Villainous Demencia Fanart Novels & Stories

Aien - before the loss of his mother turned his father into a murderer. Between them was Derien Verstarjen looking very much as Aien did now, his hands spread. Where his fingers touched the edge of the frame, an intricately detailed swirl of vine and flower spread to cradle the miniatures of wife and son. Before the death of his wife, Derien’s magic had been the same as Aien’s, I realized. His misery and grief had turned the gift of life and growing into stone. I was wearing Aien’s mother’s dress because it had been given to me, I hoped with love in Aien’s heart and as a gesture of reconciliation, but I was not entitled to use her pins I decided as I set the miniatures carefully back from wh

Ava chuckled, "I am not sure everybody will agree with you about that." "It's their loss then. I have only met you for a little while but I am sure that you are a nice person with a good heart." Dreya said as he stood up from his kneeling position. "I am also a freak too. Did you know that? A vampire-werewolf hybrid. I have always known that something was wrong with me." "No Ava, you aren't a freak. And I have seen a lot of freaks." Ava smiled at this, "Thanks. Do you know Evena?" she asked.

Aunt Pamela spoke up sharply. "Pamela, you have no right to decide her future without her consent," Granny said firmly. "Oh, please." Aunt Pamela rolled her eyes. "You should be thanking my husband for finding such a rich husband for her… otherwise…" Her eyes traveled over me with pure disdain like I was something filthy. "You’re lucky he agreed to marry you despite you being a bastard." "Pamela," Granny warned in a cold voice, but Aunt Pamela didn’t look intimidated at all. "I will not marry him," I said firmly.

That every human being is a fictional character in this book. No wonder, she often heard her lady whining in a low mumble about the 'role' assigned to her. There are the words of her lady that are even engraved in her brain until now. Like: 'I'm sorry. Since I was a villainess at the start of the plot, so you suffer too.' Now, in terms of the new conjectures, they all fit. A role – villainess – a book – destiny. Then, Fuschia's behavior, which sometimes treats other people like they are not real humans, can also be a reference.

She dug the novel out from beneath a stack of correspondence she'd been using to bury it, dust gathering faintly along its spine, and sat with it open in her lap for the first time in nearly two weeks. *The Villainess's Ruin.* She'd read it once, in her old life, curled up with tea gone cold beside her, treating it as nothing more than pleasant escapism before bed. She read it now with an entirely different kind of attention, searching each page for anything she might have skimmed past the first time, anything that might connect, however loosely, to a name like Renshaw.