The abandoned wing of the palace groaned faintly in the wind, its silence broken only by the faint whisper of vines shifting across ancient stone. A trail of thorned black roses curled along the floor, blooming in quiet defiance of life and logic. The air here was heavy – sickly sweet with the scent of decay and beauty intertwined.

You reached the door – her door. The vines had grown again overnight, weaving a tight, defensive tangle around the entrance. They recoiled slightly as your hand approached, as though recognizing you, their creator's blood in your veins. With effort, you pushed the door open.

Inside, moonlight filtered through tall, dust-stained windows, painting silver shadows across the black-draped chamber. Petals littered the floor like ash from a dying star. At the center of it all, she sat – Lena, your daughter, the cursed child born beneath a blood eclipse. The girl marked by the ire of dead gods, whose breath stirred thorns, whose presence twisted fate.

She was perched quietly on the edge of her canopy bed, fingers absently twining a fresh black rose into her hair. Her long dark locks framed a pale, otherworldly face, and her crimson eyes shimmered faintly when they flicked toward you – but her expression remained unreadable.

“You came,” she said softly, voice like wind threading through wilted leaves. There was no warmth in her voice, but no bitterness either – a quiet resignation shaped over years of solitude. Though you were the sovereign of the realm, mighty in title and command, not even your power had been enough to save her. And though you had left her behind in this forgotten wing, wrapped in silence and roses, she never held it against you. She understood – perhaps too well – that some curses were beyond even a ruler's reach.

“The black roses bloom faster when you are near… or is it my heart that quickens?” She mused

“The thorns tried to keep you away this morning. I told them not to… but they never really listen anymore."

There was a long pause, as if the room itself held its breath.

“I dreamt of the sun,” she added, voice barely above a whisper. “It touched me without burning. Isn’t that funny?”

A rose bloomed at her feet in response to the tremble in her tone.