Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

꒰ა PROLOGUE ໒꒱

⋇⊰Life of Torment⊱⋇

❥・CW:  Violence, descriptions of burned bodies, subtle mention of suicide & decapitation

❥・Word Count: 3.4k

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

You open your eyes to a world painted in fire.

Smoke coils through the air like phantom snakes, thick and choking as it clings to your skin. The sky above burns an angry orange, fractured by the silhouettes of collapsed homes and twisted spires of flame.

Screams ring out all raw, panicked, and dying—their origin lost in the chaos, but their agony unmistakable. Around you, people either run, stagger or fall. Some you recognize: neighbors, the baker’s son, your mother’s friend with the warm laugh.

Others are strangers, but that doesn't matter. They're Arcaniacs, all of them just like you. The attackers? Humans... regular people who do not posses magic.

Once, Arcaniacs and humans lived as one—different, yes, but not enemies. You remember smiles exchanged between townsfolk and magic-users, remember your mother healing a farmer’s broken leg without being asked, your father lighting lanterns along the village path just to keep the children from being afraid.

Now, none of that matters. Now the very people your kind helped have turned on you, driven by fear, or hate, or something crueler. You don’t know why and you don’t think you ever will.

The town had been quiet this morning. Peaceful. There was no warning or sign of what was coming. Then they descended out of the blue.

There were so many of them.

Some Arcaniacs fought. You remember seeing magic being summoned in desperation, lashing out in brilliant but brief defiance. But the attackers were far too many. It wasn’t a battle, it was a slaughter, a massacre of the innocent.

You take one small step forward. The ashes crunch beneath your feet. The scent of burning wood blends with the acrid stench of scorched flesh, making your stomach twist. Your lips are parted, but no sound escapes.

A numbness has settled in your chest, spreading like ice in your veins. The kind of cold that comes when something you love is broken beyond repair.

And then from a distance a voice echoed.

“[Name]?”

Your head jerks up, instinctively turning toward the call. You know that voice, you’d recognize it anywhere.

“[Name]!”

Again, clearer this time. Your name, shouted through smoke and flame.

You squint, eyes stinging as you peer through the thick haze. Two shapes emerge from the gray—tall, human-shaped, flickering with the orange glow of firelight. A man and a woman. Your breath catches in your throat.

You begin to run toward them.

Your small legs struggle to carry you through the wreckage, but you push forward anyway, stumbling over fallen stones and smoldering debris until—

“Oh, [Name]!”

Your mother’s voice is cracked and trembling, but filled with such raw relief that it cuts through the noise like a blade. She drops to her knees the moment she sees you, arms outstretched, and you throw yourself into them.

She clutches you tight, as though letting go would let you vanish. Her hands are shaking as they frame your face, her thumb brushing away soot that streaks your cheek.

“Thank God... thank God, you're alright...” Her voice is breaking, the words rushed, frantic, desperate. Her eyes normally so calm are now wide with fear and glassy with tears.

Beside her, your father appears, panting, dirty, his face streaked with ash and blood. He doesn’t speak right away. He just reaches out, resting a strong but trembling hand on your shoulder. There's relief in his eyes but it's buried under so much pain.

“We… w-we have to go,” he finally murmurs.

His voice is low, hoarse, as if even speaking requires more energy than he can spare. He pulls his hand away, and it hovers for a second in the air like he wants to reach but doesn’t.

Your mother gently turns your face toward hers one last time. Then she stands, taking your small hand in hers. Her grip is firm, steady, but you can feel the faint tremor in her fingers.

“We could try the library,” she says after a pause, glancing at your father. “It’s far from here. No one should know about it… it might be safe.” She takes a deep and shaky breath. “I’m sorry, I-I’m still a bit drained from my last cast—”

“It’s fine, love,” your father interrupts softly, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t push yourself if you can’t bring us out... We'd all make it out.. together.”

They look at each other then. No words are exchanged just eyes locking but they somehow had a conversation. After a second, your father nods and turns, taking the lead.

Your mother squeezed your hand and you followed her way. You're smaller than both of them, your legs shorter, but fear lends you a strange kind of strength.

The world is collapsing all around you—buildings groaning as they fall inward, bursts of flame erupting in the distance, the air thick with smoke and the stench of death.

Everywhere you look, there’s ruin.

Charred wooden beams jut from shattered stone walls like broken bones. What used to be homes that were full of life are nothing more than crumbled skeletons now. Once, you pass what must have been a nursery: the remains of a cradle half-buried in rubble, splinters of a rocking horse beneath scorched cloth.

Oh and the bodies.

You try not to look. You try not to count. But they’re there, burned or broken, slumped in unnatural positions that make your chest twist and your stomach lurch. You swallow hard against the bile rising in your throat.

The coppery tang of blood hangs heavy in the air. Death is everywhere. It clings to your clothes, your hair, your skin, even your lungs stench of it.

You hate it.

You hate this.

You hate everything.

Then, your parents suddenly stop. You don’t have time to react as your small frame collides into your mother’s back with a soft thud. Blinking past the haze, your eyes darting to what stopped them.

Three figures.

But they are not just mere figures... they are humans.

They're blocking the road ahead, emerging through the smoke like phantom monsters. All of them armed, their faces twisted in something between excitement and malice. And their smiles make your skin crawl.

“Oh?” One of them sneers.

A man, tall, lean, dressed in scorched leathers. A crimson gem glows from the center of a pendant hanging at his neck. You recognize the design. Arcaniac craft and enchanted, no doubt. Something once meant for protection… now turned against its makers.

His gaze slides lazily from your father to your mother… then lands on you. And his smile stretches wider.

“You’ve got a little one, huh?” His tone is mockingly cheerful, the kind adults use when teasing children. But there’s venom beneath it—poison laced with delight.

The blonde woman steps forward from the group, her boots crunching over broken stone and scorched wood. Her face is streaked with soot, and the gleam in her eyes is far too eager. In her hand, she twirls a dagger with unsettling ease, its edge catching the flicker of nearby flame.

She finds you immediately, her gaze latching onto yours like a predator spotting prey.

“Oh, this is going to be fun!” She purrs. “Would be really entertaining to make Mommy and Daddy watch their kid suffer.”

The words hit you like ice water.

You flinch, instinctively taking a step back. Your mother reacts instantly, pulling you behind her with a fierce protectiveness you’ve never seen in her before.

Your father plants himself in front of both of you, standing tall even though you know he’s tired, and that his legs must be aching from all the running. Still, he lifts his chin, and when he speaks, his voice is low and laced with venom.

“Don’t touch my child,” he growls. “You traitors…”

That last word is spoken like a curse, spat from the very bottom of his soul.

The man with the glowing gem pendant laughs, stepping forward, emboldened by your father’s defiance. His grin spreads wide and twisted, as if this were all a game to his eyes.

“Oh, don’t be like that, old man,” he jeers. “Take a look around. Your little kind is finished! Just give up and make it easy for yourselves, yeah?”

Your father says nothing at first.

But you can see the way his shoulders tense, the way his fists clench at his sides until his knuckles turn bone-white through the grime and ash coating his skin. His lips press into a thin line, but behind his silence, you can feel something building.

Then he turns, just slightly, his eyes locking with your mother’s.

It’s a look that says run.

He doesn’t say it aloud maybe because he doesn’t have the strength to or words aren’t needed. Your mother’s expression tightens, but she nods. She understands.

He faces forward again, fire burning in his eyes.

“Then if you won’t stand down…” he murmurs, his voice calm now—deadly calm before a storm. “I won’t either.”

The wind answers him first.

It kicks up around him in a sudden surge, lifting the ash from the ground into spiraling currents. The air grows thick with energy, humming with tension, and his cloak billows behind him like a banner. Loose debris whips through the smoke-choked air, and the humans tense instinctively.

Your mother doesn’t wait. With your hand firmly clutched in hers, she bolts.

“Come on,” she breathes urgently, dragging you into motion. Your legs move without thinking.

You had the glance back only once.

Your father stands alone, a shield of wind roaring around him. The crimson gem on the man’s necklace flares, fire bursting from his palm. The blonde woman’s dagger crackles to life with thin threads of lightning, flashing white-blue across the smoke.

You don’t see what the third attacker carries because in the next second, your mother yanks you sharply around a corner, and the world behind you is swallowed in light and chaos.

You keep running. That’s all you can do. Run, run, and run.

Your lungs burn, your legs ache, but your mother doesn’t stop and neither do you. Every few seconds, you turn wildly down another path, only to come to a halt when more humans appear ahead. Your mother then will tug you another direction, her grip like iron.

You really thought you'll make it out... this time. Until the world shifts again.

You hear it before you see it—a groaning sound, deep and terrible, like the earth is exhaling its last breath. It’s the creak of something heavy beginning to collapse.

Your mother hears it first. She looks up sharply then you followed. And your eyes go wide with horror.

A tall building, blackened by fire and gutted by damage, is tipping forward right toward the two of you. You’re frozen while your mother acts without a word.

She shoves you—hard.

You hit the ground roughly, onto your side with a pained cry, but you’re clear of the danger.

She tries to leap aside herself but the distance wasn't enough.

The structure crashes down with a thunderous roar, and part of it lands directly on her lower half. The stone and timber crushes the street, the impact so loud it drowns out your scream.

“Mama!” You shriek, your voice cracking from sheer panic as you scramble over to her.

She’s alive that's what matters the most, but unfortunately she's stuck.

Her arms are braced against the cracked cobblestones, trying with every ounce of strength to pull herself free. Her face is contorted in pain, teeth clenched, and brows furrowed.

You grab her hand. Both of your tiny palms wrap around hers as you pull, uselessly and desperately.

Nothing moves. Not her or even any of the rubble.

“Go, [Name]!” She gasps out between ragged breaths, her voice sharp with urgency. “Leave! Now!”

“No Mama, I can't—” you cry, shaking your head, blinking furiously as tears begin to blur your vision.

Her hand tightens briefly around yours. Her other arm shakes from the effort of trying to hold herself up.

“We’ll meet you at the library,” she says, voice breaking as she forces the words out. “Your father and I—w-we’ll find you. I promise but you have to go!”

She lets go and your hand falls limp at your side.

She’s looking at you with everything in her love, fear, pain, and desperation all tangled together in her eyes. A part of her doesn’t want you to see her like this. Another part is just grateful you’re still alive.

“Run,” she whispers, pleading now. “Please, my love. Run.”

You don’t want to. Every part of you is screaming not to.

But there’s nothing you can do. Your magic is still weak, you couldn’t lift a stone, let alone a fallen building. Plus, light cannot save her.

So with a choked breath and your heart shattering with every second, you tear yourself away from her gaze. Tears blur your vision as you sprint down the smoke-filled street.

This time, you couldn't look back.

Foolish hopes began to wrap your heart like greedy fingers, perhaps your father defeated those humans and maybe your mother found a way to pull herself. But... you already know what's really going to happen...

None of them will ever make it to the library.

The city disappears behind you, swallowed by smoke and screaming. The further you go, the more it fades. The roads turn to dirt, then grass, and finally to twisted roots and overgrown branches. The scent of ash gives way to damp leaves and moss.

You’ve reached the forest but you don’t stop yet.

Your feet carry you on sheer will alone, deeper into the trees, until the world becomes quiet. Just the sound of your ragged breaths and crunching leaves beneath your worn-out shoes.

Then, through the thicket of green and shadow, the trees part, revealing a clearing bathed in soft, golden light. There it is... the old library.

Weathered stone with curling ivy wrap around it like a protective shield. Its doors sit slightly ajar, and you can almost smell the parchment and ink from here.

It was your mother’s sanctuary. A place where she kept stories from all the lands she wandered or just books she found interesting.

The second you see it, your legs give out.

You crash to the ground with a dull thud, knees hitting the grass. The tears you held break free all at once. You began to cry, ugly sobs claw their way out of your throat.

And the worst part? This isn’t even the first time.

You’ve done this before more times than you can count. You used to keep track once, tallying each new life like a cruel mark on a prison wall but eventually, you stopped.

Then you'll stand in the center hall, hidden behind the cracked columns as Arcaniacs were dragged into the square. Forced to kneel before humans who wielded stolen power. You’ve watched them bow their heads beneath executioner blades.

Sometimes, it’s just your father or mother. Sometimes, it’s both of them. Other times, none of them. Though every time their heads hit the ground and the humans cheer like they’ve won something noble… you break all over again.

You tried to change it. You did. You tried your very best.

Yet nothing ever worked. If they didn’t burn in the flames, they were caught and executed. If they escaped one way, another trap was waiting and you couldn't stop any of it...

You're not even sure how it's all possible. You thought maybe it was a curse, some kind of twisted punishment etched into your soul. You weren’t sure who cast it or why but you’re certain of one thing:

It only ever ends when you die... and you did so many times by his hands. Eliot's his name, the boy 'savior'. Then you'll wake up once more on the day when everything begins to fall apart.

During one of your lives, you tried to reason with him, explain that you weren’t the monster they claimed but he never listened. He killed you just like all the other times.

Even when you got to him first, someone else would rise in his place. As if fate itself was obsessed with seeing you fall.

You’ve even tried ending it yourself. Once maybe twice or a couple dozen times. Each time, however, you couldn't escape the cycle. Is there even a way to break the curse or are you permanently stuck?

As you lie on the grass outside the library, body shaking from your sobs, all you can do is cling to the only thing that’s never changed...

You are always alone and no matter what you do... you always lose them and to those humans.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

The years slipped by like fallen petals. You’re twenty now... still too young yet your end is near.

It has become a familiar shadow, one you’ve grown used to seeing linger just behind your shoulder. You don’t need to mark the date—your body remembers. You feel it in your bones, in the pull of your breath, in the ache of something unspoken deep in your chest.

Around this time, in every life before, Eliot finds you.

His blade slices through you like it was always meant to be there. This time, you don’t even bother to go near the kingdom. What’s the point? They'll come for you at the end of the day.

Instead, you’ve taken refuge in the only place that ever held warmth for you.

Time has dusted the shelves and cracked the window panes, but your mother's presence lingers in every corner. In the scent of parchment and lavender; in the worn leather spines of her favorite tomes; and in the stories she used to tell you beneath the safety of blankets and candlelight.

You’ve read almost everything now, cover to cover, some of them over and over until you knew the words better than your own voice.

It started as a quiet rebellion—a hope that maybe, if you just stayed here, if you didn’t step into the world, then fate couldn’t reach you... Aaaah, you should’ve known better.

Word spreads because of course it did. The last Arcaniac... You became a rumor. A final task for the so-called savior to complete.

You couldn't stop it, so you merely sat among your mother’s books, waiting. You're tired of trying to escape a fate that was carved into your skin before you were even born.

You pass your final days with soft silence and fragile memories.

Today, your fingers cradle your favorite book. The cover is worn, fraying at the edges, but still very much the same. It’s a collection of stories, princesses from all corners of the world.

She wrote them all in her own hand, weaving tales of courage and love, of dreams fulfilled and monsters vanquished.

Every night, when you were small, she’d read them to you. Her voice was gentle, almost songlike. You remember curling beside her with a quiet smile as you listen to her speak.

You used to envy those princesses for their beauty, their grace, and them finding their true love. Now… you just envy their peace.

You’re not looking for a miracle. You don’t want love or crowns or castles. You just want the ending to stick for the cycle to stop.

So, you press the book to your chest, its weight grounding you in a way nothing else can. Outside the cracked windowpane, the full moon hangs like a silver eye, watching in quiet witness. The stars shimmer faintly, like scattered dust across the sky.

You close your eyes. And for the first time in a long while… you make a wish. A desperate and.. selfish one.

“Please,” you whisper into the night. “Let this be the last time... Let me finally rest.”

Your lashes grow heavy. Your thoughts drift into softness, like falling into warm water. And just as the darkness begins to pull you under—

The book in your arms trembles.

A faint hum vibrates against your chest, like a heartbeat not your own. Blinding, white-hot light began to spill out from between the pages, swallowing the room in brilliance.

Before you can scream or even move the book bursts open and everything is swallowed by the light. Then as fast as it came, everything turned black...

You realize you had your eyes closed so when you open them, you quickly recognize that the world around you is no longer your own.

