding, whispering her name. She could almost feel the heat of his breath against her ear, the press of his hand at her back, pulling her against him until she had no choice but to surrender.
And though her heart cried out in protest, her body betrayed her. Her breath grew shallow, her thighs pressed together beneath her gown, her lips parted in a silence she dared not break.
"No…" she whispered into the darkness, trembling. "I should not… I must not…"
Yet the more she forbade herself, the deeper the longing grew.
Rising from her bed, she paced the chamber like a caged bird, the hem of her nightgown brushing against her ankles. Her bare feet whispered across the marble floor as she drifted toward the window. She pushed it open, letting the cool night air kiss her flushed skin. Beyond the palace, the city of Cural slept under the watch of the moon, unaware that by tomorrow, their princess would be led away forever.
Her fingers curled against the stone of the balcony. Her breath quickened.
Does he think of me now? she wondered desperately. Does he wait with the same fever, the same fire that consumes me? Or am I nothing to him but a prize to be claimed, a promise to be fulfilled?
Her chest tightened at the thought, and yet… her lips curved in the faintest tremble of a smile. Because whether she was a prize or a queen, she would still be his.
She leaned against the balustrade, the night air tugging at her hair like a lover's hand. Her imagination carried her far from the palace walls—into the wilderness, where his fortress stood like a heart of iron. She saw herself in his arms, pressed against cold stone, his kiss fierce and unyielding. She saw herself beneath him, silks torn, his strength overwhelming, her cries swallowed by the darkness as he made her his own.
Her body shivered at the vision. Her breath escaped in a ragged sigh.
"Zerach…" she whispered, daring at last to speak the name that haunted her.
The sound of it lingered in the air, dangerous, intoxicating.
Ashamed, she turned from the window, clutching at her chest. "No. I must not think of him this way. He is my captor, not my beloved. He is the monster of children's tales. He…"
Her words faltered.
Because even as she tried to curse him, her mind betrayed her with gentler images. She saw him not as a monster, but as a man—his scarred chest beneath her touch, his eyes softened by something rare and hidden. She imagined his hand covering hers, steady, protective, as though he would shield her from the very world he had set aflame.
She pressed her forehead against the wall, gasping. Why do I yearn for you? Why does every part of me ache to be near you?
The sound of footsteps broke her torment. She straightened at once, wiping her tears, steadying her breath. A knock fell upon her chamber door.
"My princess," came the voice of her father's steward. "The king bids you come to his hall."
Her heart sank.
She drew a cloak about her shoulders and walked the long corridors of the palace, her steps echoing softly in the silence. The torches flickered as she passed, throwing long shadows against the stone walls. Her every step carried her closer not only to her father—but to the truth she had long been denied.
The throne room doors opened with a groan. Inside, her father sat heavy upon his throne, his crown dull with age, his shoulders bent by sorrow. He lifted his weary eyes to her, and she knew at once: the hour she had dreaded had come.
"Daphne," he said, his voice breaking. "My beloved child. I can no longer keep the truth from you. Sit with me. Hear what binds your fate."
Her blood ran cold. She stepped forward, her cloak trailing behind her like a shadow.
And in that moment, her heart whispered what her lips could not deny:
The night belongs to him already.
The king of Cural looked smaller than she had ever seen him, as though the weight of his crown had finally broken him. His hand trembled upon the armrest, his lips quivered as he whispered her name again.
"Daphne."
Her steps slowed as she drew nearer. "Father… what troubles you?"
He lowered his gaze, shame pooling in his eyes. "The truth I have hidden from you. The truth of the shadow that has haunted us for eight long years."
Her heart skipped. The shadow. Even before he spoke the words, she knew who he meant.
She sank to her knees before him, her hands clutching his. "Tell me. No more secrets."
The king's voice cracked. "On the night Cural burned, when our walls crumbled and our soldiers fell, I thought the gods had abandoned us. The Horned King himself breached this hall. His spear dripped blood, his horn shone with death, and he came for me, as he had come for so many kings before."
Daphne's chest rose and fell with ragged breath. She could see it, could almost hear the clash of steel, the roar of men dying, the fire devouring her city.
Her father's grip tightened on her hands. "He would have ended me then and there. His blade was raised, his vengeance unstoppable. But then…" His voice faltered. Tears gathered in his eyes. "Then you cried out."
Her lips parted. "Me?"
"You were ten years old, frightened, yet you rushed forward and clung to me. Your cry pierced the hall. And somehow—by miracle or curse—it stopped him. He looked at you. He looked at my little golden-haired child, and for the first time, his hand faltered. He lowered his sword."
The memory struck Daphne like lightning. She did not remember his face—only the sound of chaos, the heat of fire, and the strength of her father's arms as she wept against him. Yet now, in her mind, the shadows sharpened into shape. She saw a towering figure with eyes like molten gold, a curved black horn gleaming in the firelight. She felt again the terror—and something else, something she could not name.
Her father's voice grew hoarse. "He spared me. He spared Cural. But he did not leave empty-handed. He demanded a price. He demanded you."
Her breath caught in her throat. She shook her head, refusing to believe. "No…"
"He swore that when you came of age, he would return for you. To claim you as his bride. That was the oath that saved us, Daphne. The oath that binds you now."
Her hands went cold. The air fled her lungs. She staggered to her feet, her cloak falling from her shoulders, her golden hair spilling like fire in the torchlight.
"A bride?" The word broke from her lips like a curse. "To him? To the Horned King?"
Her father's tears fell freely now. "If I had refused, we would all have burned that night. Every soul in Cural would have perished. Forgive me, my child… but your life was the price of our survival."
Daphne turned from him, pressing her hand to her mouth. Her body shook with sobs, yet beneath the sorrow burned a fever that terrified her. She should feel only hatred, only dread. But instead—her mind betrayed her.
She saw again the image of him: his horn glinting in the fire, his golden eyes burning into hers. She remembered the strength that filled the hall like a storm, the command that silenced even death. And though her soul screamed in protest, her body remembered something else—something shameful, something undeniable.
Her cheeks flushed hot. Her breath came heavy. Why do I feel this way? Why does my heart not collapse in fear alone? Why does it race with longing, as though it has awaited him all along?
She pressed her back to the cold stone wall, desperate to steady herself. But the chill could not douse the fire inside her.
Her father's voice called after her. "Daphne… you must be strong. You are the shield of Cural now. If you deny him, if you resist, he will destroy us. Promise me you will endure."
She could not answer. Words failed her. Instead she fled the throne room, her cloak dragging behind her like a shroud.
The corridors blurred as she ran, her tears blinding her, her breath sharp with anguish. She stumbled at last into her chamber, slamming the door shut, collapsing against it.
Her body quaked with sobs. Yet beneath the sobs was heat—an ache she could neither master nor extinguish. She pressed her hands to her face, ashamed of the truth whispered in her heart:
I am afraid… yet I burn for him.
She slid to the floor, curling into herself, whispering his name as though it were both a prayer and a curse.
"Zerach…"
And the night answered with silence.