The fortress did not sleep that night.
Zerach's command thundered through its halls like a storm unleashed. Guards doubled at every corridor, torches flared until the walls glowed red, and every shadow was searched as though it might conceal a blade. The message—the raven's cursed words—burned in his mind.
Daphne stayed close, her golden hair gleaming in the firelight, her fingers trembling but steadying when she clutched his arm. She had seen Zerach angry, fierce, victorious. But this was different. This was fear wearing the mask of fury.
"Zerach," she whispered as he strode through the war chamber, generals gathering at his side, "you cannot protect me if you burn yourself to ash."
He turned, his eyes molten gold, his horn catching the torchlight like a blade. "They will not touch you. Not while I breathe."
Her heart clenched. She wanted to believe him—oh, how she wanted to. But the raven's words echoed louder than his vow. The Queen Bleeds.
That night, he would not let her out of his sight.
They retired to their chamber, but the air was different. The silks seemed colder, the walls closer. Yet when he took her into his arms, Daphne clung tighter than ever, as though her embrace itself could shield them both from the unseen enemy.
Their kisses were fierce, desperate—born not of peace but of defiance. His mouth claimed hers with fire, his hands traced her body as though memorizing every inch, every curve, every breath. And she gave herself to him wholly, her whispers breaking between gasps:
"If I bleed, let it be only for you."
His reply was a growl against her throat, "You will bleed for no one. Not while I live."
Their bodies moved together as if trying to erase the prophecy, to drown it beneath waves of passion. Each touch became a vow, each sigh a promise, each cry a battle-cry against fate. When they collapsed at last, trembling and entwined, the storm outside their walls had quieted—but inside them, the fire burned brighter than ever.
Days passed. Daphne walked through the fortress with eyes sharper than before. She smiled for the servants, laughed for the children who adored her, but within she carried the raven's warning like a shard in her chest. At times she felt watched. At times, the shadows stretched too long.
Zerach noticed. He always noticed.
"You carry fear like a crown," he murmured one night, brushing his lips over her hair as they lay together.
"I carry truth," she whispered back. "You may be a king, but I am not blind. They will come. And when they do…" She hesitated, her hand resting on his chest. "…I do not want your vengeance to devour you, Zerach."
He caught her hand, pressing it hard over his heart. "If they come, they will learn my vengeance is not fire. It is a storm. And you—" his voice broke softer, almost tender "—you are the calm at its heart."
She kissed him then, slow, aching, her tears mixing with their passion. For the first time, she wondered if love this fierce could survive the world's cruelty.
The attack came not with fire, but with silence.
On the third night after the raven's warning, the fortress slept. The guards, weary from constant vigilance, began to ease. The halls dimmed, the torches lowered.
Daphne woke to the faintest scrape—a sound too deliberate to be chance. She sat up, heart pounding, her hand brushing Zerach's shoulder.
He was awake before she spoke. His spear, always near, was in his grip as the door splintered inward.
Figures cloaked in shadow poured into the room, blades gleaming, eyes glowing with a sickly light. They did not shout. They did not roar. They moved with the silence of assassins.
Zerach roared for them. His horn caught the moonlight as he met the first intruder head-on, spear flashing, body a storm of power and fury. Blood sprayed, steel clanged, shadows screamed.
But more slipped past him.
Toward Daphne.
Her breath caught as one figure lunged, knife raised for her chest. She stumbled back, but before the blade could fall, she seized a candle stand, driving its iron tip upward with a cry. The assassin fell with a strangled gasp, black blood staining the floor.
Zerach turned at the sound. His eyes widened—not at the danger, but at her. At the queen who had just made her first kill.
"Daphne!" he shouted, cutting down another attacker, his voice torn between pride and rage. "Stay with me!"
The chamber was chaos—steel, shadows, fire. But side by side, king and queen fought, their breaths ragged, their bodies burning with fury and desperation.
At last, the final intruder fell, twitching, their black cloak soaked in blood. Silence returned, broken only by Daphne's heaving breath.
Zerach dropped his spear, rushing to her, his hands trembling as they cupped her face. "You are safe," he rasped, though his voice shook with something more—fear, love, fury.
Her hands were bloody. Her eyes were wide. But she looked at him with unshaken strength. "Not safe," she whispered. "Not until we know who sent them."
And in her gaze, he saw it—not the frightened girl of Cural, but the queen who now stood at his side.
The Horned King had his bride.
And the world had just been warned—she would not bleed easily.
The floor was slick with blood, the scent of iron clinging to the air, but in that moment Zerach did not care. He crushed Daphne to his chest, his heart hammering like a war drum.
"You fought," he breathed, his lips pressed to her hair, his voice raw. "Gods, you fought."
Her body trembled in his arms, but it was not only fear. "I had to," she whispered. "They wanted me dead. They wanted—" her voice cracked, "—they wanted to take me from you."
His grip tightened. He pulled back, eyes blazing as he cupped her face, searching her gaze. "No one will take you from me. No one."
