Novel & Cerita Palace 3: The Lost Daughter

A woman who ran. A woman who planned. A woman who believed in exits. The memory existed, but it felt strangely distant, like something she had read about rather than lived. When she finally stepped out into the corridor, the palace was already awake. Servants moved in quiet coordination, their footsteps softened by carpets that seemed designed to absorb sound as much as movement. Somewhere far below, water flowed through fountains that never stopped, even at night, as though silence was something the palace refused to acknowledge. And then she saw him.

My legs scream in protest as I struggle to continue the climb. We stop at a wooden door. An opal is set in the top in the head jamb of the door, large enough to seem considerable. The color a deep inky black with flecks of fire. The priestess knocks curtly on the door. “Enter!” Calls the voice of the Immaculate mother. The room is simple and sterile. The floors a white stone with a single table in the room. The Immaculate Mother is seated at the table with a stack of cards and a large book. Another chair sits across from her. “Take a seat.” She instructs and I oblige.

Losing a war of words meant nothing—losing face was the real defeat. “Soon enough, Evander will regret walking away from me—the real daughter—and picking you, the fake. A white swan is always a white swan. Even if she comes home late, she never turns into an ugly duckling.” Her voice dipped colder as she threw the final blow. “But you? You were born with ugly duckling blood. Just wait. You’ll see.” ***

She was dressed in a black skirt suit that stopped at her knees, as well as a pair of black pumps that made clicking sounds as she walked the marbled hallways of the castle. "It belonged to the previous mafia king, Marcel Montenegro," she said. "Of course, this means that it was mostly lost and auctioned after your uncle came into power, but the current mafia king bought it." Suddenly, my eyes caught a portrait. It was of a meadow that reminded me of the one that my father used to take me to when I was much younger. It was dusted with lavender flowers mixed with others that I didn't remember what they were. The memories almost overtook my senses as I was transported back there. The gentle ro

Darkness swallowed the Well of Reflection once more. Killian stood alone—no sword, no crown, no title. Only a son about to learn the truth about his mother. Nyx watched him carefully. For the first time since he had met her, she wasn't smiling. She wasn't mocking him. She almost looked... sad. Killian frowned. "What did my mother do?" Nyx remained silent, then raised a hand. The darkness around them shifted slowly. A palace appeared, elegant and grand. Silver banners fluttered in the wind, moonflowers bloomed in crystal gardens, and children laughed in distant courtyards. Killian recognized it immediately.

Vincent’s POV The scream rips through the palace. “Your Majesty! She’s…” The words die as I burst into the chamber. My heart stumbles, then stops. My daughter lies crumpled on the polished floor, limbs slack, lips tinged black. Her shallow breaths are the only sound in the world. Everything inside me explodes. “Get her up!” My roar shakes the walls. Healers scramble, robes swishing, hands fumbling like they’re children playing at saving lives. Useless. My daughter’s dying, and they’re tripping over their own feet.

Anya stood with Dimitri, Zoe asleep in her room, unaware. Pavel checked the feed. No figure. Just a single box—small, plain—left on the threshold. He opened the door. Lifted the lid with careful precision. Inside: A child’s silver bracelet. And a card. Four words, in perfect Czech: “Blood remembers. So do we.” Anya’s breath caught sharp. Dimitri’s eyes burned cold. Pavel’s voice was grim: “It was meant to be found. Meant for her.” Anya reached out—stilled by Dimitri’s hand.

As he looked at the evidence on the floor, he recalled Rita's deranged smile and Elisa's final calm yet despairing face. Finally, he understood what he had lost. It wasn't the business or family prestige. It was his only biological daughter. Moreover, it was all his fault. Outside, the night deepened. City lights flickered on, one by one, like countless indifferent eyes watching their broken family. A distant gunshot echoed. It was muffled. It sounded like the victim had their mouth stuffed shut. It was the Neri family's law—the execution of a traitor. Rita was dead.

When I’m not. These women probably ran the whole supernatural world. While the men were always roaring and yelling in each other’s face about who is who. I know women are the key players in that game of chess. If the queen is protected. Everything is going well and you can make great moves. And when shit goes south, the queen protects the king. I’m guessing this is where you get your warriors and foot soldiers for protection. “The one and only,” Daciana smirks proudly. “Wait, I have heard that he was with someone. The daughter of that small pack’s alpha.” She stares at me with widened eyes. “It makes sense now. I have never seen someone as pretty as her.”