Characters & Info
✦ Twisted Tales [Extra]

Other Stories
✦ Divine Voice | Yandere.WHB x M.Reader
✦ My Dearest | Yandere.Alastor x M.Reader
✦ Solunar | Mythical.Yanderes x F.Reader

Chapter Text

꒰ა ACT II: CHAPTER 1 ໒꒱

⋇⊰Beauty, Song, Love⊱⋇

❥・Word Count: 7.2k

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

A sharp, golden light forces your eyes to squint as consciousness drags you upward. At first, everything is blurry—washed out in white like a half-formed dream. But as the haze fades and your vision adjusts, your surroundings come into focus.

And they are… breathtaking.

You're lying in a bed so soft it barely feels real, as if it were spun from clouds. The silken sheets whisper against your skin when you shift, and the canopy overhead is embroidered with delicate golden vines that shimmer in the morning light.

The room around you looks like it was stolen straight from the pages of a fairy tale. Every piece of furniture is crafted with the kind of care and artistry you’ve only seen in paintings—elegant curves, hand-carved flowers, and rich woods polished to a glossy finish. The wallpaper is soft and pastel, patterned with ivy and tiny, sleeping birds.

You sit up slowly, warily, heart beginning to thrum in your chest. "Where… am I?"

Last you remember, you were in the old library, clutching her storybook to your chest, whispered a desperate wish, and the next moment... light. A blinding burst of it, like the moon itself had exploded in your arms.

And now this. Your gaze drops.

The book is still here—resting in your lap as if it had never left. You grab it with trembling hands, clutching it like a lifeline. But when you open the cover, a cold dread spreads through your stomach.

The page before is blank. You turned another, still nothing is there, flipping all the pages at once, only bare white stared back at you.

Every story—gone.

All that remains is a single line on the first parchment, written in elegant, looping script on the first page:

“Sleeping Beauty”

Nothing followed after.

Your thoughts whirl. Are you dreaming? Hallucinating? Maybe your desperation finally snapped something inside you, and now you’re trapped in some bizarre fantasy your mind created to cope.

Did your wish got.. granted? Has fate finally gave you something good for once? Or did whoever casted you the godforsaken curse got bored and had changed it a bit so that you'll live happily that is until you watch everything fall apart. While you stand there, powerless and cannot do anything to stop it!

You don’t get the chance to spiral any deeper as a voice calls through the door.

“Princess [Name]? May I come in?”

You freeze. "Princess?"

Whoever’s voice that is—it’s female, warm but unfamiliar. Your body tenses as if it’s forgotten how to react. You blink and stare down at yourself. You're no longer in the clothes you wore that night.

You're in a nightgown.

A silken, jewel-toned nightgown, the kind you’ve only ever expect royalties would wear. It shimmers slightly as you move, fine embroidery trailing along the hem and sleeves like vines woven with stars.

You hesitate before replying, voice dry and uncertain.

“U-Uh... sure?”

Your fingers close the book gently as you swing your legs off the bed, your bare feet brushing against the velvet-soft rug below. The ornate door opens with a soft click, and a woman steps through.

She looks to be in her early thirties, dressed in a neat, modest uniform with her hair pinned back. She bows, placing a hand over her chest.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” she says. Her tone is respectful, but not cold. “I apologize for the interruption, but your mother requests your presence in the dining hall.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. Your mother? But that—no... that can’t be right! Your real mother is… dead. This is just a dream! 

“I-I…” You don’t know what to say. Your lips open, but your mind blanks under the weight of too many questions.

The woman tilts her head slightly, noting your unease. Concern flickers across her features as she steps a little closer.

“Are you alright, Your Higness? Do you need anything?”

You draw in a slow breath, willing your voice not to tremble.

“N-No, I’m… I’m fine, just… a headache.”

She watches you carefully, as if she doesn’t quite believe you. But instead of pressing, she bows again, her expression smoothing back into neutrality.

“If that’s the case, please take your time.” With that, she steps back and exits the room, leaving you alone once more.

You sit there for a long moment, book still pressed to your lap, heart pounding in your ears. Everything feels wrong. Too vivid to be a dream, too impossible to be real.

And yet… here you are.

You stay there for a long while, seated on the edge of the bed, the book still clutched to your lap like a shield. Your heart won’t stop pounding—it drums against your ribs like it’s trying to warn you.

This place is beautiful and too detailed to be just a dream. But it has to be… right?

You inhale deeply and exhale slowly, trying to calm the storm building in your chest. Then, you rise to your feet, the plush rug muffling your movements as you step toward the grand door.

The book stays in your grasp. You don’t know where you’re going. You don’t even know where the dining hall is supposed to be but sitting still is driving you insane as if you aren't already.

As you pass a tall mirror beside an ornate wardrobe, your own reflection catches your eye and makes you stop short.

For a moment, you don’t recognize the person staring back at you.

You reach up and press your fingers to your cheek. The girl in the glass wears a nightgown of royal blue, edged with delicate silver thread. It flows around her frame like water, catching the morning light and shimmering faintly. She looks... almost ethereal.

What is it again they say? When you're not sure if you're dreaming or not, pinch yourself and when it hurts everything is real?

So you did just exactly that and sharp sting zaps beneath your fingers. You wince, recoiling with a quiet hiss, still you couldn't believe it. Either this is real, or your dreams—maybe or most probably hallucinations—have become very convincing.

With uncertainty, you step out into the corridor and what greets you nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

It’s everything you imagined a castle would look—vast, intricate, and impossibly beautiful. The halls stretch endlessly, lined with tall windows that let the golden light spill across patterned marble floors. Portraits of noble-looking strangers hang from the walls, and chandeliers shimmer overhead like stars trapped in crystal.

You walk slowly, overwhelmed, turning corners with wide eyes. Each corridor is more breathtaking than the last. Until something... pulls at your attention.

You pause in front of a pair of large, carved wooden doors. They tower over you, heavy and grand, framed in gold filigree. Curiosity gnaws at your chest. Something about them feels important, like they’re waiting for you.

You reach out, pushing against one of the doors. It creaks open, heavy with age, and as the gap widens, you peer inside.

A long table stretches through the middle of the room, set with silverware and crystal. At the far end sit two figures.

Your breath hitches.

"This is the dining room..." you realize, stiffening in the doorway.

“There you are!” A bright voice exclaims.

You flinch slightly as the woman at the end of the table rises swiftly from her chair, skirts rustling around her. She approaches with open arms and eyes full of light. Her presence hits you like a wave of familiarity.

She doesn’t look like your mother. Her features are unfamiliar, her expression radiant. She’s dressed in a flowing gown the color of soft sky, the fabric glittering like starlight. A golden crown rests atop her head.

But something about the way she moves, the warmth in her voice… it tugs at a memory deep inside you. Before you can step back, she pulls you into a tight embrace. It.. almost puts you into tears.

“My sweet girl,” she says, beaming as she pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. Then, her brows crease slightly. “Why do you look so pale, dear? Aren’t you excited?”

You blink.

“S-Should I be…?” You ask slowly, voice thin with confusion.

Her smile falters for a moment before a man steps up behind her and places a hand on her shoulder. He’s dressed in a deep maroon robe adorned with gold trim, and his crown is larger than hears. The king, no doubt.

He chuckles warmly, as though your confusion is endearing. “Why, it’s your betrothed’s twenty-second birthday today! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

Wait... you are betrothed? Oh dear, you can feel another headache coming in...

“Does the name Prince Aurelio ring a bell?” He continues, not waiting for your answer. “Poor boy was cursed years ago by some wretched fairy. After that, he vanished—no one’s seen him since.”

He sighs dramatically and shakes his head, voice tinged with regret. “A real tragedy, that..."

“However!” Your ‘mother’ interrupts, her tone brightening like the sun bursting through clouds. “King Stefan and Queen Leah have just sent word—Prince Aurelio has been in hiding all this time!”

She claps her hands together, eyes gleaming with excitement. “And now, for his birthday, you’ll finally meet him!”

You stand there, lips parted slightly, struggling to form any kind of response. Aurelio… a cursed prince since birth… Why does that sound so familiar?

Before you can even ask, your mother waves her hand, and several maids appear at your side like a gust of wind.

“Come, dear! You must get ready!” She says with a smile, as though this is all perfectly normal.

You don’t get the chance to object. The maids are already ushering you out of the room with gentle hands and practiced efficiency, leading you back through the halls and to your room.

And as you go, your thoughts echo in your mind like a whisper:

Aurelio…

Sleeping Beauty…

Back in your room, you may as well have been made of marble.

The maids flit around you like a well-rehearsed storm of silk and powder, and all you can do is stand there, stiff as a statue, while they work. Cold hands pat your cheeks with something floral and chalky, brushing powder across your skin until you sneeze into your sleeve. They apologize, but keep going, unfazed.

Then comes the corset.

Two of them pull the laces with such synchronized force that your breath escapes in a wheeze, your spine arching like a bow. You swear you hear something pop, you most definitely broke a bone or maybe more.

By the time they slide the gown over your head, you’re already exhausted. The dress is beautiful undeniably so. Layers of deep velvet and shimmering embroidery cascade down your frame like liquid nobility. But it’s heavy and it’s huge, and the way it cinches at your waist makes breathing feel like a luxury.

You haven’t even started walking and already your feet hurt. The heels they strapped on you, pinch with every step. You've never worn anything like them before and frankly, you never wanted to.

“Perfect, my lady!” One maid says, stepping back with a proud smile.

You offer a weak nod, barely able to lift your chin. Perfect... sure.

They whisk you away shortly after, your dress swishing with every hurried step as they guide you down the stairs, out the castle doors, and into the waiting carriage where your 'parents' already sit. You barely have time to blink, let alone eat.

Not that food would even fit inside your stomach right now. With how tight everything feels, even a sip of water might make the seams burst. Do some people actually live like this? You now kind of respect those who does because you could never!

So you sit in silence, hands folded in your lap, the book resting against your side like a familiar friend in the middle of this surreal, spinning world.

Everything is happening so fast but you’re not stupid. You know what at least some of what is happening even if it defies all logic.

You’re in a fairy tale. Sleeping Beauty, to be precise. And sitting there in that carriage, staring blankly out the window as trees and wildflowers blur by, you try to piece together the why.

The book... it has to be the reason. There's no other way, it literally burst into light before you woke up here. Your mother wrote these stories based on the places she visited—either she witnessed them unfold or just tales told from townsfolks. Did she enchant it so that one can revisit her ventures?

You don't know... you're not even certain she can do such thing. You never really bothered to ask what it means to 'travel' exactly. Is it only confined in your world? Can she travel across other worlds? Or some other way?

...

Anyways... if Aurelio is this world’s version of Aurora, and you’re supposedly betrothed to him... then that must make you—

“Prince Phillip,” you murmur, the name falling from your lips like a curse.

You groan and pinch the bridge of your nose. You? Prince Phillip? Why?

Why not Aurora? Why not some background character meant to watch things from afar? Why did you take his role?

“Are you alright, sweetie?” Your mother—Queen Ingrith, your brain corrects—asks gently, leaning closer with concern softening her regal features.

You manage a tight smile. “Y-Yes. I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

She hums, the sound low and thoughtful, but she doesn’t press. Her gloved hand finds yours for a brief moment, squeezing before pulling away.

You exhale slowly, watching the trees roll by outside the window. Why is even Aurora a man? Is it because you are a woman, and the story had to adjust itself around you? There's so much unanswered questions that fills your mind...

It’s maddening!

Then, the only peaceful thing—that is the ride to Aurelio's home kingdom—shatters.

There’s a loud crack! like a bone snapping or a tree being torn in half and the horses shriek in fright. The carriage rocks violently, throwing you forward in your seat. You gasp, hands flying out to brace yourself as the vehicle jolts again, the wheels grinding to a sharp halt.

“Oh heavens!” Queen Ingrith cries, pressing a gloved hand to her lips.

King Hubert is already standing. He growls something under his breath and pushes open the door, disappearing outside. After a moment of stunned silence, you shuffle after him with difficulty—each step hindered by the weight of your dress and the ridiculous heels strapped to your feet.

When you finally manage to climb out of the carriage, you see it.

A massive tree lies across the dirt road, its roots upturned and its trunk cracked clean down the middle. The path toward Aurelio’s kingdom is completely blocked.

King Hubert sighs beside you, rubbing a hand over his face before dragging it through his hair.

“This’ll be a delay,” he mutters.

Your gaze flicking toward the effort unfolding in front of you. The guards are grunting with effort, their boots digging into the dirt as they try to shift the enormous log blocking the road. Even the coachman has joined in, red-faced and determined, but it's clear the task will take time.

Your attention drifts from the commotion to the treeline.

Somewhere in that vast stretch of green… Aurelio is out there. Hiding and laughing with his strange but affectionate fairy grandparents. Completely unaware that the very person fate has tethered him to is now standing just a forest away.

"Are you alright, [Name]?" King Hubert’s voice cuts through your thoughts, gently curious.

You turn to him and summon a soft smile, forcing your shoulders to relax even if your insides are tangled tight.

"Yes, I’m alright… F-Father," you reply, stumbling slightly over the word that doesn’t quite feel like yours. You pause, licking your lips nervously before adding, "But… would it be alright if I went for a walk? Just for a moment."

He hums, one brow raised as he studies your face. For a heartbeat too long, he says nothing and you feel your breath catch in your throat but at last, he nods.

“Certainly, dear. Would you like someone to accompany you?”

You almost sigh in relief. “N-No, I’ll be fine on my own.”

He narrows his eyes briefly, but relents with a nod. “Very well then, just don’t go into the forest.”

You nod dutifully. At first, you stay near the road, feigning calm, inhaling deeply in the hopes that air might clear your spinning mind. It doesn’t. In fact more and more thoughts came spiraling down, almost drowning you.

You’re in Sleeping Beauty and if the tale sticks to its original course… Then that meant you are going to kiss Aurelio. Not just a kiss—it's the kiss. True love’s kiss.

The idea alone sends a jolt of panic through your spine. How are you supposed to fall in love with someone you’ve never met? You don't even love anyone in that way so can you in just a few amount of days fall for him and break his curse? Even if years passed, you're not sure if you ever will...

Of course… there’s also her.

Maleficent.

Your hands tremble slightly as you press your palms to your face, muffling a low groan. You’ve gotten stronger, yes—you’ve trained and honed your light magic until it responds to your very breath—but Maleficent can transform into a dragon. An actual, fire-breathing monster.

...And what if you die here?

Will you wake up back in your own world or whatever twisted version of reality this is? Or worse… will you go back to that cursed day, forced to relive everything? Back to the screaming and the flames? What if whatever happened to you now wouldn't happen again in the next… ‘life’?

Or maybe—maybe—if you die here, the cycle will end completely. No resets. No loops. Just… peace like you've always wanted.

That last thought is almost tempting.

But then again… what happens if you succeed? If you actually manage to follow the story to the end? Does the tale continue? Or somehow freeze? Maybe it'll even repeat... Would you be allowed to stay?

You glance up at the treetops, the sunlight filtering through the leaves in golden streaks. This world… it’s not so bad. It’s warm, the people are kind and compared to where you came from—well, anything is paradise in comparison.

You blink, startled, realizing just how far you’ve wandered. The carriage is out of sight now. How long have you been walking?

Your eyes drift back toward the forest. In the story, Prince Phillip finds Aurora there—lost in song, surrounded by her woodland creatures and basket full of berries. Now it’s you who might stumble upon Aurelio.

Would he be there? Will you even find him if he is?

Maybe it’s foolish, but something in your chest aches with the desire to see him. So you disobey the only request King Hubert made, you step into the woods and immediately regret it.

Not because the forest is dangerous—you’re used to trees and uneven paths. You’ve seen darker, scarier places than this! But your clothes are another matter entirely.

The dress catches on every branch. The corset stabs into your ribs with every step. You curse under your breath, hoisting the skirts up as high as you can while you stumble over a root, nearly falling flat on your face.

Twice.

Okay, maybe three times.

You keep moving anyway, forging a straight path to avoid getting hopelessly lost. Not that you know why you’re doing this. What exactly are you hoping to find? Maybe you just want to feel like a little kid meeting her favorite character come to life.

Whatever the reason, your feet keep moving no matter how loudly your bones protest.

