Day after day, as dawns pass by, there was a God who held his heart above his soul, above his mind and life—he loved a mortal whose beauty was incomparable.
The mountain where the deities lived would stalk the God. He, out of good heart begged their blessing to marry the mortal, but they were unkind to him and turned the mortal into a flower which the God could never find, eons it took and there were no leads.
In the God's rage, he plunged the world into an awful disease—The Nightshade. A devastating curse that stirs inside the bodies of men. Wounds in shape of roses would appear on their skin, then flowers would sprout—draining their life, eye sockets become hollow in place with thorns, and a black blossom would bloom from their chests casting a mirror of what remains in the heart of the divine. Absent from light.
The heavens thought it nothing, but when it rotted their temples, and brought upon calamities, famine, and war they striked the God down, skinning him from his divine robes. Now he wanders around the mortal world in search for the flower...the mortal, who went by the name of Iris...
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In a sunlit pavilion adorned with delicate lace curtains and vases brimming with wildflowers, Daphne adjusted her silk garments as her father, King Hygor, poured steaming tea into fine porcelain cups. The scent of rosemary and lavender wafted through the air, mingling with the faint melody of a kithara playing.
Daphne's reflection in the teacup rippled as she reached for it, her verdant eyes tinged with an inexplicable melancholy she could never place.
She had felt it all her life, a strange emptiness, like a fragment of her heart was missing, despite having all things a young princess could wish for—a loving family, a flourishing kingdom, the admiration of many.
"Daphne," her father's voice broke through his thoughts, soft yet firm. "You seem distracted today. Is something troubling you?"
"No, father," She replied smiling, though the smile seemed practiced—as it was perfected by the teachers she called her friends, but didn't share the same sentiment. "I was merely lost in thought."
His father studied her, his sharp gaze lingering for a moment before nodding. "You've been doing that more often lately. Perhaps you should visit the temple; it always seems to lift your spirits."
Daphne chuckled lightly. "Perhaps I shall."
It never did, yet she goes only to please his father's anxious heart. Politics in Antherion was just as cutthroat as it is in the frays of the divine disease, and as king—the turmoil is there. He masks it so nicely that it warps into something his followers mistake as grit and conviction. But Daphne could see it—right through everything.
The garden bloomed in a riot of colors. Yet among the sea of lilies, Daphne's attention was often drawn to one particular patch—the hyacinths. For reasons she couldn't explain, they just fascinated her. Their beauty felt familiar, as if they lingered in her soul like wistful sorrows of ages passed.
"Daphne," his father called again, only this time he used the tone he'd normally use for council meetings. "Did you hear what I just said?"
She didn't. Her eyes were far too busy enjoying themselves, and her ears slept as they did so. She smiled first then she shook her head making her father sigh—though it wasn't the kind the aristocracy despised to hear. It seemed more of a calculated reaction—as if he Daphne wasn't listening.
"The Archpriest has been sending me a plethora of missives."
Daphne sighed, placing down her drink before her lips could touch the gloss. Fixing her laurel crown, she looked up at his father, a brief flicker of annoyance in her gaze. "What does he want this time?"
The old goat, the priest, never liked Hygor. He was stern, criticizing every move Hygor played in the game. Which was puzzling since he felt the opposite about Daphne. He liked her, and maybe he liked her too much. Her visits to the temple were his favorite days. She never talked to him, but he always tried—the kind of persistence only a man could make when they were thinking with their loins.
Hygor folded his hands neatly in his lap, eyes briefly tracing the garden's vibrant colors before returning to his daughter. "He is just concerned. The disease is already making its way near our kingdom's borders, and we have already issued a mandate for all citizens to be evacuated nearer to our capital."
Hygor pushed his hair back, frustrated. It was fear—Daphne could tell. The last time he tapped his foot, when his eyes threw themselves unto the endless blue was when Eirenis, Hygor's wife, Antherion's queen, fell into the from assassination. The murderer was never caught which is why Daphne was under her father's draconic supervision—the kind of which that only allowed privacy when she needed to bath or use the pot.
"As you know, Daphne, our kingdom—"
"Is bound by prophecy," she interjected. It was a mantra she was told a few days after she left her mother's womb. "The one that is rebirthed is destined to rise as the savior, leading the way to salvation for all. I know, Father. You never let me forget."
