Eyela’s POV.The kingdom of Cellon was alive with song that morning, the golden fields swaying as though they too joined the celebration. I stood at the castle gates with my father, John, and tried not to bounce on my toes like a child. The harvest festival was my favorite day of the year, not only because of the food and the laughter, but because it was the one time the whole kingdom gathered as one, offering thanks to the goddess Ciria for her gift of a bountiful harvest.My dark hair shone in the pale dawn light, a contrast to my father’s stern, cold profile. His arms were folded tight across his chest, his blue eyes, so like my own, fixed on the closed gates. My mother, Rose, lingered behind, chatting animatedly with a friend she had not seen in months.“Your mother might speak with every soul in Cellon before we reach the courtyard,” Father muttered. His voice was sharp, his patience worn thin like ice.I tried to soothe him. “Be patient, Father. She won’t be long.”But I knew sh

Eyela’s POV.When I woke, the world was wrong. The air smelled of incense, heavy and cloying, and the sheets beneath me were too soft, silk, not the worn linen of home. For a heartbeat, I thought perhaps I was dreaming. But then the memories flooded back, the carriage, my father’s hand, Lord Glen’s smile, and the truth struck harder than any blow.“You are at Glen Manor, my lady.”The voice startled me. A maid stood near the bed, her hands trembling as she set down a tray of food. She bowed her head. “I have drawn your bath.”Glen Manor. The name itself curdled in my stomach. I threw aside the covers, stumbling toward the window. The gardens below were lovely at first glance, but they were crawling with guards. Spears glinted in the sunlight, eyes roved like hunting dogs. There would be no easy escape.“Please, my lady,” the maid said softly, “eat something.”“Leave me.” My voice shook, but anger gave it edge. “Leave me!”She fled, and silence closed around me like a coffin. I pressed

Eyela’s POV.The night after Ciria’s sacrifice, I wandered the forest with fire in my veins. Every step shook the earth, and wherever my feet fell, lilies erupted, purple, dark-veined, dripping with ichor that gleamed like blood. I should have been horrified. Instead, I felt powerful.The girl who had been Eyela, afraid of her father, clinging to Seyal’s promises, was ashes now. In her place stood something new, something forged from grief and fury.I reached the edge of the forest by dawn, and before me lay Glen Manor, sprawling and arrogant, its banners snapping in the wind. Rage boiled in my chest. I remembered his hands, his laughter, the arrow that stole Seyal.My fingers curled. The ground shuddered. From the soil, roots burst forth, snaring the walls. Flowers bloomed along the stone, their perfume sickly-sweet. Guards rushed forward, shouting, crawling, but the lilies opened wide, spewing a black mist. Screams split the air as men collapsed, their skin mottled, their eyes rolli

Epilogue of Eyela’s arc, Eyela/Evilside’s POVTime lost its meaning after I became the Tree of Lilies. The days bled into nights, seasons turned like pages in a book I could no longer touch, and still I stood, rooted, eternal, cursed.My blossoms opened in spring with purple fire, their scent luring wanderers who strayed too close. Some came in awe, reaching for the flowers. The petals drank them in, their lifeblood feeding my roots. Others came with axes, intent on felling me. Their steel dulled, their arms weakened, their bodies withered until the earth swallowed them whole. I was beautiful, yes, but I was also death.I listened to the whispers of travelers. They told stories of me, of the girl who had once danced at harvest festivals, whose laughter carried through the fields, who had vanished into the forest and returned as a curse. Some spoke my name in reverence, others spat it in fear. Always the same word: Evilside.But beneath the bark, I still remembered another name. Eyela.

Hakaya’s POVAfter the raid, the village looked at me with new eyes. Not with gratitude, though I had saved them, but with fear. When I walked to the market, mothers pulled their children close to them. When I passed the well, whispers followed me like shadows: witch, cursed, demon-blooded.I tried to ignore them, but their fear carved itself into my skin. I could feel it in the way the baker’s wife would not meet my eyes, in the way the priest muttered blessings under his breath as I passed.At night, I dreamed of the tree again. The woman’s face in the bark grew clearer with every vision. Her lips moved, whispering words I could almost understand.“You are mine, Hakaya… the bloodline is yours to carry…”I would wake gasping, my body damp with sweat, my hands tangled in sheets littered with purple petals.The queen’s words struck like thunder.“You will not marry my son until you find your true mother. Until then, you are unworthy.” She would stop at nothing to keep the cursed blood