The sound of birdsong floats through the trees, soft and sweet, curling into the air like the notes of a lullaby. It brings a smile to your face and for a moment, you feel… peaceful like you actually belong here.

But then, a new sound rises above the chirping.

It isn't a song from the birds but unmistakably a human's and male.

“I know you… I walked with you once upon a dream…”

You pause mid-step. The lyrics are barely audible, drifting like mist between the leaves, but your heart already knows the tune. That song. It’s his song.

“I know you… the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam…”

You feel your breath catch.

The voice is… beautiful. Too beautiful. It flows like water, effortlessly melodic, yet delicate in its emotional weight. There’s something almost sacred about it, something that hushes the forest around you.

You begin walking again, slowly, drawn toward the sound as though it’s a thread pulling you deeper into the woods. You doubt it’s Aurelio, it’s hard to believe any mortal voice could ever sound like that. Your mother described his singing as graceful as a swan’s, but even that feels too simple. Honestly, no words really fit.

You spot him before you’re ready.

A figure, alone among the trees, standing with effortless elegance as he sings. You instinctively hid behind the nearest tree, your heart thundering with the realization that this is him. It has to be.

He has long, golden hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck, catching the light like a silken thread spun from morning rays. His posture is refined, and when he turns slightly, you catch a glimpse of his eyes—deep blue, so dark you almost mistake them for violet. His expression is dreamy, softened with wistful emotion as he continues singing.

“Yet I know it’s true… that visions are seldom all they seem…”

You lean forward a little, hoping to get a better look—maybe catch the full color of his eyes or to better memorize the moment.

Snap!

You freeze.

A twig. Of all things—a twig under your foot.

His voice cuts off instantly. The birds scatter in a flurry of wings. The air turns tense, like it’s holding its breath.

“W-Who goes there?” He calls out sharply, clutching the basket in his arms with sudden caution.

You wince. "Great start... so much for a magical first meeting."

You slowly step out from behind the tree, hands raised slightly in a harmless gesture, your expression sheepish.

“H-Hi,” you say with an awkward smile. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Aurelio’s eyes widen the second they land on you. For a moment, he just stares, blinking rapidly, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

You can’t blame him, this is his first time seeing someone besides the three fairies. You half expect the scene to dissolve around you like smoke, but it doesn’t. He’s still there. Real. Looking right at you.

“Oh! I-It’s alright,” he says quickly, laughing nervously as he takes a small step back. “I wasn’t expecting anyone out here, is all…”

That laugh—it’s gentle, musical in its own right but there's hesitation behind it. You raise a brow at him, then the reason clicks into place. Right... the fairies. They told him not to speak to strangers.

You suppress a sigh. "This is going to be awkward."

To make matters worse, you’re not exactly the most talkative person either. Words have never come easily to you—at least, not in moments like this. But something in you has changed maybe it’s because you know him, even if he doesn’t know you. Who knows really...

“So…” you begin, voice light, casual, as if you weren’t absolutely spiraling inside, “what are you doing all the way out here alone?”

Your eyes wander over him again. He almost glows, standing beneath the shafts of sunlight that pierce the canopy. It’s like the forest itself was painted just to frame him. Then your gaze drops and you blink.

He’s barefoot.

“W-Wait, you’re not wearing any shoes?” You ask, half-laughing. “Doesn’t that hurt? Walking barefoot in woods like this?”

Aurelio glances down sheepishly, one hand curling around his opposite arm. “Oh, um… I’m used to it, I guess? I-I don’t usually need them out here.”

He’s still watching you cautiously though not unkindly. As if trying to decide what kind of person you are. Still, you're not used to being looked at without a droplet of fear or a burning hatred.

“Hm… I see,” you murmur, your eyes tracing his features—his soft golden lashes, the light dusting of freckles across his nose, the way sunlight turns his hair to strands of gold.

Then you also notice his eyes flicking downward, not once, but a few times, as if something on you caught his attention. You follow his gaze and—

Oh.

The book.

You’d completely forgotten you brought it with you. It’s still clutched in your arm. You hadn’t left it in the carriage in fear of the King and Queen, finding it... Now it makes you wonder, what if the fairy tale characters found out they're nothing but people written in a book? You'd probably laugh at their faces if ever someone tells you that.

“What are you doing here,” he asks, tilting his head slightly, “carrying a book into the middle of the woods?” His tone is more curious than accusatory, but your heartbeat quickens all the same.

You try to respond naturally, Aurelio is already tense, talking to a stranger when he shouldn't and you don't want to make more him uncomfortable.

“Ah… I just needed some fresh air,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the forest. “I thought a walk would do me some good.”

You glance down at your clothes. The dress you’re wearing, luxurious and clearly not made for forest trails, makes your excuse sound even more suspicious.

“As for the book, it’s… um. A journal. I like to write down my thoughts and observations.” That last part came out rushed.

You didn’t want to admit it’s a storybook. Somehow, it just feels wrong when you put everything together. A woman dressed in velvet and lace, wandering the woods with a storybook tucked in her arms? It’s too strange...

“Really?” He asks, smiling in polite interest. “Could I take a look?”

Your blood runs cold.

“N-No!” You blurt out far too quickly. Then, realizing how that sounded, you clear your throat and try again with a nervous laugh. “I-I mean, no, I’m sorry. It’s personal stuff haha...”

He blinks at your abrupt reaction, visibly startled. For a beat, silence falls between you then he nods slowly, understanding or at least pretending to.

You mentally curse yourself. "So much for not making things less tense."

To change the subject, you glance down at the basket in his hands, catching a glimpse of bright red and soft blue nestled among the greenery.

“What’s in the basket?” You ask, tilting your head.

He follows your gaze, then looks back up with a bright, proud smile. “Berries,” he says, lifting the basket a little. “I picked them earlier today and they’re really sweet. Would you like to try one?”

Your eyes widen a bit surprised by the offer. “Really? I wouldn’t mind…”

You step closer and he doesn’t flinch or move away—just carefully reaches into the basket and picks one of the ripest berries. As he holds it out, your fingers brush against his.

The contact is brief, but unmistakable.

You feel the soft glide of his skin against yours and so does he. But you don’t notice the way his breath catches, how his eyes linger on your hand a little too long,

As you bite into the berry and the taste bursts across your tongue like sunlight. Your eyes widen instantly.

“Oh wow…! You weren’t kidding. These are amazing.”

He laughs, the sound bright and delighted by your reaction, “I told you. They’re the best ones I’ve ever found! And there’s plenty more. You can have as many as you like, I don’t mind picking more later...”

With a grin, you help yourself to another, then another—each one sweet, juicy, and refreshing. He watches you, quietly amused and a little pleased, there's just so much fondness in your eyes. He's never really seen something like it, even from his godparents.

You pop another berry into your mouth and nearly forgetting something...

“Ah, I almost forgot!” You say quickly, mouth half-full of delicious berries. You swallow hurriedly and wipe your fingers against your skirt. “What’s your name?”

The question seems to catch him off guard.

He hesitates, as if he needs permission to speak it aloud. Just then, two birds—one a vivid sky blue, the other red like autumn leaves—flutter down and perch delicately on his shoulders.

They chirp insistently, tilting their heads at him, and you swear he actually understands them.

He sighs, a little playfully. “Alright, alright,” he murmurs under his breath, casting the birds a fond glance before turning back to you.

“I’m Sweetbriar,” he says, voice gentle and trusting. “And you are?”

Sweetbriar. Aaaah.. so that's what he goes by and not Briar Rose. That name—the one the fairies gave him when they hid him away—is the only one he knows as of now.

Still, you smile.

“That’s a lovely name,” you reply warmly. “I’m [Name]. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sweetbriar.”

You hold out your hand to him. He stares at it for a moment, like he’s not entirely sure what to do, then reaches out and takes it.

His fingers wrap around yours and shakes your hand awkwardly, as if this is new to him. But when you try to pull away… he doesn’t let go.

“Um… Sweetbriar?” You prompt gently.

He blinks and lets out a small gasp, quickly releasing you. “Oh! Sorry, I—uh… it's just.. my godparents always told me not to talk to strangers but… y-you’re really sweet.”

You freeze.

Sweet?

No one’s ever called you that before.

You feel a sudden warmth crawl up your neck, blooming into your cheeks. You’re not sure whether to laugh or look away at that. Instead, you just stand there, vaguely stunned by how something so simple could feel so… nice.

“I’d love for you to meet them,” he says cheerfully, swaying his basket lazily at his side. There’s a hopeful gleam in his eyes, bright and innocent.

And for a moment, you’re tempted but reality tugs at you sharply.

King Hubert and Queen Ingrith are still somewhere down the path—possibly waiting in the carriage or is now searching the woods by now. You don’t know how long you’ve been gone though you're certain the log has been moved away from the path by now.

Your smile softens with regret.

“I’d really like to,” you say gently, “but… I should go."

His entire expression droops.

“Now?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper.

The disappointment in his eyes hits you harder than expected. It’s like watching a child realize the fair is closing. The birds on his shoulders lower their heads, mirroring his mood.

You sigh. “Yeah… I’m sorry. My parents are waiting for me and I don’t want them to worry.”

He looks down at his feet, kicking lightly at the forest floor. “Hmm.. will I see you again, [Name]?”

There’s a pause. Then you nod with a smile that almost reaches your eyes.

“Of course! I’ll come back here when I can.”

It’s a lie. At the same time… not really because you will see him again. Just not here and not with that name.

He hums again, nodding slowly, eyes cast downward toward the scattered grass.

“I’d very much appreciate that,” he says at last, lifting his gaze to meet yours. His smile returns, but it doesn’t have the same sunny warmth as before. “Maybe then… you could meet my godparents!”

You return his smile, this time letting a more genuine fondness slip through.

“Thanks for the berries, by the way." Stepping back a little and lifting a hand in farewell. “And I’ll see you around, Sweetbriar.”

You turn, gathering your dress in your hand to keep it from snagging on the underbrush, and begin retracing your steps through the trees.

Thankfully, you had only gone straight so finding your way back isn’t too hard. The forest feels different now, quieter somehow, as if even the birds are watching you go.

Eventually, the packed dirt path comes into view, and you follow it until you catch sight of the royal carriage. It’s still parked where you left it, but now there are guards moving around—one of them scanning the trees, the other pacing restlessly... uh oh.

“Princess [Name]!”

One of the guards spots you and immediately breaks into a sprint. His armor clinks with each step, and not far behind him is King Hubert, his expression pinched and unamused.

“[Name],” the king says firmly—so sharply, in fact, that you freeze mid-step.

He reaches you, eyes narrowing as they scan you from head to toe. When he notices the leaves and twigs caught in your dress, his mouth thins into a tight line.

“Didn’t I tell you not to wander into the forest?” He demands, grabbing your shoulders. His eyes flicker with something that looks like fear beneath the anger. “We’ve been searching everywhere for you!”

Your lips part uselessly. “I-I’m sorry,” you mumble, looking down.

He exhales, the frustration deflating into tired relief as he lets go of your shoulders. “Sorry? Is that all?” He repeats, shaking his head. “Didn’t you think about what could’ve happened to you?”

The king runs a hand down his face. “Well… you’re safe now, and the log’s been cleared. Just… please, [Name]. Be more careful.”

With that, he turns and walks toward the carriage again, not sparing you another glance. You follow silently, eyes lowered to the road. The warmth of the forest feels like it’s already miles away.

But despite the scolding… a small smile finds its way back to your lips.

Because it was definitely worth it.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

The carriage ride to Aurelio’s kingdom is quiet. Just the soft creak of the wheels over the road and the rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves. This time, there’s no fallen tree to halt your journey, no excuse to delay what’s coming.

You sit back against the cushions, your hands resting idly atop the book, though your mind refuses to be still. Thoughts churn like storm clouds behind your eyes.

His curse is close now. Once you arrive at the castle, the fairies will do their part—whisk him away in secret, hiding him within the palace. Then… he’ll be left alone. Alone, and heartbroken. Crying for you.

The thought nearly draws a laugh from you.

You remember the story: the way Aurora wept after learning her fate, discovering she's betrothed to someone else when she had found her love—the stranger in the woods. All along, the prince and the stranger is one in the same.

But you and Aurelio? You didn’t even twirl with him through the forest nor did you sing a duet beneath the trees. If anything, you were skittish and even suspicious. Hardly a fairy-tale meeting if you ever read one. Would he really cry over you?

You haven't also forgot about the kiss. True love is what supposed to break the spell. But what does that even mean? Must it be romantic? Must it be mutual? Couldn’t the love of a parent or even a friend, count?

His parents, maybe. If they truly love him. But then again… they’ll be asleep too, along with the rest of the kingdom. Thanks, fairies.

You let out a sigh and lean your head against the carriage window, watching the trees blur past.

Back in your world, magic like this came with rules. Precise rules. You had to be painfully specific with your intent or else there will be loopholes such as this.

Eventually, the carriage slows.

You step outside, blinking as sunlight floods your vision. The gates of Aurelio’s kingdom open before you, and a crowd waits—nobles and guards, dressed in their finest. Some bow whilst others watch with curiosity an all eyes are on you and your parents.

The grandeur of it all steals your breath for a moment. Gleaming towers, golden flags, a throne in the distance adorned with glittering jewels. It’s beautiful… and a little overwhelming.

“Ah! You’ve finally arrived! What took you so long?” The voice is loud, cheerful, and unmistakably regal. King Stefan strides forward with a wide grin, arms open in greeting.

Your father responds with a tired laugh. “A tree blocked the road. We had to wait until it was cleared.”

“Oh, dear me! Is everyone alright?” A woman gasps, stepping forward from beside King Stefan.

Her features are delicate and graceful, her expression full of motherly warmth. You know instantly that this must be Queen Leah. It's obvious Aurelio takes the most of his mother's looks. You imagine Aurora looking similar to her and wow... she'd be as breathtaking as Aurelio is.

“We’re all safe, thankfully,” your mother says, reaching out to clasp Queen Leah’s hands. “And here’s our daughter… [Name].”

Suddenly, every gaze shifts to you.

A chill runs down your spine, crawling slowly under your skin. You try not to fidget under their scrutiny. Royalty shouldn’t look so nervous, right?

How would you even greet them? Do you need to bow before them? Logically, you believe you should but aren't you also royalty? Then again they are King and Queen, technically a higher position than you.

You swallowed the flurry of panic before you settle on something safe.

You take a step forward and curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, King Stefan. Queen Leah.”

Queen Leah’s face lights up with joy. “My, you’ve grown so much since the last time I saw you,” she beams, stepping closer. “I’m simply delighted you’ll be meeting Aurelio!”

Her excitement makes your stomach twist. Meeting Aurelio again means meeting Maleficent.

The celebration preparations begin quickly after your arrival. Servants rush about, decorating halls and arranging tables. Somewhere in the bustle, you're shown to a guest room.

You thank the maid absently before closing the door behind you. At last, you're alone. You let out a long breath and sink down onto the edge of the plush bed.

Time slips away again like sand spilling through your fingers no matter how tightly you try to hold it.

You’ve spent the afternoon cloistered in your borrowed room, wrapped in silence and thoughts that won’t stop circling. The walls feel smaller with every hour, the ceiling pressing in as the weight of your indecision grows heavier.

Outside, the sky has started to darken. The warm hues of the sun are bleeding into dusk, golden rays dimming into soft purples and smoky reds. Evening is here and with it comes the moment you’ve been dreading.

Aurelio will be arriving at any time now and he’ll prick his finger on that cursed spindle then fall into slumber. You stare out the window at the horizon, into the falling sky.

If you couldn't make him up with true love's kiss? Could you… reason with Maleficent?

There has to be more to her curse than simple vengeance over an uninvited party. No one curses a child just for being overlooked… right? Why even curse the child at all and not his parents—the ones who made the mistake in the first place?

A low groan escapes your lips as you pinch the bridge of your nose, your eyebrows drawn together in frustration. You’re thinking foolish things.

Confront Maleficent? She's most likely far more powerful than you could ever hope to be! You're going to be walking straight to your possible end!

..If you were given this chance then, you'll have no ounce of fear. You'll even skip your merry way to the Forbidden Mountains where she resides in!

Back to the point, no matter how very irrational it is... a part of you clings to the possibility.