"Right, I don't," the king chuckled storing his cup before he crossed his legs. "Two kingdoms have already come forward asking for help. Unfortunately, the Nightshade has already consumed most of their territory."
Daphne paused, her mind reeling. The Nightshade had always struck one kingdom at a time—its slow, unrelenting march never taking more than a single landmass at once. But now, it was consuming two kingdoms? The curse was brutal but orderly; its spread could be predicted, its pattern followed—Has something changed? Did...someone—
"How could that be?" Daphne asked, her voice laced with confusion. "This shift of behavior is...concerning, should we be worried about the state of things at the next attack?" She continued.
King Hygor's expression softened, the worry lines on his brow deepening. "It is in our best interest to prepare. Whatever it is the divine calls forth, Antherion should match their caliber,"
"But...this change might backpedal years of knowledge, we do not know what might happen after a few months—should there be another shift concerning the disease," Hygor paused gesturing for one of his servants, to dispose of the ghastly letter.
He let out a breath relieved by the absence of official documents from his sight—a simple thing to pluck the king out of him, and enjoy as if he were any other man.
"The Leiropheme Season is two fortnights away, aristocracies and nobilities would once again come flooding into the capital like a swarm—of course, that also meant more diplomatic waves," Hygor groaned. The last thing he wanted was Daphne reminding him of such a dreary spectacle. As if he hadn't spent the last three weeks trying to scrub it from his mind with wine, music, and desperate, sleepless distractions.
But he managed a small smile. The weary kind that made Daphne regret mentioning the season. But it also made her pity him. Other than the season, in his hands lies the fate of two kingdoms on a cliff beneath ruination—a mantle only a man like him could take.
"You know that it is also a time where our God crowns the vessel for her divinity, the Lily of the heavens," he paused, his eyes like a hearth while Daphne gently stared at him as if he were the only flame dancing in the witching hour. "This could also be an opportunity to put our people at ease..."
Daphne knew their God well—or so that's what she'd like to believe. Panacea, was the goddess of bounty, healing and spring, and her Lily was an extension of her power, the will to reverse the Nightshade. She may never want to crown two Lilies. It has never been done—there wasn't any cause, nor necessity for it.
"And what of the representatives? Would they be joining the procession?" Daphne already knew the answer, but she had to stop him from leaving—especially when he was having a peaceful day.
"They should be," He replied, drinking from his cup before he gave Daphne a flinty expression. "I expect you to clench unto your wits during their stay. Especially, when we'll greet them upon their arrival." Daphne stopped, her tea-cup freezing midway below her chin.
"I do not see why I should be there," Well she shouldn't even be there if it was some spokesperson or a flimsy noble from abroad, but no, they were—
"Had it been my choice, you wouldn't," Hygor sighed tossing himself unto the seat as if he had just came home from hunting—as if his title didn't exist as king.
"The people coming are royalty. Unfortunately, customs dictate—" Hugo paused seeing Daphne's eyes agape. "It's natural for a dying country, Daphne. I fancy the choice—sending themselves in earnest rather than some peevish aristocrat."
The castle barely had any guests, anything, truly. The ballroom was just a sorry sight, some servants even find the odd thing petrifying as if they were looking at the cadaver, ancient ruins from a once splendid utopia. It should've served the gentry, aristocracy, those who dabbled in the arts or the upper echelons of their country, but no.
Which is why Daphne never met another king. Her entire social circle consisted, if not, only populated by her brother and her father—their hours guzzled by the fear of the next Nightshade. It was somber, truly. But it was a princess's life—her life to be exact.
"It would be interesting to meet the kings. I do hope at least one of them would bring a daughter." Daphne smiled, tracing the rim of the cup with her finger. Hygor knew none of them had one but—
"They have princes, Daphne."
"Princes?But I tho—"
"The kings, I assume, had to lead what's left of their territory," With one feet after the other, Hygor stood up. It was slow—he wanted to stay, he wanted more hours passing by without thinking of anything, but he couldn't.
"And I... Well, I suffer the same." Daphne didn't look at him, she stared at the hyacinths, her father did the same—it was a note her father knew even if he were remarkably absent from her life.
She was frightened.
It wasn't solitude that scared Daphne. It was an imminent possibility—his brother is a knight, his father a king—they carry with them swords and battalions wherever their feet might lead them. Death seemed to follow their light like a shadow that just looms over them behind every subtle disaster.
"I pray you return home swiftly,"
"...If the gods allow it, then I shall."