Rejected Luna Queen

Netta’s POVExclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

I felt the tension in my shoulders and the weight of the past few days pressing down on me as I made my way back to my quarters.

Everything felt so tangled and complicated. Nolan, Rowan, the kingdom–it was all too much.

Once inside my room, I stripped off my clothes, feeling a small sense of relief as the formal attire fell away. I needed something comfortable, something that would let me move freely and lose myself in my art.

I pulled on a pair of worn jeans and an old, paint–splattered shirt. It felt like slipping into a second skin, familiar and comforting. I love comfortable clothes.

I tied my hair back, glancing at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes looked tired, the spark in them dulled by everything that had happened.

But I couldn’t afford to dwell on that now. I needed to paint. I needed to get all these emotions out of me and onto the canvas.

With determined steps, I made my way to the art room. The space had quickly become my sanctuary, a place where I could escape the tangled mess of my life and just be. I opened the door and felt a rush of gratitude wash over me.

The room was perfect. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, illuminating the white walls and casting a warm glow over the art supplies neatly arranged on the shelves.

I walked over to the easel and grabbed a canvas, setting it up in the centre of the room. My fingers itched to create, to let the paint speak for me when words failed.

I picked up a brush and dipped it into a vibrant red, the colour immediately bringing a sense of life to the blank canvas. I always love colours.

I started to paint, I felt a sense of release. Each stroke of the brush was like a sigh, a way to let go of the tension and confusion that had been building inside me.

The colours blended and swirled, forming shapes and patterns that spoke of my inner turmoil and my longing for something more.

Time seemed to slip away as I painted, the world outside the art room fading into the background. It was just me, the canvas, and my emotions, all merging together in a beautiful, chaotic dance.

I painted until my arms ached and my mind felt clear, the weight of everything lifting just a little bit.

When I finally stepped back to look at my work, I felt a sense of satisfaction. The canvas was a reflection of my soul, a testament to the strength and resilience that had brought me this far.

I wasn’t sure what the finure held, but in that moment, I knew that I could face it. I could find my way through the darkness, one brushstroke at a time.

The canvas before me was a vivid explosion of colour and emotion, each brushstroke a testament to the chaos and heartbreak swirling inside me.

The central image was a figure, almost ghostly, shrouded in shades of blue and grey, standing on the edge of a cliff.

The figure’s face was obscured, but the posture–slightly hunched, arms wrapped around themselves–spoke of sorrow and isolation.

Around this central figure, swirls of red and black twisted and turned, like tendrils of pain and anger reaching out to ensnare them.

The red was fierce and vibrant, representing the raw, bleeding wounds of betrayal and heartache. The black was darker, almost consuming, a representation of the despair that lurked in the corners of my mind.

In the background, jagged streaks of yellow and orange cut through the darker colours, symbolising the flashes of anger and frustration that broke through the sadness. These streaks were chaotic, almost violent, adding a sense of turmoil to the composition.

On one side of the canvas, a small patch of white and gold seemed to fight against the encroaching darkness. This represented the slivers of hope and resilience that I clung to, the belief that somehow, I would find a way through this.

The white was pure and clean, a stark contrast to the muddied colours around it, while the gold added a touch of warmth and light.

Near the bottom of the canvas, a single, small flower grew amidst the chaos. Its petals were a delicate pink, its stem a fragile green, but it stood tall and unbroken.

This flower was a symbol of my inner strength and the possibility of new beginnings, no matter how small or fragile they seemed.

The entire painting was framed by a border of deep purple, adding a sense of finality and containment, as if to say, “This is my world, my pain, and my hope, all captured within these boundaries.”

I stepped back to look at the finished piece, I felt a sense of catharsis. The chaos and heartbreak that had been tearing me apart were now laid bare on the canvas, a telltale to my journey and my strength.

It was a reminder that even in the darkest times, there was still beauty and resilience to be found.

I sighed deeply, my eyes lingering on the finished painting. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the room in the soft, fading light of dusk.

The colours on the canvas mirrored the turmoil inside me: jagged strokes of red for anger, dark blues for sorrow, and splashes of black for the void felt growing within.

The chaos and heartbreak I’d poured onto the canvas stared back at me, raw and unfiltered.

I knew what was coming next. Nolan would summon me soon, as he did every evening. Part of me dreaded it, wished I could escape from this cycle.

But a larger part–a part I loathed–craved it, yearned for his touch, his presence. I hated that despite everything, my body still responded to him, still sought him out.

With a heavy heart, I made my way to my room, each step echoing the internal conflict raging within me. Once inside, I waited for Maria to come and fetch me, as was the routine.

Time dragged on, minutes feeling like hours as I stared at the clock, the anticipation growing unbearable. The quiet of the room pressed down on me, amplifying every creak and rustle.

Seven o’clock came and went. By eight, a sense of hopelessness began to creep in. He hadn’t sent for me. I felt a pang of rejection, deeper than I cared to admit.

What did it mean? Had I done something wrong? Or was he simply tired of me already?

I sat on the edge of my bed, feeling a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Why did I feel so abandoned, so unwanted?

I hated this part of me that longed for his call, that felt incomplete without it. My fingers clenched the bedspread, knuckles white with tension.

As the minutes ticked by, I slowly let go of the anticipation, forcing myself to accept that tonight would be different. I wouldn’t be going to him. The silence of the room felt deafening, a stark reminder of my solitary state.

I tried to distract myself, picking up a book and attempting to read, but the words blurred together, my mind too preoccupied to focus. I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts drifting to Nolan.

I remembered the way he looked at me, the way his touch sent shivers down my spine. It was maddening how much power he held over me, even in his absence.

The hours stretched on, and eventually, I drifted into a restless sleep, dreams filled with images of Nolan’s face, his touch, his voice. In the dream, he was calling for me, his eyes burning with desire.

I woke up with a start, the room dark and silent around me. My heart ached with a longing I couldn’t fully understand, and I realised just how deeply he had woven himself into the fabric of my being.

I lay there in the dark, I knew I had to find a way to regain control, to stop letting him dictate my emotions.

But as much as I resolved to be strong, to detach myself, I couldn’t deny the part of me that would always yearn for him, always hope for his call. And that, more than anything, was what I hated