𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐀

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 27

One week had passed, and Flora remained confined in the dungeon, enduring her punishment. Despite being innocent of the attempted assassination of the queen, she bore the weight of suspicion. Her mind was a tangled web of confusion and despair. Prince Atlas, didn't visited her but, had issued a decree: Food would be provided to her once a week.

The cold, damp walls of the dungeon seemed to close in on Flora, and the flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows. She wondered if anyone would ever believe her innocence, or if she would forever be branded as a traitor. The silence was broken only by the occasional footsteps of the guards outside her cell.

Princess Victoria, her eyes gleaming with malice, stood before Flora in the dimly lit dungeon. Her voice dripped with venom as she taunted the imprisoned girl:

"Oh, poor girl," Victoria sneered, "you wouldn't be here if you hadn't crossed my path." Her words hung heavy in the damp air. "I warned you—don't dare steal Prince Atlas away from me. But you defied me, and now you pay the price for taking what's rightfully mine."

Flora's heart pounded. The truth unfolded like a twisted tale: Victoria, the very person who accused Flora, was the true culprit behind the assassination attempt on the queen. The revelation hit Flora like a thunderbolt, shattering her illusions of justice and fairness.

Victoria's laughter echoed off the cold stone walls, a chilling symphony of betrayal. Flora's mind raced, piecing together the puzzle. She had been a pawn in a deadly game of power and desire. The prince, the throne, and her own life—all mere pawns on Victoria's chessboard.

Flora's mind churned like the murky waters of a forgotten well. The dungeon walls whispered secrets, but how could she unravel the truth? She had no witnesses, no alibi—only the weight of suspicion clinging to her like damp chains.

"Innocence," she murmured, tracing the rough stone with her fingertips. "How do I prove it?"

The torchlight flickered, casting elongated shadows. Flora's gaze fell on the narrow window, its iron bars a cruel reminder of her captivity. Outside, the world spun on, ignorant of her plight. She wondered if the sun still kissed the castle turrets, if the wind whispered through the courtyard.

"Victoria," Flora whispered, her voice swallowed by the damp air. The princess—the viper who had poisoned her life. But how could she expose Victoria's treachery? How could she convince anyone that the true assassin wore a crown?

Her thoughts danced like moths around a dying flame. Perhaps there was a clue, a hidden thread waiting to be unraveled. Flora's fingers brushed the hem of her tattered gown. She had nothing—no weapon, no magic, only her wits.

The dungeon's iron door groaned open, revealing **Prince Atlas**—a figure both familiar and distant. His eyes softened momentarily as they met Flora's, but the tenderness vanished, replaced by a steely resolve. His words cut through the damp air like shards of ice:

"As a traitor like you," he began, his voice low and unforgiving, "should live in a dungeon."

Flora's heart clenched. She had hoped for compassion, for a glimmer of understanding. Instead, Atlas's next words shattered her fragile hope:

"I regret... I regret seeing you,"he confessed, each syllable a dagger. "I regret loving you... I regret everything I did with you."

The dungeon walls seemed to close in, their rough stones mocking her pain. Flora's breaths came in ragged gasps. The man she had once loved—the prince who had whispered promises under moonlit skies—now stood before her, a stranger draped in disdain.

"I hate you sooo much,"Atlas spat, the venom echoing off the walls. His gaze bore into her, and Flora felt the weight of betrayal. The truth was a bitter draught: love had curdled into resentment, and she was the scapegoat for crimes she hadn't committed.
"You'll see what is hell..From tomorrow"

Saying this Atlas turned away, leaving Flora adrift in a sea of anguish. The dungeon's chill seeped into her bones, but it was nothing compared to the frost in his words. She clung to the memory of their stolen moments—the stolen kisses, the whispered confessions—but they crumbled like ash.

"Why?" Flora wanted to scream. Why had love twisted into hatred? Why had innocence become her prison? But her voice remained trapped, swallowed by the dungeon's silence.

As the door closed, sealing her fate, Flora vowed to unravel the web of deception. She would fight—for justice, for truth, and for the love that had slipped through her fingers. The dungeon held secrets, and she would emerge from its depths, not as a traitor, but as a phoenix reborn.

Flora's tears flowed like a river, carving valleys of sorrow into her soul. All she had ever yearned for was a simple life—a life nestled among the rolling hills of Roothallow village, where laughter echoed through sun-kissed meadows. Her parents' warm smiles, her best friends' playful banter—these were the threads that wove her dreams.

But fate, cruel and capricious, had other plans. The accusations, the dungeon's unforgiving embrace—they shattered Flora's fragile hopes. She clung to memories like fragile glass: the scent of wildflowers, the taste of ripe berries, the warmth of her mother's embrace. Yet now, those memories were shards, cutting deep.

In the darkness, Flora's dreams lay broken, scattered like fallen leaves. She wondered if the sun still painted the sky in hues of gold, if the village pond still whispered secrets to the wind. But the dungeon walls held no answers, only echoes of her pain.

And when morning's light seeped through the narrow window, it found Flora—a wounded bird, wings clipped, eyes swollen from weeping. The sun's touch was both a blessing and a curse—a reminder that life persisted even in despair.

She groaned, pushing herself up from the cold floor. Her reflection in the murky water basin revealed hollow eyes, haunted by betrayal. The world beyond the dungeon remained oblivious to her plight—the villagers tending their gardens, the children chasing butterflies.

"Why?" Flora whispered to the shadows. Why had love twisted into hatred? Why had innocence become her prison? The answers eluded her, slipping through her fingers like sand. But she vowed to rise, to reclaim her shattered dreams, even if they were mere fragments.

And so, with puffy eyes and a heart heavy as stone, Flora faced another day—a prisoner yearning for the taste of freedom, a soul seeking redemption in a world that had turned its back.