What if no one ever gave her a chance? What if they painted her as the villain long before she had the chance to be anything else? Perhaps she became the monster they feared because that’s all they ever let her be.

The idea aches in your chest because it feels... familiar.

You think back to Eliot and the many times you tried to reason with him yet every time, he answered you with a cold steel through your heart.

You sighed, pushing yourself off the bed. Well, whatever the actual reason is what you know you need to do is to find Aurelio.

However, the moment you step beyond the threshold of your room, a strange hush blankets the corridor. The silence is thick—too thick in fact.

No chatter of servants; no echo of distant laughter; and not even the clink of goblets or the muffled sound of footsteps. The air itself feels... still. Your stomach tightens with dread as it hits you all at once.

The entire palace must be asleep and so is he.

You press your lips into a thin line and quickly make your way to the nearest window, heart beginning to thud against your ribs. When you reach the stone frame, your hand clutches the cold edge as you peer out into the kingdom below.

The land lies quiet beneath the fading light and then they are.

Three tiny orbs of light floating in the distance. One red, one green, and one blue, moving hurriedly  away from the kingdom toward the forest.

They’re heading back to the cottage for in the tale, Aurora told Prince Phillip to meet her at the cottage after sunset. When the fairies realized of this, they rushed back to intercept him only to discover Maleficent had already captured him.

But this time... you're not there. You didn't rebel against your father to go and be with the 'peasant' boy. Which means the fairies are returning to an empty house or worse walking straight into Maleficent's trap.

You swallow hard, gripping the window frame until your knuckles pale. Your gaze shifts outward again, further into the distance and then you see it.

A jagged line of darkness cutting through the landscape like a scar. A looming wall of twisted black thorns curling toward the sky, bristling with menace even from afar. Shadows crawl around it unnaturally, as though it drinks the last of the light from the fading sunset.

You recognize it instantly, it's for sure Maleficent’s doing. She conjured those very same thorns in the tale, erecting them to stop Phillip when he tried to reach Aurora.

So then… that must be her lair. Not a crumbling ruin atop the Forbidden Mountain like in the story you read, but something far more visceral and alive.

You hesitate.

Should you try to find Aurelio now? Perhaps try to wake him up and face Maleficent head-on. But... you don’t know where he is—and you're not sure if you could wake him up—while Maleficent, well, she’s left you a trail of thorns.

Plus, if you don’t go after her now, she might just trap the fairies or do something worse than you can ever imagine. You'd also be needing them if you'll fight her... Your chest tightens as you contemplated the choices in your hands.

You don’t have all the answers yet but at the very least... you have a plan.

Characters & Info
✦ Twisted Tales [Extra]

Other Stories
✦ Divine Voice | Yandere.WHB x M.Reader
✦ My Dearest | Yandere.Alastor x M.Reader
✦ Solunar | Mythical.Yanderes x F.Reader

Chapter Text

꒰ა ACT II: CHAPTER 2 ໒꒱

⋇⊰Thorned Fairy⊱⋇

❥・Word Count: 8.0k

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

Aurelio can wait, he's safe in the walls of the kingdom. If Maleficent is to bring harm to him, then she would've done that the very first time she found him alone in the room.

What you really need to do is to catch up to the fairies if they haven't yet arrive at the cottage that is—which most probably they have—then you could warn them about the possible threat there. Tell them you're going to talk to Maleficent and if that doesn't end well, you'll have to fight her.

When they're not there, you'll be going straight to Maleficent and try to find them there, you need them if things ever go south. If for some reason they're also not in her domain... then perhaps after going back to an empty cottage, they went back to the castle feeling defeated as they didn't saw the 'stranger' Aurelio met  in the woods... Well whatever you'll deal with when you get there.

Plus first things first...

You glance down at the velvet dress that clings to your body, beautiful and burdensome. If you're going on a mission, you're not wearing this.

With a snap of your fingers, a sword made of radiant light hums into existence. You command it to tilt down and slice the trailing end of your dress in one smooth motion. The fabric flutters to the floor like the fallen petals of a wilting rose.

Now you can move without dragging a mountain of cloth behind you. You can now also see you feet! That are still strapped into the heels... oh poor them. Although before you could even get to that, there's still the corset.

You reach behind and tug at the tightly woven laces, fingers fumbling through the knots. After a bit of wrangling, it loosens. Just enough to let your ribs expand.

You inhale—finally.

A loud, relieved sigh escapes your lips. “Ooooh… that’s better...”

Back to the heels that are strapped on too tightly, as if the shoes themselves are trying to stop you. You bend to unbuckle them, but your sore arches protest the moment they hit the stone floor.

Yeah.... it's cramp city.

You give a small, irritated groan before raising the glowing blade again and slicing off the heel portions with swift precision. When you slide the shoes back on, they're flat now—awkward, a little uneven, it’s not perfect but at least it won’t kill you.

There. Now you look less like a helpless princess and more like someone ready to crash through cursed thorns.

You’re ready.

Almost.

You pause at the window again. The cottage… that’s where the fairies are headed. Where Maleficent may be lying in wait and to get there, you’ll need to travel fast if you want to catch up...

Samson!

That was his name, right? Prince Phillip’s horse? Is he even here in the kingdom? You haven't seen him once all throughout your time here in the tale. Perhaps he's here too... and the sleeping curse pull him into slumber too. That would not be delightful.

You press your lips together. If he’s awake, you’ll find him. If not… well, you’ll figure that out when it happens. Right now, you're just going to hope for the best.

You turn on your heel and head for the stairs, determination setting your pace. You need to get to the castle grounds. Then call out his name—this place is so deathly silent now, you’d be shocked if your voice didn’t echo through the whole kingdom.

And if you’re lucky? He’ll come running out. Which is what you hope the outcome will be since you don’t have time to wander the woods on foot especially not when something wicked is waiting.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

The moment your feet touch the castle grounds, an eerie stillness seeps into your bones and you shiver.

People—so many people—are scattered across the cobbled courtyard. Some are slumped over, seated on benches or against walls, while others stand frozen mid-step, their expressions soft, peaceful… asleep all of them.

It’s like walking through a painting, a very haunting one.

No breathing, no rustling, no voices, not even the creak of wood or the flutter of birds.

Back in your world, even in the loneliest corners of the old library, the silence was never this complete. There, the quiet was filled by the distant call of owls, the skitter of mice behind shelves, the soft rustle of paper. Life—no matter how small—existed in the hush.

But here… there’s absolutely nothing.

You swallow the unease tightening in your chest and step forward, cupping your hands around your mouth.

"Samson?" You call out, your voice cracking a little despite yourself.

The name echoes like a bell through the slumbering kingdom. It lasts for a moment before silence swallows everything again. For a moment, your heart sinks.

That is until your ears picked up hoofbeats from the distant.

You whip your head around, breath catching as a pale blur races out from the misty edges of the stables. The sound grows louder, pounding against the stones like a racing drum and you see him.

Samson's white coat glows like moonlight wrapped in muscle, and his obsidian mane streams behind him in tangled waves. There’s something wild in his eyes, something frantic and raw. You can tell instantly—he’s scared. His ears flick back and forth, and his nostrils flare as he breathes hard.

You don't blame him, you're scared too seeing all these sleeping people.

Although he's awake and that's the most important path. That alone fills you with a strange kind of hope.

"Hey there, buddy…" You whisper gently as he slows to a halt just a few feet from you.

You step closer, hand outstretched, brushing a trembling palm through his mane. He doesn't shy away—his breathing huffs against your face.

“Did I wake you from your nap?” You murmur with a half-smile.

He snorts loudly, stamping the ground once with his hoof. The sound is almost comically annoyed.

You chuckle. “…I’ll take that as a yes.”

Your fingers continue to comb gently through his hair, grounding yourself with the steady rhythm. You glance around at the rows of silent figures, at the castle behind you.

"Sorry, Samson," you say quietly, "but things aren’t what they should be. And right now… everyone’s fate might just be in our hands." You step back slightly and meet his gaze. “Think you can handle that?”

As if understanding every word, Samson lets out a sharp neigh and rears onto his hind legs, forelegs kicking out into the night air. The sound he makes is bold almost defiant. His mane whips in the breeze like a battle cry.

You grin, heart lifting. “Alright then, knight-horse. Let’s go, into the forest.”

You grab onto the saddle—still strapped snug against his back—and haul yourself up. It’s not the most graceful of mounts, but you manage to steady yourself quickly, adjusting your legs on either side.

No reins needed.

The moment you’re secure, he surges forward with startling speed, hooves pounding against the earth as he barrels toward the forest. Wind rushes against your face, wild and unforgiving, nearly knocking the breath from your lungs.

You lean forward instinctively, body pressed low against his neck, cutting through the wind like an arrow.

The forest looms ahead and together, you ride into whatever lays in there.

You know... it’s been a long time since you last rode a horse.

You’d forgotten how freeing it feels—how the world blurs around you in a rush of trees and shadows and moonlight. The wind brushes against your skin like a lover’s whisper. Each rhythmic thud of hooves against the forest floor settles something deep inside you.

It’s… majestic, honestly. In a way you don’t often get to feel.

You're not like the fairy tale princes and princesses. Not like Aurelio, who seems to exist in harmony with nature itself—birds perching on his arms without hesitation, squirrels curling up at his feet.

There’s no instinctive bond between you and animals, no magical spark that draws them to you. You’ve never had the patience or the warmth, perhaps, to build that kind of connection.

However now?

Now you’re galloping through an enchanted forest on the back of a royal steed and searching for a hidden cottage that once houses three magical fairies and a prince.

You’re living a borrowed life and yet… it doesn’t feel borrowed anymore. It feels yours.

Maybe it's wrong and selfish to think of that. But after everything—the endless cycle of death, the loneliness, and the pain, you can’t help but crave this kind of life.

This world... a place where you have a family, even if they’re not truly yours. A kingdom that respects you. A prince who… who looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

If you could fix the curse, why would you leave? Would you even want to? The thought presses heavy against your chest. It’s too big and uncertain, so you let it go—for now.

“Samson, wait,” you murmur, gently tugging on his mane. Your voice cuts through the quiet woods, soft but firm.

The horse responds immediately, slowing to a halt with obedient ease, mirroring the way your head turns, scanning the forest.

This place looks familiar. It’s... where you first met Aurelio.

The fairies never really said where their cottage was though they had warned him not to stray too far from home, and even if he knew these woods like the back of his hand, it’s unlikely he wandered in zigzags. He probably walked in a straight-ish line from here.

…Ooooor you could be completely wrong and heading in the opposite direction!

You shake the thought away with a sigh. “Let’s just keep going forward,” you say aloud, more to yourself than Samson. “But slowly this time, we’re looking for a cottage. Eyes sharp, okay?”

Samson snorts quietly and dips his head in what almost looks like a nod. He steps forward again, hooves soft against the forest floor, the two of you pressing deeper into the unknown together.

.

.

.

"Haven’t you passed that twisted tree before?" Its gnarled trunk, the way its branches jut out like grasping claws—it’s all too familiar.

No matter how far forward you ride, the forest seems to blur and bend back in on itself, looping around like some cruel maze.

“I swear, we’ve seen that same tree at least three times,” you mutter under your breath, pressing your palm against your temple as the edges of frustration begin to fray your nerves.

Just when you’re convinced you’ve been riding in circles and began to think the possibility of the fairies enchanting the forest to keep the cottage hidden, something changes.

Samson’s ears twitch before you spot it yourself through the shadows, nestled between ancient trees, stands a faint silhouette. The cottage!

He picks up his pace, trotting toward it with eager steps, as if he senses your urgency. But the nervousness you had swallowed earlier rises again. Your hands tighten around the reins.

“Quiet, Samson,” you whisper, your voice barely a breath in the wind. “I don’t know what’s waiting for us in there...”

Your mind leaps to the worst, Maleficent. Her eyes like daggers, her laughter curling like smoke. You can almost see her servants—those misshapen, beast-like things, whatever they are—waiting to spring a trap, to tangle you in ropes and thorns and drag you away.

Samson halts a few paces from the cottage, sensing your tension. You dismount carefully, landing with barely a sound, your legs steady despite the wild beating of your heart.

You creep toward the side of the building, crouching low, breath held tight in your chest. Every step feels deafening. The cottage is old, but not abandoned flowers still bloom along its edges, and the window nearest to you is slightly ajar.

You press yourself against the wall, stealing a long breath to steady your nerves. Slowly, cautiously, you lean toward the window, just enough to peer through the gap.

You brace yourself.

But…

Nothing.

It's empty. Not even the three little fairies are here!

You don’t feel your heart race anymore. You feel it drop. Sink like a stone into your stomach, heavy and sickening. If Maleficent isn’t here… then that means she either never came to this cottage—or she did come and took the fairies with her.

Panic claws at you. You don’t hesitate and sprint back to Samson, urgency pouring off you in waves.

“Samson!” You call out, voice sharp with alarm. “We have to go to Maleficent’s land. Now!”

But your companion doesn’t move to obey. Instead, he throws his head back and lets out a loud, almost indignant neigh, rearing onto his hind legs as if trying to block your command.

Your breath catches. You step closer, placing a soothing hand on his neck, your voice cracking slightly with emotion. “I know… I know it’s dangerous. But we don’t have a choice.”

You stroke his mane, trying to calm him. “You don’t have to go beyond the thorns… Just take me there. That’s all I ask.”

He stares at you, eyes deep and uncertain. For a moment, you wonder if he’ll refuse entirely. But finally, with a huff and a lowered head, he gives in.

You exhale in relief and mount quickly. “Thank you,” you murmur, patting his side gently.

And with that, you ride this time, toward the dark heart of the forest. Toward the towering wall of thorns you know must be Maleficent’s domain.

The air grows colder the closer you get.

Your thoughts race, nearly as fast as Samson gallops. "Why would she even take them?" She never believed the fairies could defeat her, which she is right, they said it themselves. They posed no real threat—right?

Then again, the Sword of Truth, the very same thing crafted by the fairies and blessed to destroy all evil is the one Phillip used to kill Maleficent.

She must sense the possibility no matter how small it is. If she believes the fairies will help you… then she’ll do anything to stop that from happening.

The ride stretches on endlessly, each beat of Samson’s hooves muffled beneath the weight of your thoughts and the hush of the sleeping forest. When the wall of thorns finally emerges from the gloom, you feel a chill crawl up your spine.

The thorns are unlike anything natural, thick enough to rival tree trunks. They twist together like living things, stretching quite high and hiding whatever lies beyond. You swallow hard.

“…We’re here,” you murmur, slipping off Samson’s back.

The moment your shoes touch the ground, you can feel the unease in your steed—his muscles tight, his stance rigid, like he’s ready to bolt at the slightest sound. You offer a quiet pat along his side in reassurance, though your own nerves are frayed.

Your first thought is to climb it, maybe scale your way over. But even as after adjusting your dress, you can already tell—it’s hopeless. Every inch of the wall is riddled with thorns that are ready to snag and tear with the smallest misstep.

You grimace and abandon the idea with a sigh. Maybe… cutting through? You’re not sure if that would even work, not unless you had the Sword of Truth but you could at least try.

With a deep breath, you extend your hand and a blade of pure light shimmers into being. You clutch it tightly, its familiar hum grounding you… but the sound of a startled snort snaps your attention.

You glance back at Samson, who is eyeing your glowing sword with wide, uncertain eyes.

“Ah—” You smile sheepishly, lowering the blade a little. “The fairies lent me some of their magic,” you explain gently. He seems to relax slightly, but his ears remain twitching, alert.

You turn back to the thorns, your jaw tightening at the sight. Drawing the light blade back, you swing with full force—

Clang.

The sword bounces off as if you'd struck a wall of iron, it didn't even left a scratch. You hit it again—harder this time. Still nothing.

Frustration curls inside you like smoke. “Seriously?” You mutter, biting back a groan. “Guess I really do need that enchanted sword…”

The blade of light vanishes from your hand, dissolving into faint sparkles. You look up, the wall isn’t impossibly tall—just high enough to be a challenge. So perhaps… a staircase could work.

With that new idea in your mind, you didn't waste a second. Sword after sword forms beneath your feet—each one a glowing step, suspended in air, crafted carefully to lead you up and over the wall.

You glance back at Samson one last time.

“Wait for me here… alright?” You say softly.

