Months had turned to years, and the palace of black stone, once a place Daphne feared, had become the rhythm of her life. The banners of the horned sigil fluttered over every tower, carried on the winds like whispers of power. From its marble halls to its shadowed gardens, the world knew that the Horned King and his bride reigned together.
Yet for Daphne, the palace was more than a fortress. It was the place where she had discovered the strange sweetness of belonging. Zerach, once a name wrapped in terror, had become her anchor, her fire, her storm. Nights with him blurred into a fever of passion; days with him became lessons in strength and rule. She was no longer the trembling princess dragged from her city in silks — she was queen, tempered in shadow and desire.
Still, the deeper their bond grew, the more whispers crept into the night. Whispers of betrayal. Whispers of a secret court that plotted in silence.
But for now, Daphne's heart burned only with the man she could no longer resist.
The chamber was dimly lit with golden lamps, their glow painting Zerach's skin in bronze fire. He sat at the edge of their bed, armor discarded, shoulders gleaming with the sweat of battle. His horn curved like a black crown above him, casting sharp shadows along the walls. Daphne stood before him, barefoot, her gown loose at her shoulders, her hair tumbling down like a river of gold.
Her heart quickened. No matter how many nights passed, no matter how many times she had lain in his arms, each glance from his dark, burning eyes unraveled her.
"Why do you stare so?" His voice was deep, low, a thunder that stirred her blood.
"Because," she whispered, stepping closer until her breath mingled with his, "I still cannot believe you are mine."
He smirked faintly, a shadow of amusement softening the steel in his expression. "You speak as though you conquered me, little queen."
Her lips curved. "Perhaps I did."
Zerach's hand shot forward, gripping her waist, pulling her onto his lap with such force that a gasp escaped her. His mouth found her neck, hot and unyielding, as she arched against him. His touch was both a claim and a question, demanding and tender, rough with power yet softened by something only she could summon in him.
Daphne's thoughts swam, molten and unrestrained: How can a monster hold me like this? How can a man born of vengeance touch me as though I am the only flame that warms him?
Her fingers tangled in his dark hair, tugging, urging, surrendering. His lips moved lower, tracing fire down her collarbone, his horn grazing her hair. She trembled, torn between fear and a hunger that had long since burned away the edges of innocence.
Their passion devoured the night again — bodies entwined, breath stolen, souls colliding until no space remained between them. Every gasp, every cry, every shiver wove them tighter, not merely as man and woman but as king and queen bound in something deeper than lust: a dangerous, unbreakable devotion.
When dawn spilled pale light across the chamber, Daphne lay tangled in his arms, her head on his chest. His heart beat steady beneath her ear, strong and constant, a sound that anchored her more than all the riches of the palace.
"You will be the death of me," she whispered with a tired smile.
Zerach's hand brushed her hair, his voice roughened by sleep. "Or I will be the life of you."
Days passed, and with them, the duties of a queen. Daphne walked through the halls with authority now, her gowns trailing like banners of gold and crimson. She sat beside Zerach in the throne room, hearing petitions, weighing justice. His warriors, once suspicious of her foreign blood, now bowed deeply, for they had seen how she tempered their king's fury with wisdom.
But shadows lingered. At feasts, Daphne caught glances exchanged between generals. In council, silences stretched too long. And when she asked, Zerach's answers were always the same:
"There are those who would see us broken. But let them try. My horn is sharp enough to drink their blood."
One night, when the palace was hushed and the fires burned low, Daphne ventured alone into the outer corridors. A sound drew her — a whisper, too soft for mortal ears but sharp to her instincts. She pressed against a column, listening.
"…the Bloodless Court waits. The queen has softened him. Soon, the strike."
Her pulse quickened. The voices faded into the dark, leaving her breathless, torn between fear and defiance. She returned to their chamber with the weight of the words clinging to her skin.
Zerach looked up as she entered. Even in silence, he could read her unease. "What troubles you, Daphne?"
She hesitated, then told him everything.
For a moment, his fury was thunder. The chamber seemed to shake, his horn casting shadows like blades. "The Bloodless Court dares to move against me?"
She touched his chest, steadying him. "Not against you. Against us."
His gaze softened at her words, though his rage smoldered still. He caught her hand, pressed it against his lips, his eyes locking with hers. "Then let them come. They think you have softened me, but they do not understand — you are the only reason I burn brighter."
That night, their passion was fiercer than ever, as though they fought the shadows with every kiss, every gasp, every desperate grasp for closeness.
But in the silence after, Daphne lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The Bloodless Court was moving, and she knew — their love would be tested not by desire, but by war.
