Trigger Warning**
Gore and Abuse, mental and physical**
***
Oh the corruption has taken root,
They had abandoned us,
They who bore us,
They who nurtured us,
They had looked away,
It is the gluttony of man,
It is the arrogance of beast,
It is sloth of dwarf,
It is the wrath of demon,
It is the lust of nobles,
It is the greed of elves,
It was the envy of blood to blood,
Thus Goddess of Sun and Moon,
Tore the sky, now the world chases each other,
Oh mother, do you still cry?
When they meet, will we see you again?
**
Breakfast, Littlebird."
Mama's voice woke me. I had just turned nine.
Our cottage creaked with wind. Behind its worn walls, my world began and ended.
My limbs were frail, my hair dyed black — I had never seen its true color. Mama said it was a hue people feared.
She said if I don't hide it, people will hate or hurt me.
I believed that was what love looked like.
In Greyhollow, our village is buried in fog and frost, I lived with Mama Maria and Papa Garrett.
When pain tore my body, Mama's touch eased it.
When the villagers whispered I was cursed, Papa's voice silenced them.
Mama said my real mother, Calla, worked in the capital. She came rarely, soft smiles and distant eyes — more caretaker than kin. She never stayed for too long, she left too early.
I craved for her love but maybe she didn't had any to give me.
Papa called winter "a test," a season where the strong survived.
But winter never tested — it only took.
The year it came for us, the beasts followed.
Winterbeasts — starved things of bone and ice, drawn to warmth and blood. One stumbled into the village at dawn. The men fought, but few returned whole.
When it reached our cottage, Papa faced it alone.
The howls didn't end until the sun rose.
The beast died.
So did half the village — and with them, Papa's strength. He never hunted again.
Mama prayed more after that. Not to the forest gods, but to the Goddess of Lost Worlds — Oruniel.
The villagers said she wasn't real. Mama said that didn't matter.
So I prayed with her too, whispering to a god no one believed in.
Time drained my body like melting ice.
Calla's visits grew fewer. Some nights, I cried until I couldn't breathe.
Then one night, the silence shattered.
They came for me — men in cloaks, faces like shadows.
They weren't here for food or gold.
They killed Papa. They killed Mama.
They killed everyone.
I ran. I don't remember how long. The forest twisted into darkness, breath tearing in my throat.
Then — a fall, a splash. The Black Creek swallowed me whole.
It was cold. Then it wasn't.
When I woke, I saw a boy. My age, pale as frost, eyes like nightfire.
His name was Luciel. A white raven perched on his shoulder — it spoke.
They told me I was no longer in my world, but in the Realm of Night, where ten months were darkness and two were fire.
Where balance was a lie, and the gods had abandoned both realms long ago.
Luciel didn't smile. He didn't pity.
He offered no kindness, but he didn't drive me away either.
So I stayed.
He said he needed only blood, not food — and I learned not to ask from whom.
Sometimes we fought. Sometimes he saved me.
He called me stupid; I called him cruel.
Yet we stayed together, two broken things too afraid to be alone.
Until they found us — the hunters from his world.
They hurt him, tore through our hiding place.
Before the end, the raven whispered:
"It's time you return."
Then everything vanished.
I woke again beneath the pale sun of my world.
No one knew me. I scavenged, hid, survived.
I remembered Mama's blood. Papa's silence. The way Luciel bled for me.
And I made a vow: I would stop running.
I would find the truth — and if I had to, burn for it.
Months passed before I met Riven, a wolf beastkin — the last of his tribe.
The royal prince of Isvalar had slaughtered his kin for sport.
He lived for revenge.
I saw myself in him — except he had purpose, and I still searched for mine.
He said my white hair suited me more than the black dye ever did.
When I stopped hiding it, my sickness eased.
Maybe Mama had been wrong. Maybe fear was the only thing that kept me weak.
Riven and I traveled together — two survivors, chasing ghosts.
When we reached the capital, we parted.
He for vengeance.
For answers.
I tried to reach the castle.
But before I could even reach the gates, someone dragged me in blind, they said they weren't going to hurt me, but rather they were here to help me.
When they removed the blindfold, I met someone who looked like my reflection in the mirror but covered in battle scars and injuries.
She was Princess Beatrice of Isvalar.
But she wasn't the surprise. Her words were.
"Your hair," she said, and glided her fingers though my hair, "it's the same as our family.
Before the questions could unravel, the hiding was raided.
And then I saw someone I never thought I'll see again, Mother Calla walked in.
A strange relief washed over my heart but I was wrong.
I ran to her, crying, "Mother!"
But Beatrice screamed — "Violet, no!"
The next sound was a thud.
Beatrice's head rolled across the floor.
I froze.
Calla's smile was unfamiliar — sharp, gleeful.
Then suddenly something struck the back of my head and my vision turned dark.
When my consciousness returned to me, I called for my mother, but the only thing I saw was cold stones, iron cuffs, and no light.
I was captured and thrown into a cell, by who?
Mother?
This time it wasn't misplaced doubt but thousands of reasons whispered me every time I tried to deny it.
I screamed until my voice broke.
No one came.
Two days later, she did.
A woman of gold and shadow, draped in the weight of a crown.
She smiled. "I am the new Empress of Isvalar."
She asked my name.
"Violet," I whispered. "Please… help me."
Her smile deepened.
"Hello, Violet," she said softly. "I am the Fifth Princess of Isvalar."
What followed wasn't life. It was unmaking.
She broke me with elegance.
Every wound was a lesson. Every scar is a gift.
She said I am the last taint of Isvalar, and a wish.
She finally got a toy whom she can play with without rules.
They dragged me to the my execution, they hooked me with chains, the smell of burnt flesh.
I cried and she smiled.
I tried to make words but a severed tongue can't speak.
"If only I could play with you a little longer," she said.
Here is the last gift...
"Your name isn't Violet. It's Nysera — a name no one will remember."
I cried again but it wasn't agony, it was pure contempt and hatred.
The words never came out, my emotions, my hatred, agony, anger.
"I'll destroy you! I'll make you pay for everything!"
I tried yelling, "I'll destroy everything bit by bit! I'll make to return everything! I Violet, I Nysera... promise to you!
I'll make sure to destroy everything!"
The fire burned my flesh as the hooks sank. My bones screamed.
Her crown gleamed under the winter sun.
And then — silence.
No warmth. No light. Just dark.
I thought it was death.
But death is mercy.
When I opened my eyes, I was seven again.
The same room. The same air. The same voice calling —
"Breakfast, Littlebird!"
It wasn't a dream.
I touched my hair — half-white, damp from dye.
And I remembered.
Every scream. Every gift. Every betrayal.
Was it mercy? No. It was a debt.
Twelve years.
That's how long before Venalor steals the throne again.
Before he kills me again.
But this time, I'm not the same child.
This time, I'll change the ending.
She gave me her gifts.
Now I'll return them all — wrapped in blood and silence.
This story once ended with my death.
This time, it will be written again.
In blood.
Just not mine.