His ears twitch, and after a moment of stillness, he gives a slow nod. You hold his gaze for a beat longer, offering a faint smile before turning away.

The first step you take onto your blade-crafted staircase is steady, but as you climb higher and higher, a knot begins to form in your chest. You try not to think about what might happen if you slipped.

As you ascend, your thoughts drift. What lies beyond this cursed barrier? The Forbidden Mountains, perhaps? That would make sense... but wouldn’t you have seen them from the kingdom?

Maybe what lies ahead has shifted into something more twisted than the story you remember. You don’t have time to finish the thought. Your foot hovers above the next glowing blade then stops. Your mouth parts in shock.

“…Woah…” The sound escapes you without thought because what lies beyond the bramble wall is not what you expected.

Instead of desolation or dark mountains, an entire hidden realm stretches before you. A place vibrant and untouched, bathed in moonlight. Trees taller than towers sway gently and wildflowers of colors you don’t have names for bloom in every direction, glowing faintly like stars scattered across the earth.

The vines that line the wall pulse faintly, almost as if they’re alive and watching. You hadn’t noticed that before.

And there drifting lazily among the bushes and branches are countless fireflies flicker like sparks in the dark. Their light bathes the grass in gold. Pools and streams weave through the land like glass threads, reflecting the moon so clearly that it looks like the sky has spilled onto the ground.

This… doesn’t feel like a place born of evil. If anything, it feels enchanted and even sacred. A world suspended between dream and reality.

A small frown tugs at your lips as you step forward. “Strange… I expected the good fairies living in a place like this,” you murmur.

Although, isn't Maleficent a fairy herself? Perhaps this is or was her home, before she became something darker. Well, you yourself also don't live in a very depressing place... you reside on an old library with curling ivy on its walls. That doesn't seem like somewhere a 'villain' would reside in, right?

You shake off the thought and move forward carefully, sword after sword forming beneath your feet until you’ve crossed past the thorns entirely.

Once you’re above the open ground, you shift your focus. The sword underfoot glows faintly and with a quiet command in your mind, the next blade forms lower. Each one bringing you down toward the forest floor.

The moment you do stood on ground, a strange sensation washes over you. The air feels warmer here, charged with something ancient. The scent of flowers, herbs, and rich soil fills your lungs.

And though the place is beautiful, a lingering unease coils at the edge of your mind. Beauty can be a mask... Maleficent covered this place with thorns and you have to know why she did so.

You move cautiously, the last sword of light vanishing behind you. Each step deeper into the dreamlike forest feels like venturing into a forgotten memory.

You’re alert, listening, and eyes scanning for any type of movement. For now, the only sounds are the rustling of leaves, the soft buzz of fireflies and the quiet steady beat of your own heart.

Where do you even start in a place like this?

The sheer scale of the forest stretches endlessly before you. The fairies could be anywhere… or worse, maybe they’re not here at all. The thought makes your stomach twist unpleasantly.

“No, they have to be here,” you whisper to yourself, trying to chase away the dread curling in your chest. “They have to be…”

You take a moment to scan your surroundings again, eyes trailing over softly glowing flowers and the thick canopy above. You need to get a better view of the area... you look around and saw a tall hill in the distance, a long curved tree standing proudly atop it, bathed in silver moonlight

Without hesitation, you start toward the slope. The silence follows you like a shadow.

As you walk, that feeling creeps back into your bones, the sense of being watched. It clings to your skin like cold mist. You pause and glance over your shoulder but you see nothing just the trees, the gentle glow of fireflies.

Your grip tightens slightly on your dress as you press on. At last, you reach the crest of the cliff and stand beneath the curved tree. Up close, you recognize the reddish bark and jagged leaves—a Rowan tree. A rare one, and said to ward off dark spirits... funny.

From here, the world stretches wide and open. Lakes shimmer below, edged by waterfalls and dense foliage. But just as you're about to lose yourself in the view, something tugs at the edge of your awareness.

Your eyes drift back to the tree and that’s when you see it—etched deep into the bark:

"M & L"

Your brows draw together. It’s old and faded but still visible. The letters are carved with care. Who's M and L? Before you can trace the grooves with your fingers or sink deeper into speculation, a voice cuts through the silence like a sharp end blade.

“Found something?”

Your heart lurches. You whip around and your breath catches in your throat.

She stands just a few feet away. The moonlight gleams off her curved horns and flowing black robes, casting her in shadow and silver. Maleficent.

Her beauty is sharp and unnatural. High cheekbones like carved marble, lips stained blood-red, and those vivid green eyes—God, those eyes—they pin you in place like prey caught in a snare.

She's exactly what you imagined her to look like... well besides that she isn't sickly green. What are up with these changes and why?

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

She steps forward with the grace of a serpent, her smile cruel and cold. “Cat got your tongue?” She drawls, tilting her head ever so slightly. “How curious… I wasn’t expecting a visitor this late and from a princess, no less.”

Her gaze narrows, and she leans in until you can feel her breath ghost against your skin.

“Princess [Name], isn’t it? Betrothed to dear Aurelio… Have you come to defeat me?” Her smile widens—mocking you. “A brave little lamb marching into the lion’s den?”

Then she laughs but there’s no warmth in it. The sound prickles down your spine like thorns.

“Foolish,” she hisses, suddenly rising to her full height, voice crackling with venom. “You dare set foot in my lands and bring me death?”

Her staff rises with fluid motion, and green fire erupts in a brilliant blaze, circling her in a violent halo. The air thickens, heavy with raw magic and rage.

Your heart slams against your ribs. Instinct kicks in and you throw up your hands, palms out, backing away in alarm.

“W-Wait! No, I don’t want to fight!” you shout, breathless, stumbling slightly. “I’m not here to hurt you—I swear! I-I don’t even have a weapon!” You lift your arms higher, desperate, your voice trembling but sincere. “Please, I just want to talk…”

“Talk?” She repeats the word like it offends her tongue, curling her lip in disgust. Her voice is sharp, rich with disdain, and her eyes narrow in a way that makes you want to curl inward. “Who do you think I am, princess?”

The venom in her tone sends a cold ripple down your spine.

“N-No one!” you gasp out, your voice higher than you'd like, brittle and cracking. “I mean, it! I really just want to talk!”

She narrows her eyes at you, sharp green gleaming in the moonlight. She doesn’t blink nor does she move, merely watches you like a predator deciding when to pounce.

And then, at last, her voice cuts through the silence again. “Tell me first, how did you get past the wall of thorns?”

As the flames around her flicker and finally die down, the suffocating pressure in your chest eases—just a little. You can breathe again, though your breaths are still shallow and careful, like you’re afraid the very sound of them might provoke her.

You can’t tell her the truth. It doesn’t align with the story, and it would raise more questions you can’t afford to answer. You also don't want her to be weary knowing you can wield magic.

“I… the fairies helped me,” you lie, your voice barely above a whisper like saying it too loud might break the illusion.

Maleficent hums, low and dangerous. “So those winged vermin sent a mortal girl to her death?”

You swallow hard and he chuckles darkly at your reaction, the sound twisted with amusement. The idea that she’s merely toying with you starts to form, and it doesn't sit well.

But if that is her truthful answer... did she not capture the fairies? They wouldn't be able to help you if she has and she'd know that. She could also be playing a deeper game although you expect of her character to mention your blatant lie and press for the truth.

She crosses her arms, elegant and composed despite the earlier outburst. “So, what is it you want to talk about?”

You shift uncomfortably, fingers fidgeting at your sides. There’s so much you want to understand... One of those is about the tree, you thought maybe starting with something simple and unrelated to Aurelio could... ease her?

“I saw something carved into the tree… ‘M & L’.” You meet her eyes, and to your surprise, she freezes. Her expression falters though it’s only for a second, but in that breath, her control cracks.

Without a word, she brushes past you. Her steps are swift and fluid, her cloak rustling like whispers behind her as she approaches the Rowan tree. She stares at the initials, and you hear her mutter something under her breath.

“I don’t remember this being here...” She murmurs.

You blink, stepping closer as you ask, “What is it?”

She whirls around, her gaze burning, her entire frame tense with fury. “Nothing of worth,” she hisses, voice like a blade drawn across stone.

She turns back to the tree, kneels before it and lifts a hand. A flicker of green magic glows in her palm. But she stops and the magic stutters before completely dying. Her hand fell to her side as she continues to look at it.

You watch it all happen. Whatever that carving means… it does matter.

“Why are you truly here, mortal?” She rises slowly, backlit by moonlight, her face hidden in shadows except for her eyes.

Those glowing green gleam with anger, but something else lingers there—pain...

“I already said the reason...” This time, you say it more steadily. “But I don't just want to talk about the tree.” She doesn’t respond, but the silence is permission enough to continue.

“I want to know why you did it,” you continue. “Why curse a child over an invitation? That can’t be the real reason. And if you wanted revenge… why not curse his parents?”

A breeze stirs around you, rustling leaves, and yet it feels like the entire world has gone still, holding its breath.

At first, you honestly believed she wouldn’t answer you at all. You wondered if she might just incinerate you on the spot or fling you off the lands with a flick of her wrist.

With a faint movement of her lips, she finally spoke, “Is that really all you want of me?”

“Y-Yes... if you're willingly to tell me that is. I just.. I want to know.. you.” Your voice barely louder than the wind.

Her eyes narrowing into sharp slits. “Hmm... I suppose it wouldn't hurt to tell. You may take my word or leave it... Though you're already foolish enough to wander in my lands, I wouldn't be surprise if you believe them!"

"..." Your brows furrows as she laughs lightly

"If you truly want answers,” she said, each word snarling and biting, “then I expect silence. Complete and utter silence.” She took a step forward, her presence is practically suffocating. “Will I get that from you? Or would you prefer I whisk you away to some place you’ll never be found?”

Your lips parted, wait she's actually going to entertain you? She wouldn't burn you on the spot or turn you into some pathetic little creature? Granted you wouldn't be sure if it'll be true but... still.

Not wanting to ruin the chance, you quickly bit down on the inside of your cheek and gave a small, silent nod.

She raised her chin, satisfied. “Good.”

Her tone shifted into something more formal, almost melodic, like a storyteller at the beginning of a dark fairytale.

“Once upon a time,” she began, her eyes half-lidded as if staring through you and into memory, “there were two kingdoms… and they were the worst of neighbors. So deep was the hatred that festered between them, it was said only the intervention of a great hero—and a terrible villain—could ever bring peace.”

.

.

.

Far from the cold walls of stone and the poison of thrones, in a place where the sky drips golden through the leaves and rivers shimmer like liquid glass, the Moors lie untouched by man.

Here, no king nor queen claims dominion. Instead, the creatures of the Moors govern themselves through trust. Strange and wondrous beings roam freely, and among them lives one who might appear as just a girl, but is far more.

A fairy... wild and free. And her name... is Maleficent.

In those early days, she is not feared by mortals but a creature of joy. She laughs with the wind, dances through flowering meadows, and greets every bird, beast, and winged kin with open arms. She is young, curious, radiant, and filled with unshakable wonder.

On one such morning, the kind where the dew still clings to petals and the breeze tastes like new beginnings, she skips across the mossy paths of her homeland. That’s when she notices an unusual tension in the air.

Fairies, sprites, and woodfolk gather in hushes and whispers, eyes darting toward the border. Maleficent slows, blinking at the shift in energy.

“What’s going on?” She asks, tilting her head.

From the brush, three small fairies rush toward her.

“The border guards—” begins Flora, clad in vivid red leaves that rustle like fire when she moves.

“Hey! I was going to tell her!” Interrupts Merryweather, the smallest and roundest of the trio, dressed in hues of bright blue, her hands planted on her hips with indignation.

“We have a system, Merryweather,” Flora huffs, folding her arms. “I speak first, then you, then Fauna.”

“Nooo! You promised it was my turn!” Merryweather stomps her foot in the air, fluttering a few inches higher in frustration.

While the two bickered, Maleficent only blinked, amusement and mild confusion playing across her face. “Tell me what?”

The third fairy, Fauna, dressed in soft green petals, glanced between her sisters nervously. “Um... well…”

With a sigh, Flora finally waved her hand. “Fine. Go ahead, tell her.”

“Thank you,” Merryweather drawled, voice thick with sarcasm. “Anyway, the border guards have—”

“The border guards found a human in the Moors!!” Fauna blurted, hands clasped over her mouth the moment the words were out.

The other two fairies gave her matching looks of exasperation.

“I-I’m sorry,” Fauna murmured, wings drooping.

But Maleficent’s attention was already gone. Her eyes widened and her breath caught. “A human?” She repeated, stunned.

She didn’t wait for more. Without another word, she turned and darted toward the edge of the Moors, fear wrapping her heart for a possibility of another war against the humans.

It didn’t take long for her to reach the edge of the Moors. The lush green gradually gives way to dense thickets of ivy and brambles, the air growing still with tension.

There, standing sentinel at the boundary, are the Spriggans, guardians who resembled trees more than men. Each clutching a long wooden spear, the tips glinting with dew and menace alike.

Maleficent steps forward without hesitation, her bare feet brushing against the moss-covered rocks. She climbs atop one, standing proud despite the Spriggan's warning.

"I’m not afraid," she declares, lifting her chin. “Besides, I’ve never seen a human before!”

The Spriggans shifts uneasily but didn’t lower their spears. Maleficent turns her gaze toward the arched entrance to the Moors, now overgrown with ivy and shadowed by trees.

“Come out!” She calls out.

For a moment, there's only silence. Then came a voice, quivering and high.

“N-No! They mean to hurt me…”

The words trembles like leaves in the wind.

Maleficent’s brows furrows and her tone soften. “They’re only scared, just like you,” she reasons gently. “But they won’t hurt you. Not unless you give them a reason to... So please, come out.”

There was hesitation, before something begins to move. Parting the veil of ivy with trembling hands, a young girl emerge slowly from the shadows. Her clothes were frayed and slightly dirtied from her travels, golden hair mussed and tangled with leaves. She blinks up at Maleficent with wide eyes.

Maleficent tilts her head, studying her.

“Are you fully grown?” She asks curiously, unable to mask the fascination in her voice.

The girl looks down at her own fingers, twisting them anxiously. “No… not yet,” she mumble.

A hum escapes Maleficent’s lips. She turns toward the Spriggan. “She’s just a child. There’s no threat here.” Without waiting for their reply, she gently place a hand on the shaft of the spear and push it down.

The Spriggans obeys, stepping back without a word.

As the human girl cautiously approach, her gaze wanders around the strange, vivid landscape of the Moors. Then, quietly, she says something that made Maleficent pause.

“You’re just like me… I think.”

The fairy blink. “Just like me?”

The girl shrugs slightly. “I mean… we’re both girls.”

“Who are you?” Maleficent smile as she crosses her arms loosely.

“I… I’m Leah. And you?”

“Maleficent.” She told her name without hesitation. “What are you doing here, Leah? All by yourself? Don’t you know how dangerous it is?”

Leah holds her hands tightly in front of her, small fingers knotting together. “I know. That’s why I came.” Her voice is soft but steady. “They always say the Moors are scary. And I… I wanted to see it for myself.”

Her gaze drifts around again, wide with wonder. “It’s not as dangerous as they say…”

Maleficent chuckles, “No, of course it isn’t! Humans are fond of making up stories when they’re afraid of things they don’t understand.”

Leah smiles at that, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “I guess that’s true...”

“But still," The fairy's tone growing more serious as she steps forward, “you shouldn’t be here. The creatures in the Moors don’t trust humans.” She hold out her hand. “Come, I’ll take you back home.”

Leah hesitates but slowly places her small hand in Maleficent’s.

And so they walk—side by side—through the winding paths of the Moors, past glowing flowers and whispering trees. It's the first time a human and a fairy walks together so openly, with no fear and hatred.

By the time they reach the mortal fields, the castle loomed in the distance like a mountain of stone and shadow.

“We’ll see each other again…” Leah murmurs, glancing up at Maleficent with a shy smile, as if the very idea of goodbye pains her.

Maleficent turns toward her with a puzzled frown, her sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. “You shouldn’t come back, Leah. It’s not safe for someone like you.”

A gust of air blows between them, lifting strands of Leah’s golden hair. She stares at her feet for a moment before daring to look back up, a flicker of determination in her youthful eyes.

