Romans de Diana

Lily’s pov The walls are white. Always white. They say white is the color of peace, of purity. But to me, it’s the color of emptiness. I’ve been in this room for as long as I can remember. Father says I’m sick. That going outside would kill me. He says I was born fragile, different, delicate. The air out there would poison my lungs. The sun would burn my skin. The world… would destroy me. He only wants to keep me safe. Still, I press my forehead to the window glass and watch the trees swaying in the wind. Just beyond the garden wall, the forest looms like a secret I’m not allowed to know. I wonder what the wind feels like. I wonder what freedom feels like. I imagine stepping outside barefoot, toes in the dirt, arms stretched wide. Would the sky fall on me? Would the trees whisper my name? He says the world forgot me. That even she forgot me. My mother. She left. Took Carol with her. Didn’t even look back. I was too sick, too much of a burden. He said she only wanted the strong

Carol’s POV The walls of my room are painted soft pink, like the sky just before sunrise. They used to comfort me. Now, they just feel… dull. Lifeless. A color that promises warmth but never quite delivers. The scent of roses wafts in from the vase on my desk, a fresh bouquet Father insists on replacing every week. I used to love that smell. Now, it makes my stomach twist. I sit on my bed, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around Dove—the worn stuffed bunny I’ve had since childhood. I named her myself. Back when things were clearer. Back when I thought the world made sense. Mom gave her to me. No—not Mom. That woman. I shake my head. No. That’s not right either. Father said she abandoned us. Took Lily and vanished. Said she couldn’t bear the weight of raising two daughters, and I was too weak for her liking. He said I should be grateful. That he saved me. But if that’s true… why does my chest ache every time I think of her? Why does her lullaby still echo in the back of my

Unknown Figure – POV The old oak door groans as I descend the final stone steps. The scent of damp stone and rot rises to greet me like an old friend. I inhale—not for pleasure, but for control. Down here, there are no lies, no masks, no titles or politics. Only stone, secrets… and her. The torches lining the corridor flicker as if recognizing my presence, casting long shadows along the damp walls. The flames bow in silence, just like everyone else should have. My boots echo with each deliberate step, a rhythm of inevitability. She doesn’t look up—not at first. She never does. She sits just as she always has: ankles crossed, back straight, a mockery of grace. As if she still holds dignity. A fool’s delusion. “I see the rats haven’t eaten you yet,” I murmur, voice flat, emotionless. “A shame. I had such high hopes for them this week.” Her head lifts, slowly. Her hair is tangled, wild, a mess that speaks of years stolen. But her eyes—those cursed eyes—remain unchanged. Defiant. B

Eva POVSonia’s fingers tighten around mine as we rise from the pool’s edge. The forest is still, holding its breath. The relic hums faintly in her pocket like a heartbeat beneath the surface.She glances back at the water. “That place… that field… was it real?”“As real as this,” I say. “The truth shows itself when we’re ready to carry it.”I step into the shallow water, guiding her with me. The surface parts again beneath our feet—not through magic, but memory. A stone beneath the center of the pool shifts at my touch, revealing a spiral staircase descending into the earth. Cool air rushes up to greet us.“This way,” I say.We descend in silence. The deeper we go, the more ancient the air becomes. The tunnel is carved from living rock, the roots above forming veins through the ceiling. This place was built long before palaces, long before thrones. This is where executioners are born—not of blood, but of balance.At the bottom, we reach a massive iron door—its surface carved with run

Eva’s POV The morning air is cool as I step through the threshold of Sonia’s room. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her arm still wrapped in bandages, the wound from the rogues healing slowly. Her gaze lifts to mine, no longer full of hatred—only uncertainty. “Are you ready?” I ask. She nods, hesitating only briefly before taking my hand. The bond between us is still forming, delicate but undeniable. Without a word, I guide her through the corridors of the palace, beyond the guards, the gates, the eyes that watch. We walk in silence through the trees, the ground soft beneath our feet. Birds don’t sing here. This path is too old, too sacred. Eventually, we reach the heart of the forest—a clearing surrounded by ancient stones carved with symbols even I don’t fully understand. In the center lies a small, shallow pool, its water still as glass. I sit on the edge, motion for Sonia to do the same. She looks around. “Where are we?” “This is where I was born,” I answer. “Not from f

Eva The morning sun breaks through the canopy as I make my way toward the infirmary. The forest is quiet, thick with dew and silence, but inside me, everything is taut. Sonia has been recovering for days now. Her body is strong, but what she faced—what we faced—cut deeper than teeth or claws. Deeper than prophecy. We are bonded now. Not just by blood spilled, but by something older. Something heavier. I stop at her door. Her scent has changed—muted, cautious. Still laced with pain, but quieter now. Grounded. I don’t knock. I never do. She’s sitting halfway up in bed, blanket drawn over her legs, staring out the window as if the trees might answer her questions. She doesn’t look at me when I enter. “I said I’d come,” I tell her. She shrugs without turning. “Didn’t think you’d remember.” “I remember everything.” I cross the room and sit beside her. Neither of us speaks. The silence stretches between us, not tense—just full. Sonia feels different today. Not physically—her wound