Daphne rose before dawn, long before the palace stirred. She had grown used to Zerach's warmth beside her, but this morning, his absence startled her. The sheets were cold, and when she looked across the chamber, she saw him at the balcony, the pale light of morning washing over his body.
He stood bare-chested, muscles carved like living stone, his horn a black arc against the soft horizon. His spear leaned at his side, but he did not grip it. Instead, he stared across the endless forests, silent and brooding.
She slipped from the bed and padded toward him, her gown brushing her ankles. "Why do you stand there like a statue?" she teased, though her voice was soft.
"Because," he rumbled without turning, "statues cannot bleed. And sometimes I wonder if I should."
Her heart tightened. He rarely spoke in riddles, but when he did, it meant the weight of his past had crept into his mind again. She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her cheek to his back.
"You are no statue. You are flesh, and blood, and fire," she whispered. "And you are mine."
For a moment, he was still. Then his hand found hers, lacing their fingers together. "Yours," he agreed, voice low and raw, "but never safe. Shadows stir, Daphne. Even my generals whisper when they think I do not hear."
She kissed his spine gently. "Then let them whisper. What matters is what we do when they come."
He turned suddenly, catching her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his burning eyes. "Do you not fear me still? Do you not fear what I have become?"
Her lips trembled, but her voice did not falter. "I feared you once. Now I fear only losing you."
The words struck him deeper than a blade. His mouth crashed onto hers, fierce and desperate, as though her love alone kept the darkness from swallowing him whole. He lifted her in his arms, carrying her back inside, laying her against the bed as dawn flooded the chamber with light.
That morning was unlike their other nights — slower, hungrier, filled not only with passion but with something softer, rarer. Zerach traced every curve of her body as though committing her to memory, while Daphne clung to him as though he were her breath. Between kisses, her thoughts surged, fierce and unguarded: If the world turns against us, let it. If betrayal waits, let it strike. I will not let him go.
Later that day, council was called. Generals lined the great hall, their armor gleaming, their expressions grim. Zerach sat on his throne, a figure of shadow and command, while Daphne sat beside him, her golden hair bright against the black stone.
Reports came of villages raided near the borders, of strange symbols left burned into the soil. Always the same: a circle, empty at its heart. The mark of the Bloodless Court.
"They test us," growled one general, slamming his fist against the table. "They send whispers to sow fear, symbols to rattle our people."
"Fear is a weapon sharper than steel," Zerach replied. "But it cannot pierce me."
His gaze swept across the hall, and Daphne felt the air thicken. His presence was iron, but beneath it she sensed the tremor of unease.
When the council dismissed, Daphne lingered at his side. "You do not show it, but this troubles you," she murmured.
Zerach leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. "It is not their strength I fear, but their cunning. They strike not with armies, but with secrets. And secrets can bleed a kingdom dry."
She reached for his hand beneath the table, hiding the gesture from the eyes of courtiers. His fingers tightened around hers — not as king and queen, but as man and woman clinging to one another in the storm.
That night, Daphne dreamed. She walked through the palace corridors, but they were empty, their torches burned out. Shadows dripped from the walls like blood. At the center of the throne room stood Zerach, but his horn was broken, his chest torn, and his eyes hollow. From behind him emerged faceless figures cloaked in white, chanting in whispers that echoed in her skull:
Bloodless, bloodless, bloodless.
She woke gasping, her body slick with sweat, only to find Zerach's arms around her. His voice was calm, steady, a grounding storm. "Another dream?"
She nodded against his chest.
He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Then we will turn dreams into ashes. You are not alone, Daphne. Not now, not ever."
But even as his words soothed her, the echo of the chant clung to her mind like a curse.
Their nights grew fiercer as the tension deepened. Each time Zerach returned from war councils, his jaw tight with fury, Daphne pulled him into her arms and unraveled him piece by piece. Their lovemaking became more than passion — it was defiance, a fire to burn the whispers away.
Sometimes they laughed between kisses, their bodies tangled like reckless lovers, her golden hair scattered across his chest. Other times, they moved with desperate hunger, as though the world would collapse if they let go.
And through it all, Daphne's thoughts remained ablaze: They may plot, they may threaten, but no shadow will take what I have claimed.
But the shadows were closer than she knew.
One evening, while crossing the gardens, Daphne overheard two servants. Their voices were hushed, but the words cut clear.
"…the Bloodless Court is not far. They say even within these walls, there are those who bow to them in secret. Not even the queen is safe."
She froze, heart hammering. The betrayal she had feared was no longer distant — it lived inside the palace.
And as she returned to Zerach that night, holding him tighter than ever, she wondered: when the strike came, would their love be strong enough to survive the bloodless shadows?