“I wouldn't be safe just being there myself,” she smiles. “But if you're there... I wouldn't be in any danger, right?”

Maleficent hesitates, she doesn't want to and yet the warmth in Leah’s voice, the genuine hope in her question—it melts all her hesitation away. A small, reluctant smile creeps across the fairy's lips.

“Perhaps...” She replies with the faintest chuckle.

Before she could say more, Leah lunges forward and wraps her arms around Maleficent. The gesture stuns her but after a heartbeat, her body softens. She let out a breathless laugh and slowly returns the hug.

“Ooh, you promise? You promise to show me around the Moors?” Leah's voice muffle against Maleficent’s shoulder.

“Yes,” she answers, slightly amused. “I promise. I’ll show you all the wonders of the Moors. Aaand I know three very curious little fairies who’d love to meet you.”

Their hug lingers for a bit, neither quite ready to pull away. But eventually, all things must part. With a final wave and a sharing glance, Leah turns and made her way back toward her home.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

Left alone beneath the twilight sky, Maleficent lays on her Rowan tree while looking up at the twilight sky. Her mind wanders back to the strange little human who had spoken so fearlessly. She had always believed humans to be ruthless and destructive beings. But Leah… she's different.

And true to her word, Leah did return.

Again and again, the girl ventured back into the Moors, each visit longer than the last. Maleficent introduced her to the three flower-sized fairies who were as baffled as they were enchanted by the human child. Together, they explored the glowing marshes, the silver-winged creatures of the bogs, and the hidden groves no mortal had seen before.

Over time, Leah grew taller and her voice became surer but her laughter—the way it lit up the air—remained unchanged. So did her fondness for Maleficent.

One evening, years later, the two of them sit beneath the Rowan tree. Leah leaned against its trunk, arms folded behind her head, while Maleficent lay beside her, staring up at the stars.

“Hey, Mal…” Leah says, her tone light but tinged with something else. Maleficent hummed in acknowledgment, not taking her eyes off the stars. “You know the Prince of Ulstead? Stefan?” Leah asks, trying to sound casual.

The fairy glances at her, curious. “Yes, I’ve heard of him. What about him?”

Leah chuckles, a hint of disbelief in her voice. “He asked me to marry him. Can you believe that? Me—a peasant girl. He could have any princess in the kingdom, and yet…” She trails off with a breathy laugh, her eyes fixed on the dark canopy above them. “I don’t know what possessed him. Or his parents, for that matter.”

Maleficent blinked, genuinely surprised. She tilts her head as if seeing Leah for the first time again. “Maybe he saw something in you that none of those princesses could offer,” she said softly. “You’re beautiful, Leah. And kind. That’s rarer than gold among royalty.”

“Hah!” Leah scoffs, playfully swatting at the air. “Really now? You know who I am, Mal. I'm everything but kind~”

They both laugh, their voices mingling in the twilight like old friends who’d long forgotten why they were ever meant to be different. Etched into the Rowan tree above their heads, faded but enduring, were the initials M & L.

Maleficent and Leah.

However, after that night, something had shifted.

It had been subtle at first—a missed visit here, a late arrival there. But soon, Leah’s once frequent presence, which used to brighten even the gloomiest corners of the Moors, faded into nothingness. Days turned to weeks, then months. And... a few years. No letters, no messengers, not even a whisper on the wind.

Maleficent often caught herself gazing into the horizon, wondering where her dear friend had gone, if she was well, if she was happy. Perhaps the life of royalty had claimed her entirely. Perhaps she had outgrown the company of a fairy. The thought settled like cold ash in Maleficent’s chest.

One particularly clear morning, the sun casting golden light over the verdant wilds of the Moors, Maleficent wanders through a clearing that once echoed with Leah’s laughter. The quiet was unnerving. Her steps slows as she approaches a familiar figure—a Spirggan.

“Have you seen the three?” She asks. “Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather?”

The tree creature let out a series of low, rumbling groans and creaks. Maleficent listens, nodding along as it talks.

“They’ve left… for the kingdom?” Her brows furrowed. “But why?”

The Spirggan only gave a shrug, returning to its slow tending of the forest floor, disinterested.

Maleficent stood in place, staring into nothing. If Leah needed help—or company—why hadn’t she told her? Why send the them instead?

A knot formed in her chest, one she couldn’t ignore it.

Disguised in a flowing human form, cloaked and elegant, Maleficent made her way into the human kingdom. The city was alive with festivities, nobles from far and wide parading through the streets. Colors, trumpets, laughter—it was a celebration of some kind.

Inside the castle, her gaze landed on a familiar face. Leah.

She sat regally on a throne, her blonde hair woven into an intricate style, a delicate crown resting upon her head. Time had changed her, softened her in some places, sharpened her in others. But what caused Maleficent’s heart to sink was not the crown.

It was the cradle.

A finely carved crib sits proudly before the throne, surrounded by guests and shimmering with the soft glow of magic. The realization hit her like a blow.

"A child... She had a child?"

Maleficent’s stomach twists. "Why didn’t she tell me?" She and Leah had shared everything. The absence of this truth burns more than any lie. Her hands clenches at her sides as something hot surged within her chest.

Before she could stop it, emerald flames flickered across her form. The illusion melts away, revealing her true self—tall, imposing, curved horns casting long shadows across the marble floor.

Gasps filled the air. Courtiers recoiled in terror and servants fled. All eyes turned to the center of the room.

Merryweather, hovering in mid-air, froze mid-sentence, wand outstretched as she prepared to bless the child.

“Maleficent…?” Leah’s voice trembles behind a gloved hand. Her eyes were wide, disbelief and recognition swirling within them.

Maleficent steps forward, her smile cold, almost mocking, though her voice carried sorrow like a bitter undertone. “Ah... I’m surprised you still remember me, old friend.”

A man sitting beside Leah stiffened. “You were friends with that… creature?”

Her emerald eyes flicked to him. "That must be Stefan", she thought with contempt.

“I-I…” Leah voice wavers and her gaze fell to her lap.

The fairy's tone sharpens, underlined with pain. “What’s the matter? Tell him the truth, Leah. Tell them who I am to you.”

Her hands curling tightly into the folds of her dress until her knuckles turn white. Stefan leans in close, whispering something that made her shoulders tense. Her expression shifts and something cracks behind her eyes.

After a long silence, she raises her head, though her gaze remains away from Maleficent.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…” Her voice was soft yet hollow of any emotions.

Maleficent stood there in stunned silence, as if the very earth beneath her had turned to ice. The words cut deeper than any sword. Her expression didn’t falter, but the flicker of betrayal in her eyes said it all.

“Queen Leah!” Flora calls out, shock from the queen's words.

The familiar ache in Maleficent's heart returning tenfold. The friend she once knew... is now gone.

Maleficent's lips pulls into a smile, but there's no joy in it—only pain, wrap in a bitter kind of amusement. A hollow chuckle escapes her throat until she's laughing. Leah finally looks to her, wide-eyed, confusion flitting across her delicate features.

“Oh dear..." Maleficent says between her laughter, voice teetering on the edge of mockery. “What an awkward situation...” Her heeled boots clicks on the polished floor as she walks toward the cradle, where the three fairies hovered protectively.

“Maleficent...?” Merryweather’s voice is barely a whisper, her wings fluttering in hesitation as she floated back, unsure of what her former peer would do.

Maleficent doesn't look at her for her eyes are drawn to the cradle, and when she reaches it, she leans forward. A soft huff escapes her lips as she looks down. Nestling inside the silken blankets was a baby boy and unmistakably Leah’s. They're almost one in the same.

“Well, well,” she murmurs, tilting her head with a sardonic smile. “Such a quaint little thing. I see he’s inherited your hair, Leah.” She straightens. “I’ve no interest in harming him. I merely came to offer a gift for the boy...”

“Stay away!” Stefan’s voice rings out as he stood abruptly, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword while his wife grabs his arm gently.

Maleficent raises a brow. “Oh? So I am forbidden to approach, but these three", she gestures to the hovering fairies, “may crowd the child with trinkets and blessings as they please?” She clicks her tongue. “How... very curious.”

Stefan takes a bold step forward. “We don’t want anything from you, Maleficent. You’re not welcome here so leave... now.”

Maleficent laughs under her breath. “And if I refuse?” Her voice dipped into something darker as green fire flickered to life around her fingertips, curling up her arms like ivy. “Will you brandish that sword and hope to strike me down?”

The room tenses.

“Listen closely, King Stefan... and Queen Leah.” Her voice now booming “Your son shall indeed grow in grace and beauty. He will be cherished by all who lay eyes upon him.”

Leah’s expression crumbles as she took a trembling step forward, tears brimming in her eyes. “Please, Maleficent, I... I didn’t mean what I—”

“Silence.” The word was sharp and unforgiving. Maleficent’s eyes flares with a storm of hurt and fury. “You lost the right to speak to me the moment you denied me before them.”

She turns her gaze once more to the cradle, her voice low and full of venom. “But let it be known—before the sun sets on his twenty-second birthday, he shall prick his finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel... and fall into a sleep like death. A sleep from which he shall never awaken!”

“No!” Leah fell to her knees with a broken cry, her hands clutching the hem of her gown as sobs wracks her body. “Please—Mal—I’m sorry! Please, just listen, just—don't do this!”

Stefan is beside her in an instant, kneeling at her side, arms wrapping around her as she wept. For a moment... something within Maleficent tremble.

She had never seen Leah cry like this before. Not even in their worst moments. There was real regret in her voice—real pain. And it hit Maleficent like a blow to the chest.

Her gaze softens but only just. A bitter chuckle slips out though quieter this time. “Very well... then.” She turns, sweeping her arms dramatically as the green fire simmered low around her feet.

“The prince can be awaken from this cursed slumber... but only with true love’s kiss.” Her eyes swept across the gathering nobles and royalty, her voice taking on a cold finality. “This curse shall last until the end of time! No power but mine can change it.”

And with that, a storm of green flames erupted around her, swallowing her figure in a blazing vortex of heat and magic. When the smoke clears, Maleficent's gone like she had never been there at all.

Characters & Info
✦ Twisted Tales [Extra]

Other Stories
✦ Divine Voice | Yandere.WHB x M.Reader
✦ My Dearest | Yandere.Alastor x M.Reader
✦ Solunar | Mythical.Yanderes x F.Reader

Chapter Text

꒰ა ACT II: CHAPTER 3 ໒꒱

⋇⊰Once Upon A Time⊱⋇

❥・Word Count: 11.1k

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

...Well that isn't what you expected. You're not sure if you should trust her words but with how detailed and full of emotions—even if she tried to contain it—her voice was while talking about it, you doubt, at least, not all of it is made up.

If you'll push aside the idea of her lying, then that would make your first intuition wrong, the people weren't the one who didn't allowed her to speak, it was her. Now sure, Leah did in fact 'betrayed' Maleficent but if their bond was so true and strong, does the fairy really believe the queen will throw everything away that easily?

Maleficent’s voice carries softly through the cool night air, her eyes locked on the distant horizon. “Oh, I’ve wanted to curse his parents...” She muses. “But I thought that wouldn’t be... fun.”

You narrow your eyes slightly and before you can stop yourself, the question tumbles out of your mouth.

“Or... is it because you still cared about Queen Leah and couldn't curse her? So you instead done it to the closest thing who resembled her... Aurelio.”

The air turns colder. You snap your hands over your mouth, heart leaping to your throat. You hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

Maleficent turns her head slowly, her emerald gaze narrowing on you with a warning glint. “Watch your tongue, princess,” she murmurs, deceptively calm.

Still, the thought won’t let go. You take a shaky breath, then try again gentler this time.

“I just... it doesn’t sound like something Queen Leah would do. I mean, I only met her briefly, but from what you told me and my first impression of her... she didn’t seem like the type to throw away a childhood friend. There has to be more.”

Her eyes flick away from you, toward the Rowan tree at the carving that has survived everything else. “Oh, you’re still so full of light...” Her voice is quieter now, sounding almost fond. “I was once like that.”

You see the faintest shadow of a smile cross her lips and yet it fades as quickly as it appeared. “People change, child. Sometimes, you never even realize they were like that from the start.”

But you shake your head. No, it doesn’t sit right. You can feel it in your bones, there’s more to this than just betrayal. In truth, neither of them handled things well. Leah had responsibilities, yes, but she also had made choices. And Maleficent... she never gave her friend a chance to really explain things and had let emotions control her actions—not that you blame her.

You've also let your heart... your hatred and yearning for revenge control your body. As a consequence, you've destroyed lives that weren't even the cause of your pain. That's why you promise yourself to only use your magic to hurt if there is no other choice... you really hope you never come to that.

“So... did you ever try talking to her again?” you ask softly. “After everything?”

Maleficent lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. “After what I did? No, of course not. I gave her the chance once and she chose her answer.” She turns fully now, walking to the base of the Rowan tree and running her fingers gently across the bark. “That was enough. Oh... but the rabbles did try and never again after I scared them away.”

You stand there in silence thinking, "Rabbles? ...Ah wait Maleficent addresses the fairies as 'rabbles' in the story, it must be one in the same." So they tried to talk with Maleficent—perhaps after the shock of what Leah did they wanted to find reason for her actions much like what you're doing now.

When they got the answer from Queen Leah, they also wanted to tell Maleficent because it meant it's worth hearing out—they probably wouldn't even be taking care of Aurelio in the first place if Queen Leah truly did just threw Maleficent away like some broken toy.

Then you remember one little detail from Maleficent's retelling that could easily be brush off.

“You did say King Stefan appeared to have whispered something in her ear before she spoke,” you press, cautious but firm. “Maybe... he told her to say that.”

There’s a long silence—so long you start to worry that you've finally crossed the line. Thankfully, you haven't as she spoke once more.

“If he did...” She whispers, “and if our friendship mattered to her at all... why did she still listen to him?”

You suddenly ache to comfort her, to tell her you understand in some way. That you’ve felt alone too... numerous times. At least in her case, she had someone.

You look at her with a gentler gaze. “Maybe she was torn... between duty and friendship. You've said it yourself, people are wary of fairies, maybe King Stefan was too and had told her to not be associated with someone of the Moors especially of her status as queen. People make the wrong choices when they’re scared. Sometimes, it’s not because they stopped caring but because they think it’s easier...”

Another silence settles between you, not uncomfortable this time. Just... quiet.

Then, an idea sparks in your head. “Why not go talk to her again?” You suggest. “She’s still there... only asleep—actually the whole kingdom’s asleep right now.”

“Oh?” Maleficent lifts her head, eyes narrowing. “And why is that?”

“Weeell... you see the fairies put everyone to sleep after Aurelio pricked his finger. No one’s waking up until he does.” Her eyes suddenly widen as a realization flashes across her face, but it’s not the kind you’d hoped for.

“So that’s why you’re truly here,” she growls, stepping closer with sudden heat in her voice. You instinctively step back, feeling the ground tilt under your feet.

“H-Huh?”

“You came to ask me to break the curse.” Her eyes blaze.

“What?! No! I didn’t mean—!”

“I thought you were here for conversation,” she spits. “I thought you were here to talk and listen...” A bitter laugh bursts from her lips. “Aaah, I’ve been a fool twice now.” She laughs again before her face twists into a scowl. “Off with you!”

Before you can say another word, she lifts her hand. Magic erupts from her palm, and a force slams into you like a gust of wind.

You crash through the wall of thorns, the branches groaning and snapping in protest as it gave way. The world spins, and then—thud—you land harshly on the grassy plain below, the breath knocked out of you.

You lie there, stunned, staring blankly up at the stars ahead. At least you're just kicked out and not killed... that's something beneficial, you suppose.

A pair of thudding hooves draws near, and a familiar white shape stops beside you. “Samson?” You groan, blinking up at the warhorse. He nudges your face gently. You sit up with a wince. “I’m alright... could’ve been worse.”

Except now you’re left with... what? No fairies. No spell undone. No Maleficent on your side. All you have is a sleeping prince, a kingdom held hostage by dreams, and a kiss you’re not even sure will work.

Great.

Now you're beginning to think you might actually fail... Your gaze turns back to the thorns, such a fruitful night you're having.

