WHISPERS IN THE WALLS

WHISPERS IN THE WALLS
POV: Valentina
The mind plays tricks on tired queens.
That was what Adriano had said once. Half a jest, half a warning. But now, in the hush between midnight and mourning, Valentina wasn’t sure if it was her mind playing tricks—
Or her blood remembering too much.
She stood before the high windows of her chamber, watching the wind coil around the outer towers. The flames in the sconces danced like they too had begun to whisper.
You’re not safe here.
The thought came unbidden. Not loud. Not even urgent. Just… present.
Like a voice beneath her own heartbeat.
She turned from the window.
The mirror across the room had fogged. But she hadn’t bathed. There was no steam, no condensation.
Still, moisture bloomed over the surface like breath on glass.
She walked to it slowly, silk robes trailing, bare feet silent on the cold stone floor.
Her reflection was wrong.
Not completely—just slightly. A blink too long. A head tilt too delayed. The kind of wrong that made your skin crawl before your mind caught up.
Then her reflection’s lips moved.
But she hadn’t spoken.
“Come below.”
Valentina staggered back, breath caught, spine locking upright.
No sound followed. The mirror stilled. Her face returned to normal.
But she couldn’t un-hear it.
“Come below.”
She’d been hearing whispers for days. It started with scraps. Echoes in empty corridors. Her own name murmured when no one stood near.
She had blamed stress. Power. The crown weighing too heavy on her head.
But this wasn’t stress.
It was an invitation.
The halls of the estate at night had always unsettled her. Too quiet. Too reverent. Like the walls were praying.
Valentina didn’t call for guards.
She didn’t even take a cloak.
She moved barefoot through the ancestral wing, every step quieter than the wind, every candle flame flickering as if reacting to her passage.
Luciana’s portraits lined the hallway.
In most of them, she was dressed in scarlet and onyx. One hand always hidden. Eyes always too knowing. Her gaze followed Valentina now, unblinking.
Past the frescoes. Past the locked doors.
She found herself descending the back staircase—the one that led to the oldest parts of the villa.
A stairwell that curled downward like a spine.
Where the dead were kept.
The air changed.
It always did below the earth. The stones here were older, slick with condensation, etched by time and sealed secrets.
The catacombs hadn’t been touched in years. Not since Luciana’s funeral.
Even then, they hadn’t allowed Valentina inside.
“Too delicate,” they had said.
“You’re still healing,” they’d whispered.
They had hidden this place from her like a cursed cradle.
Now she returned to it like a question that had waited too long for an answer.
The hallway narrowed. The walls pressed in.
She passed alcoves carved into the stone—stacked bones, forgotten heirlooms, faded inscriptions of names long erased by moss and neglect.
Then she heard it.
Footsteps.
But not hers.
From behind.
She whirled around.
No one.
Only the torches crackling.
Only the sound of her breath, shallow and uneven.
“Too far to go back now,” the voice whispered again.
Her heart thudded once—hard.
She pushed forward.
Then she saw it.
A tomb, set apart from the others.
Newer.
Its stone was smoother, less eroded.
Something about it made her skin crawl before her eyes could read the name.
She stepped closer, barely breathing.
Then froze.
VALENTINA DE LUCA
Born in Blood. Died in Fire. The Crown Was Her Burial.
No.
No.
This wasn’t real.
She reached out a trembling hand and touched the stone. It was cold. Tangible. Carved.
The date below the name?
Tomorrow.
She staggered back.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Who would build a tomb for someone still breathing?
And why did it look like it had been here for years?
Panic coiled tight in her chest.
The whispers grew louder.
“This was always your fate.”
“She wore the crown. So will you. So will the fire.”
Valentina backed away from the tomb.
“No,” she whispered. “I’m not her.”
The walls didn’t care.
And neither did the dead.
A sound cracked behind her.
Not a whisper.
A shift.
Stone grinding against stone.
She turned sharply.
To her right, the wall had begun to open—seamless stone parting to reveal a narrow tunnel beyond.
She hadn’t touched it.
But something—or someone—had triggered it.
She stepped toward it, breath shallow, dread blooming in her ribs like a bruise.
Darkness poured from the hidden passage like water.
It felt ancient.
Older than any map of the estate. Older than any De Luca still alive.
She hovered at the threshold, unsure whether to enter or run.
Then—
A voice.
Behind her.
Not Luciana’s.
Not a whisper.
A woman’s voice. Confident. Calm.
And real.
“I wondered when you’d come home.”
Valentina spun around.
The candlelight flared.
And there—at the mouth of the catacombs—stood a woman.
Dressed in black.
Face half-shadowed.
Eyes too familiar.
Like looking at a version of herself sharpened by time.