Something inside him broke then, something deeper than rage. He kissed her fiercely, tasting tears and blood on her lips, his need for her rising like fire after battle. The fight had left them raw, stripped bare of everything but the truth—they could lose each other at any moment. And that truth drove them into each other's arms.
Daphne did not resist. Her bloodied hands clung to him, pulling him down onto the bed where moments ago death had nearly claimed her. Their kisses were frantic, their movements desperate, passion tangled with fear. Each sigh, each touch, was a vow carved in flesh: We live. We love. We will not be broken.
When it was over, she lay against him, her breath still uneven, her eyes glassy with tears that were not only sorrow but release. Zerach's horn cast a shadow across the wall, sharp and unyielding, yet his hand stroked her hair with the gentleness of a man who knew how close he had come to losing his heart.
"You are more than I deserve," he whispered. "But you are everything I will protect."
She pressed her lips to his chest. "And you are not only a king of horns and vengeance. You are mine."
For the first time that night, he smiled.
The chamber was cleaned by dawn. The corpses were dragged away, the blood scrubbed, though the scent of iron lingered like a ghost. Zerach did not sleep. Neither did Daphne.
By morning, a prisoner remained—one assassin, captured alive by the guards in the chaos. He was dragged before the throne, his body bound in chains, his face hidden behind a black hood. Zerach sat tall upon his seat of iron and stone, his golden eyes blazing, Daphne at his side with her head held high despite the whispers that followed her first kill.
The hood was ripped away. The assassin spat blood onto the floor. His face was gaunt, his eyes sickly pale, veins dark against his skin.
"Who sent you?" Zerach's voice rolled like thunder.
The assassin laughed—a dry, broken sound. "The Queen bleeds," he hissed, "and the King falls. It is written."
Zerach's jaw clenched. He stepped down, seizing the man by the throat, lifting him as though he weighed nothing. "Written by who?"
The assassin only smiled, blood staining his teeth. "The Bloodless Court remembers. The Horned King will drown in his bride's tears."
At that, Daphne felt a chill crawl down her spine. She leaned closer, her whisper trembling but steady: "Ask him… why me?"
Zerach's grip tightened. "Why her?"
The assassin's pale gaze slid to Daphne, and his lips curled in something like reverence—or mockery. "Because she is the key. Gold hair, ocean eyes. She was named before she was born. When the Queen bleeds, the forest burns. When the bride screams, the horn breaks."
Rage exploded in Zerach's chest. He snapped the man's neck with a twist, his body falling limp to the floor. The generals gasped. Some bowed. Others looked uneasy. But Zerach's voice cut through their silence:
"Let them send more. Let them come with their prophecies, their omens, their blades. I will carve their Court into ashes. And I will see anyone who speaks of my queen's blood silenced."
The hall roared with approval.
Daphne, though, sat in silence. Her hand clenched tight in her lap, her heart a storm. The Queen bleeds. The words echoed through her skull, a prophecy that now felt inescapable.
That night, she stood alone on the balcony, the moon silvering her golden hair. Zerach came behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, his breath warm against her neck.
"You should rest," he murmured.
She leaned back into him, her body soft against his strength. "And dream of ravens and prophecies? No. I would rather wake with you than sleep with shadows."
He turned her in his arms, his eyes burning as he searched her face. "Do you fear them?"
"Yes," she admitted, voice steady. "But I fear losing you more."
His mouth crashed against hers then, not in desperation this time but in fierce, consuming love. They kissed until the stars blurred, until the world beyond their lips ceased to matter. And when he lifted her, carrying her back into the chamber, Daphne knew the prophecy might follow her, but so would his arms.
They made love again, slower this time, yet no less intense. It was not a denial of fate but a claim upon it—two souls binding themselves against a world that wanted to break them.
When she finally fell asleep in his embrace, Zerach whispered into her hair, "If you bleed, Daphne, then so will the world."
By the end of that week, the fortress was transformed. Watchtowers doubled. Walls reinforced. Scouts were sent into the forests in every direction. The name of the Bloodless Court whispered through the land like poison. Yet in the heart of it, Daphne walked as queen.
The servants bowed lower than before. The generals, once wary of her, began to nod in respect. They had seen her stand against assassins. They had seen her carry herself with the poise of one born to rule.
But it was not fear that made her queenly. It was love. Every choice, every step, every word she spoke was rooted in the fire she and Zerach shared.
One night, as they lay together, she whispered what had been growing in her heart: "If prophecy demands I bleed, then let it be for our children. Not for our enemies."
Zerach stilled, staring at her in silence. His hand spread across her stomach, his horn lowering until it brushed her brow. His voice trembled, fierce and soft all at once.
"Then let us defy prophecy," he said. "Let the blood they seek never fall. Let us build a future so strong the gods themselves will bow to it."
And with that vow, Chapter Four closed—not with fear, but with fire.
The Queen did not bleed. Not yet.
But the world waited.