With a heavy sigh, you push yourself up from the earth, dirt clinging to your palms and dress. You slap away at your skirts absentmindedly, trying not to think about the warmth of Maleficent’s green eyes when she lets her guard down. She had listened… for a moment.

“Come on, Samson,” you murmur tiredly. Even your voice sounds hollow. “Let’s go back to the kingdom…”

The loyal steed lets out a soft snort, lowering his head slightly as if he shares your burden. His ears are drooping, matching your posture. Neither of you has the strength to pretend this was a victory.

You mount him slowly, almost sluggishly, and he begins to walk back the way you came, hooves thudding gently against the earth. The air is cool and silent… until the shrill caw of a bird cuts through the quiet.

A streak of black darts in front of you. It's a crow... but it's not just that. There's only one crow you know and that is Diablo.

He flaps his wings with frantic energy, hovering directly in your path, his sharp eyes locked onto yours. You tug the reins slightly, frowning.

“Seriously?” You mutter as you guide Samson around him, but the bird swoops again, cawing loudly as if in protest. Annoyed, you raise a hand and swat him away. “Shoo! Go away!”

Diablo only flutters back slightly. He caws again only louder this time.

Your brow furrows as realization begins to settle in. “…Is this about Maleficent?”

To your surprise, Diablo dips his head a few times.

“Did she send you? Or are you doing this on your own?” There’s no answer, of course just because, though something in his eyes tells you it’s the latter.

You hesitate, the memory of green flames and angry laughter flickering behind your eyes. You scoff and shake your head. “You did see how she threw me out, right? I’m lucky I didn’t end up in a pile of cinders!”

That seems to quiet him, bowing his head slightly. After some time, he turns and soars back in the direction of the Moors. You watch him go, your lips parting slightly. He's not just her wings or a messenger, he’s her friend and even he wants her to reconsider.

You squeeze your eyes shut, then pat Samson’s side with your heel. “Let’s just go…”

The horse starts walking again, and with every step farther from the thorns, the weight in your chest grows heavier.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

The wind brushes gently through the Moors, whispering through the grass, but Maleficent doesn’t move. She stands silently beside the Rowan tree, its bark still bearing the faint carving from a childhood too distant to feel real.

The sound of flapping wings draws her attention, and her expression softens ever so slightly when Diablo lands on her staff, ruffling his feathers as he lets out a sharp, familiar caw.

“Hmm… Diablo,” she says coolly, as though she hadn’t been expecting him, though her eyes betray the relief of his presence. He begins squawking at her insistently, hopping along the top of her staff.

“Oh, her?” Maleficent chuckles without humor, turning her back to the tree. “She’s just another foolish girl who doesn’t know what she’s asking for. Came to me out of desperation, thinking a little talk could fix what’s already broken.”

The bitterness slips off her tongue like acid. She tries to laugh again, but it falters halfway through, becoming a sigh. Diablo tilts his head and lets out another string of caws and it sounds almost scolding. She narrows her eyes at him.

“Are you siding with her?” Her voice edges with mock offense. “You wound me Diablo..." He squawks once more. “...If you don’t stop, I’ll turn you into a dog again. Perhaps a shaggy little mutt this time, does that sound flattering to you?”

Diablo wisely stills and Maleficent lets the quiet hang between them. Yet, despite herself, her gaze flicks back to the Rowan tree. That silly, innocent carving... that little sliver of something she buried long ago.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

The silence in the kingdom returns. As you pass through the gates and into the familiar courtyard, you slip off Samson’s back with a tired grunt, your legs wobbling slightly beneath you.

You reach up and gently pat his side, your fingers brushing over the warmth of his fur. “Thanks again, Samson,” you whisper, your voice barely louder than a breath. “I just hope everything works out in the end..."

Your gaze lifts toward the towering castle, eyes tracing the spiral of turrets stretching into the night sky. The story was vague about Aurelio’s exact location—only that he sleeps somewhere high. You wince, already imagining the climb, now that the adrenaline is draining from your limbs, leaving behind only the soreness and dread.

As you step inside, the hush of the palace feels even heavier. The walls echo with emptiness and each of your steps dragging the weight of doubt behind it.

You try to reason with yourself, silently repeating a mantra that’s starting to feel more like a lie: "I like him—no I love him…"

But... you know you don't like him enough to be close to 'true love'.

Sure, he’s sweet—charmingly polite, painfully handsome, and gentle in a way that lingers in your memory. But your mind interrupts with cold logic, you only met him once and you barely know him.

Even in the original tale, Aurora and Phillip’s connection was fleeting—romanticized in the blink of an eye. Actually almost if not all the stories are like that.

You’re pulled from your thoughts by the sound of muffled sobs echoing faintly down a corridor.

“Oh, what do we do now…?” A feminine voice quivers.

You freeze. Your eyes dart toward the direction of the sound. That voice doesn’t belong to anyone you’ve met and isn't the entire kingdom supposed to be asleep?

Unless—

Your stomach lurches and you bolt forward. You follow the weeping to one of the smaller chambers, where the soft moonlight pours in through the windows, casting silver across the marble floor.

You take a sigh of relief as you see them.

The three fairies—Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather—floating together in a cluster of sorrow, their tiny hands clutching handkerchiefs, their wings trembling as they weep. The sight makes your chest ache but at least they're all safe.

“…Hello?” You call out gently, stepping into the doorway.

Three pairs of eyes snap toward you in unison. Their expressions shift from stunned disbelief to overflowing relief.

“Oh—Princess [Name]!” Gasps Fauna, the green-gowned fairy fluttering toward you. Her voice trembles with hope, her wings buzzing anxiously behind her. "You’re safe! And you’re here!” She adds.

Flora, in her warm red dress, places a hand to her chest and exhales deeply. “Thank the heavens. We thought… we thought we’d lost all hope.”

She floats closer, tears still clinging to her lashes.

“Quickly! We haven’t much time,” Flora insists, voice steadier now but firm with urgency. “We must bring you to your betrothed!”

Before you can respond, Fauna eagerly grabs the sleeve of your dress, her small hands surprisingly strong. Merryweather hovers behind you, her expression sharp and alert, as if expecting Maleficent to strike from the shadows at any second.

With Flora leading the way, you’re pulled through the hushed corridors of the castle.

Your legs feel like lead as the fairies pull you through yet another winding hallway, and up another flight of spiral stairs. The ache in your feet pulses with every step, a sharp reminder that you've been running on desperation and scraps of courage alone. The corridors blur together until finally, finally, they stop.

You're shoved gently into a room and everything goes still. Your eyes land on the figure resting on the grand bed. And suddenly, you forget how to breathe.

Aurelio lies there with both hands gently folded over his chest, a single red rose cradled between them. A royal blue blanket, embroidered with intricate gold patterns, is draped neatly over him from the waist down. But it’s his face that truly freezes you in place.

His long golden hair, once neatly tied back, now spills freely around his shoulders, catching the moonlight like strands of silk. His features are serene… almost too perfect to be real. Soft lips, faintly parted, and lashes that kiss his cheeks. His beauty is ethereal.

And honestly, it’s rude how good he looks asleep.

You stare, a bit dazed, and mouth slightly ajar. Is this even fair? You can’t help but think of how you usually sleep—face smashed against open books, drooling, snoring, and your limbs in awkward angles then sometimes waking up with an aching body. The contrast feels borderline insulting.

Your dazed admiration is cut short by a sharp voice.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Merryweather snaps, flying beside you with her arms crossed tightly. “Kiss him already! Before she comes!”

You blink and look at her, startled. “What?”

“You heard her!” Flora urges from behind. “There’s no time to waste!”

You turn back to Aurelio and step toward the bed, your fingers curling into fists at your sides. You don’t even realize you’re digging your nails into your palms until the sting cuts through the haze.

Your heart pounds in your ears as you draw closer. You lean in slowly uncertain of what will happen next.

FWOOOSH!

A blast of heat and green fire floods the room, making the shadows jump. You whirl around instinctively, shielding your face from the sudden brightness, through the cracks of your fingers, you see a familiar horned figure.

Maleficent steps forward from the smoke and sparks like she owns the room. Tall and composed, her cloak billowing behind her with every stride. Her eyes gleam with something alike of amusement as she scans the room.

“You,” Merryweather hisses, already charging forward only for Flora to catch her by the collar just in time.

Maleficent tilts her head slowly, as if savoring the tension in the room.

“Ah, the heroic entourage,” she muses with mock delight. “How charming.”

“Don’t take another step, Maleficent!” Flora warns, leveling her wand with trembling hands. “We won’t let you near him!”

However Maleficent doesn’t flinch one bit. With a casual wave of her fingers, green energy surges from her palm and blasts the fairies aside like leaves in a storm. They crash to the far wall with startled cries.

You instinctively backpedal until your legs hit the side of the bed. You glance at Aurelio’s still form, then back to the sorceress.

“W-What are you doing here?” You manage to say, voice barely above a whisper.

She stops in front of you with a smirk curving her lips. “I was thinking about what you said earlier,” she replies smoothly. “And, well, I couldn’t very well talk to the Queen if she’s asleep, now could I?”

You stare at her, wide-eyed as realization become to brew in.

She raises a brow. “So, shall I awaken the prince? Or will you stand in my way?”

“W-Wait—you mean… you’re really going to break the curse?”

“Yes I am,” she says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Now stand aside, unless you want me to change my mind.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You scurry back, joining the dazed fairies at the edge of the room.

Flora leans in close, whispering urgently, “What did you do, Princess?”

You glance away, avoiding her gaze. “I… went to the Moors and talked with Maleficent.”

“You what?!” All three fairies shriek in unison, wings fluttering in alarm.

Their panic is immediately met with a sharp glare from Maleficent.

“Silence, all of you,” she growls, eyes flashing. “Or I’ll turn you into mealworms and feed you to the crows!”

Your mouth snaps shut and all eyes are now back on the dark fairy as well as on the prince she’s about to awaken.

Maleficent raises both arms high above her head, her long sleeves rippling like wings in the rising wind. Her eyes shimmer with power as her voice echoes through the chamber like the toll of a bell.

"I revoke my curse on this boy—let it be no more!"

As her voice rises, so does the storm of green fire erupting around her. Magic pulses from her in crashing waves and the floor beneath your feet trembles as the spell intensifies. You stumble, struggling to stay upright, your feet skidding across the polished stone.

The fairies squeak and latch onto your sleeves, clinging like leaves in a storm. Their wings flutter in the torrent, too fragile to fight the current.

You watch in shock as a tendril of sickly green mist begins to rise—not from her, but from Aurelio. It seeps out of his body slowly, curling through the air like smoke. The mist coils its way across the room and returns to Maleficent’s waiting hands. That’s the curse, slithering back to its maker.

The air shudders once more, and then just like that it ends. The flames slowly dies down and everything returns to normal.

Maleficent lowers her arms. Her chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm, but her face remains unreadable. She gazes down at Aurelio’s still form, her expression unreadable for a moment too long then, her eyes flick to the four of you.

“It is done,” she announces coolly, her voice quieter now, but no less commanding. “And I trust the rest of the kingdom will awaken in turn.”

Without waiting for a response, she turns with a swirl of her cloak, heading toward the door.

“Yes it should but wait…” Merryweather calls out, floating forward with narrowed eyes. “D-Did you really remove the curse from him?” Her voice is sharp with suspicion.

Maleficent doesn't need to answer as a soft groan responds for her.

You spin toward the bed, heart leaping. Aurelio’s hand twitches before slowly curls around the rose resting on his chest. His fingers tremble slightly as they grip the stem. Then his eyes open.

At first, he stares blankly up at the ceiling, his gaze unfocused, as if waking from the deepest of dreams. But then his eyes move and immediately lands right on you.

"...[Name]?" He murmurs, his voice hoarse and low. He states your name as if it were a word he’d been holding onto in his sleep.

He pushes himself up slowly, propped on one elbow. Confusion flickers across his face as he scans the room.

A delighted gasp bursts from Fauna. “Oh, Aurelio!” she cries, wings fluttering in joy as she darts toward him. His brows furrow faintly as he looks at her, his mind clearly still struggling to catch up.

Flora and Merryweather release their grips on your sleeves and quickly follow Fauna, relief softening their expressions. You watch them crowd around him, voices quiet and warm, checking that he’s truly awake and whole. All the while Maleficent stands in silence by the doorway.

Aurelio clutches his head, fingers tangled in his golden hair as he winces, clearly overwhelmed. His expression twists with confusion and when he spoke, his voice trembles.

“W-What… what happened, fairy godparents?”

He looks between the three of them, his eyes wide and the usual gentleness in them now shadowed by disbelief.

Flora steps forward hesitantly, wringing her hands together. “You were cursed and we meant to tell you, truly, but—”

But Aurelio cuts her off, his voice suddenly rising with emotion, “You kept something else from me?!” Frustration bleeding into every word that it caught you off guard. “First you told me I'm a prince named Aurelio and now this? Was I really living a lie all this time? My entire life?!”

The sound of his heartbreak stings more than the volume. You frown instinctively, of course he's angry. You would be too—learning at twenty-two that everything you thought was real was just some carefully constructed lie. That the people who raised you with love had hidden something this monumental.

Even if it was for his own sake, isn't there a better way than this? What's even the harm of telling him in the first place? Worse case scenario he won't believe it... but still, that's about it, right?

Come to think of it, Aurelio's life is already planned before he learns of it. You're betrothed to him before you and he even get to meet; he's then sent to the forest with the fairies for twenty-two years living a differently life; and after learning everything then what?

He's hailed king but he can't rule—he never learned any politics or anything alike and it's not like that can be taught in just a day. Battles and wars are also a thing, how would he handle that?

Your scowl only deepened just thinking about it. You never really realized how much Aurora/Aurelio never got a say in their life. Then you realized another thing... you will be queen. You're heart plummeted at the thought, no way... you're as much as in the dark as he is! Thankfully, you didn't went on another spiral as a woman's voice pulled you out.

Flora places a calming hand on her chest, her voice soft and coaxing, “Please, dear Aurelio… calm down. We did it to protect you. You see when you were just a baby, a terrible curse was cast upon you. One that would put you into a deep slumber on your twenty-second birthday… and only true love’s kiss could break it.”

His brows knit together as he slowly turns his gaze to you, something dawning in his eyes.

“And [Name]... woke me up?” There’s awe in his voice now.

Flora tilts her head. “You already know her?”

“Yes!” He blurts out, eyes lighting up. “She’s the one I met in the woods!” He says it with such joy and innocent excitement. A bright, unfiltered smile breaks across his face, softening his features like morning sun melting frost.

The three fairies exchange stunned looks. Then Flora turns back to him, her tone lifting with a touch of whimsy. “What a coincidence! She’s your betrothed, Aurelio!”

His eyes widen—clearly, that wasn’t something he expected. “My… betrothed?”

“That’s what we were trying to tell you back in the cabin...” Flora trails off.

“Oh...” Aurelio lets out a shaky laugh, his cheeks turning the faintest shade of pink.

But then Flora’s expression dims as she glances back toward the doorway. “Though… no. She wasn’t the one who broke the curse.” She turns slightly, her voice lowering. “It was her.”

He follow her gaze to see Maleficent still standing in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, watching everything unfold before her.

“Who… is that?” Aurelio squints in confusion.

Maleficent finally steps forward, her lips curling into a smile that seems more ornamental than sincere. “Why, I’m the one who cursed you, dear Aurelio. And the one who freed you from it.”

His brow furrows, and he shifts slightly in bed, still clearly trying to piece it all together. “...You did? But... why?”

“Oh, I simply wanted to speak with your mother,” Maleficent replies with a casual flick of her wrist, as though she hadn’t just upended the entire course of his life. She turns away, her voice drifting behind her like the end of a spell. “Speaking of which—I've already done what the princess ought me to do so I shall go to her now... Farewell.” With that she vanishes into the corridor.

“I still don’t trust her,” Merryweather snaps, her little arms crossed tight across her chest. She glares toward the door as if her eyes alone might bar Maleficent from returning.

“Perhaps… she’ll finally reconcile with Queen Leah,” Fauna says quietly, hands clasped together in hope.

But Merryweather only sighs, her wings fluttering sharply with irritation. Then her gaze zeroes in on you. You barely have time to blink before she’s hovering directly in front of your face and a finger pointing sternly at your nose.

“And you, dear princess—you have a lot of explaining to do!” Her voice sharper than any sword you’ve ever held or felt.

"I-I..."

"Come on, Aurelio we must go to your parents and tell them of the good news! And to keep watch of Maleficent. You, princess, talk on the way there."

Well, it seems you don't have much of a choice...

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

You recount your night aloud as you walk, the fairies flanking you like a trio of judging chaperones.

Fauna’s expression crumples in worry, her voice almost a whimper, “Princess [Name], you could’ve gotten yourself killed! Why go to such dangerous lengths? Couldn’t you have broken the curse?”

You sigh softly, feeling their concern land heavy on your shoulders. You glance to your side—Aurelio walks close, alarmingly close, to the point your shoulders would brush against one another as you walk.

You hesitate before answering, “Well… true love is kind of a big deal.” A blush rises to your cheeks, and you quickly avert your gaze from the prince beside you. “And I’ve only met Aurelio once. I wasn’t sure if I could break the curse. I-I mean… no offense, Aurelio. You’re sweet, really—but…”

You trail off awkwardly, the words hanging there between you like mist. Aurelio merely chuckles softly, and his hand comes up to rest gently on your shoulder.

“No offense taken, [Name]. I completely understand!” His voice is warm as he lightly squeeze your shoulder. “If the roles were reversed and you were the one cursed, I’m not sure I’d have been able to break it either… even if I wished to.”

You meet his gaze and for a heartbeat, time stills.

The moonlight kisses his features just right, illuminating the soft curve of his smile, the quiet kindness in his eyes. You feel your breath hitch, caught between awe and something softer you dare not name.

But the moment doesn't last as you hear muffled cries from the distant. You trun to see Queen Leah, her frail arms wrapping around Maleficent's frame, trapping the fairy in a tight hug.

"Ooh thank you Mal!" The queen's words comes out between sobs and sniffles. "I'm sorry I ever said that! I... I never meant it! I'm so sorry Mal..." Her last few words came out as a hushed whisper. 

Maleficent hums, laughing lightly.

"I know you don't meant it... you'd never say such things unless pushed." Though her fingers are tangle on her friend's golden hair, combing gently and slowly through the strands. Her eyes remains glued to King Stefan, giving him a deserving glare.

"..." He stands there in absolute silence, challenging her gaze with the same burning hatred.

"Now, now, dear, your son's here. I don't want to hoard all the attention..." Maleficent lifts her hand palm-up at Aurelio.

As soon as her charcoal eyes landed on her beloved son, she let out a gasp, a gloved hand covering her mouth.

“Oh my sweet Aurelio!” Queen Leah sweeps across the stone floor in an elegant blur of gold and blue.

Her crown tilts slightly as she rushes toward her son, her expression crumbling into pure, unguarded joy.

Tears stream freely down her cheeks as she throws her arms around him. “Oh my baby!” she sobs, clinging tightly.

Aurelio stiffens slightly, but slowly, his arms hesitantly return the gesture.

In the distance, King Stefan’s voice murmurs coldly under his breath, just loud enough to hear his bitterness.

“So you did break his curse.” His words are aimed at Maleficent, who stands coolly off to the side.

“Of course,” she replies. “I find little use for deception.”

The two of them glare silently at one another, the tension between them is like a drawn bowstring. You can’t hear Stefan’s reply but Maleficent seems to lose interest quickly, turning her gaze to the son and mother—although mainly at the latter.

You shift your focus back to the Queen and her son.

“Are you alright, sweetie?” Queen Leah pulls back just enough to cup her son’s face in trembling hands, brushing away stray golden strands. Her smile wavers, watery and full of disbelief. “Oh you’ve grown so much…”

“M-Mother?” Aurelio breathes the word as if it’s unfamiliar like it tastes strange on his tongue.

But she just hugs him tighter, burying her face in his shoulder. The sight before you tugs at your heart. She holds him as though trying to make up for the decades she lost—twenty-two long years stolen by a curse.

You clutch the fabric of your dress, trying to steady your breathing. That familiar ache stirs again in your chest, sharp and yearning.

Oh, how you wish you could do the same—hold your mother, feel her warmth, hear her laughter echoing off the walls again as she teased your father for one of his silly jokes.

But that kind of reunion… it’s just a dream. A far-fetched one You look away, trying to blink back the sting that threatens your eyes but it’s no use...

“[Name]!”

You turn around just in time to see King Hubert striding toward you, his eyes wide with concern. His gaze quickly drops to your ruined state.

“What happened to you?” He asks, his voice full of worry as he gently cups your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing across your cheeks. “Are you hurt? Are you alright?”

You stare into his eyes, and for a second, you try to keep it together however there’s too much. Too much emotion, too many cracks in your heart, and his concern only makes them split open further.

Your lips tremble as tears finally slip free and then, without thinking, you throw your arms around him and bury your face in his chest. King Hubert stiffens only slightly before wrapping his arms around you. You feel like a kid again in his firm hold...

You hear footsteps and feel another hand settle gently on your shoulder. You glance to your side and see Aurelio there, his expression mirroring your father's.

In that moment, you think to yourself… This life—this borrowed life—it feels so good it’s painful. It’s not the one you were meant to live nor the one you wish, but somehow… it’s everything you ever longed for.

Here, you’re not the cursed villain. You’re not a hunted Arcaniac. You aren't torture mentally as you watch everything fall and die. Here... you're just like everyone else, living the best of their lives.

You stay like that for a while, letting yourself cry it all out until you feel hollow and quiet inside. Only then do you pull away, sniffling as you wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand.

King Hubert doesn’t press you for answers. He simply places a hand on your back and asks gently, “Do you want to go back to your guest room, [Name]?”

You nod, voice hoarse. “That… would be nice.”

Just as he’s about to lead you away, another voice speaks up behind you.

“Could I come?”

You turn and see Aurelio standing a few steps back, his eyes trained on yours, soft and unsure.

King Hubert hums thoughtfully, glancing between the two of you.

“Well,” he says with a small smile. “That depends on my daughter.”

You pause for a moment, considering it. Your heart still aches, but… Aurelio’s presence is steady and warm. Though you didn't want to ruin his moment with his parents, but when you turn to look at Queen Leah, you could already tell in her eyes that she allows it.

Finally, you give a small nod. “Sure… you can come, Aurelio.”

Aurelio smiles, and that warmth follows you quietly as the three of you begin to walk.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

You don’t say a word as you return to your guest room.

The moment the door opens, you head straight for the bed like a moth to flame. The mattress welcomes you with a soft bounce, the plushness beneath your weight drawing out a sigh you hadn’t realized you were holding.

For a second, you just sit there, shoulders slumped and eyes glazed until your gaze drifts to the small table beside the bed. There it is, where you last left it before heading for the mission, your mother’s book.

You slowly lean back, letting yourself fall onto the bed until you’re lying flat. The softness is almost too kind. The fabric embraces you like clouds, and your back gives a tired groan from the sudden release of tension. Your chest rises and falls with each breath, shallow and uneven.

The door shuts gently with a soft click. You hear the subtle creak of the floorboards and the hesitant footsteps.

Aurelio walks with quiet caution, like approaching a wounded animal, not wanting to startle you. When his eyes land on you, you can feel the concern in them. Eventually, he settles beside you on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

The silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It feels like he’s just waiting for you to give him permission to ask what he’s clearly dying to say.

You stare up at the ceiling, the patterns in the wood blurry from the fatigue pulling at your eyes. Then, finally, you push yourself up with a quiet grunt, resting your hands in your lap.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to ruin your moment with your parents earlier..." You didn't expect you'll suddenly burst into tears in front of everyone back there.

Aurelio hums, shrugging. “That doesn’t matter,” he says gently. “We have all of tomorrow—and the day after that, too. Besides…” He shifts a little closer, his gaze dipping to your face. “What happened to you?”

You look away, eyes falling to the floor. Your lips press into a thin, trembling line. The words don’t come easily. They’re stuck in your throat like thorns.

“I…” You begun, your mind stitching together the right words. “I guess my emotions… got the better of me.” You shake your head as if that’ll help clear it.

“I couldn’t stop it, it was like everything hit me all at once and I…" You trail off and shake your head. When you speak again, frustration creeps into your voice. “You wouldn’t get it anyways if I told you..."

The tears threaten again, creeping up the corners of your eyes. You stare hard at the floorboards, willing yourself to hold them back.

When you suddenly felt warmth wrapping around your waist, and you freeze. Aurelio’s arms encircle you gently but securely, his body pressed lightly against your side, and his head resting beside yours.

You tense at first, startled, but his presence is steady. He doesn’t speak for a moment and just lets the silence hold you both. But when he finally does, his voice is quiet yet tender. It alone sends tremors down along your spine.

“Even if I don't understand it,” his breath tickling your skin while he speak. “that doesn’t mean you should try to keep it in.” His arms tighten, just a little. “It’s better when you let it out rather than keeping it only for your to bear...” He says, tilting his head so his cheek brushes your temple.

You feel his grip around you tighten ever so slightly and for a moment, you let yourself lean back into his warmth.

Eventually, your gaze drifts upward, finding his soft features in the quiet glow of candlelight. His golden eyes meet yours, patient and kind.

“I just…” you begin, your voice thin and cracking at the edges, “I just feel so happy. This isn’t what I dreamed of,” you confess, blinking away the growing sting in your eyes. “But it’s still… nice. It feels nice to be here.”

Your voice hitches. You sniffle and lift the back of your hand to swipe at your eyes, trying to hold back the inevitable.

“I know I shouldn’t feel this way… I-I know it’s wrong,” you whisper, barely able to finish your thoughts. “But I can’t help it.”

And then it happens, the tears slip past your defenses. They fall without restraint, blurring your vision and choking whatever words were left in your throat. No matter how hard you try to explain, you can't give voice to this whirlwind of emotion.

The contradiction of it all—how joy and sorrow can sit so close together—leaves you breathless. It’s like standing in the sun after being lost in the dark for too long. It’s warm… but it hurts.

You're happy but deep down, you know it’s a fragile kind of happiness. One that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you.

Because none of this is real.

You’re in a storybook. A fairytale. Maleficent, Queen Leah, the kind rulers who call you their child, even Aurelio, with his soft gaze and gentle touch—they’re all just ink on a page, aren’t they?

The characters, they're merely imagined lives and that's all they will ever be. Perhaps, at some point, they were real, but that doesn't change the fact they are people in a book.

A world spun out of dreams and magic, one you somehow stumbled into. And eventually, just like any dream, it will end. You’ll wake up...

This place isn’t yours to keep, it never was. So why… why does it feel so right?

Why, when Aurelio’s arms tighten just a little more around you does the fear start to fade?

The thought of stealing this life doesn’t make your stomach twist anymore. You could pretend, in all honesty, you've been pretending all throughout. You could've just told them you're not the [Name] they know of.

Besides if this illusion can give you peace, even just for a little while… isn’t it worth holding on to? Even if it’s all a lie, you could be happy here until the very end.

“...You're right!” Aurelio’s voice cuts gently through your thoughts.

One of his arms unhooks from around your waist, rising to your face. His fingertips brush your cheek, wiping away the tears you couldn’t stop. His touch is so tender, as if he's afraid you might shatter under it.

“I don’t fully understand what’s going on in your head,” he says with a small, affectionate chuckle. “But… doesn’t it feel better, even just a little, to let it out? And if you need anything, I'm here... so are all the others, so please, don't shy away on us.”

His smile is radiant, glowing with a kind of warmth that makes your chest ache all over again.

You let out a soft laugh, “Thank you and yeah, I suppose it does feel lighter having said it…” You lean into him only this time burying your face gently into his chest.

There, in the steady rise and fall of his breathing, you hear the soft, rhythmic beat of his heart. You let the sound lull you, the comfort of it settling over your nerves like a warm blanket on a cold night.

You stay like that for a while, the two of you wrapped up in each other in a silence that doesn’t ask for words. Then, his voice breaks the stillness.

“I must... also apologize for earlier.”

Your gaze lifts to him instinctively, concern etching across your brow. You shift slightly to see him better.

“...What for?” You ask, voice gentle, wary of breaking the fragile space between you.

He lets out a low hum, though his gaze stays rooted to the floor beneath you both—polished stone flecked like a river of tiny stars. His shoulders tense.

“Earlier... when I shouted at my fairy godparents,” he says, each word measured, almost reluctant. “I noticed you were startled, much like they were. I... I simply felt so overwhelmed.”

Finally, his eyes meet yours—deep pools swirling with an unspoken storm of guilt, frustration, and something more tender beneath.

“You’ve spoken of your own struggles,” he murmurs, voice softening. “I think... it would only be fair if I shared mine as well. If... if you would allow it.”

A warm smile blooms on your lips, instinctive. You reach up, your fingers lightly brushing against his cheek, the touch soft as breath.

“Of course,” you reply softly. “You said it yourself—it helps to let it all out.”

At that, a small chuckle escapes him, as he leans instinctively into your palm, his lashes fluttering against your skin.

“Thank you...” he whispers. He draws a deeper breath, as though gathering the words from some tangled place inside.

“It all started... after you left me in the forest,” he begins, voice quivering faintly. “When I returned home, I was greeted by a cake... and a beautiful blue suit waiting for me.”

His lips press into a thin, trembling line.

“Then they told me—everything. That I was a prince named Aurelio. That I was... betrothed.” His voice catches, trembling with the weight of the memory. “I-I couldn’t contain it. My emotions... they overwhelmed me.”

He exhales—a long, shuddering sigh that seems to drain some of the tension from his frame.

.

.

.

Arm laden with a basket of freshly gathered berries and a heart buoyant from the morning’s encounter—you—he skips along the winding path to the cottage, humming a cheerful tune under his breath. There is an unusual lightness in his steps, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Aunt Flora!” He calls out brightly, reaching the worn wooden door. He unlatches the top half of the stable door with a soft creak. “Fauna! Merryweather!”

Stepping inside, he sets the basket down near the threshold and drapes his deep aubergine scarf over a hook. Closing the door behind him, a flicker of confusion touches his brow.

“Hello?” he calls again, voice quieter now. “Where is everybody?”

The cottage is oddly still. Normally, his three godparents would flutter toward him the instant he returned, fussing and fretting as always. Yet now, there is only silence, save for the faint creak of the wooden beams.

Curious and faintly wary, he ventures further in—then gasps, eyes widening.

There, in the center of the dining table, rests a splendid cake, soft pink and blue icing glistening beneath the warm glow of the hearth. Draped elegantly across the chair beside it is an exquisite royal blue suit, shimmering like the night sky.

“Oh—wow!” He breathes, stepping closer, wonder alight in his eyes.

From the shadows near the hearth, three familiar figures peek out, grinning mischievously.

“Surprise!” They chorus in unison, their voices bright with joy.

“Happy birthday!” Merryweather adds, her smile radiant.

“Oh, you darlings!” Aurelio’s voice rang out, light and breathless with delight.

He rushed forward, gathering each of his godparents in a warm, grateful embrace—one by one, arms looping around them as though he might burst from joy alone.

“Thank you so much for all of this!” He exclaimed, drawing back with shining eyes, hands clasping together near his chest. “This is the happiest day of my life! Everything is just... it’s all so wonderful!”

With a joyful laugh, he spun on his heel as if the happiness within him had taken hold of his very limbs and demanded to be expressed.

But then he slowed, an impish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His eyes gleamed with a deeper warmth now, a tenderness that softened every word. Leaning slightly toward them, he lowered his voice in conspiratorial excitement.

“Just wait until you meet her.”

At once, the light in Fauna’s smile flickered, her lips parting in surprise.

“H-Her?” She echoed, her tone suddenly wary.

“Sweetbriar...” Merryweather whispered, her hand flying to her mouth in dismay.

“You met someone..? A stranger?” Flora asked carefully, her tone as gentle as the look of concern spreading across her face.

“Oh, but she’s not just any stranger!” Aurelio said brightly, clasping his hands and now pressed beneath his chin. His eyes shone with an unfocused, distant gleam as he drifted back into thought. “She was... odd, yes—but oh, sooo sweet. It felt like—” he gave a soft breathless laugh, voice growing softer still, “—we had met before.”

“You... have?” Flora asked again, though disbelief colored her voice, her gaze flicking nervously to her sisters. “Where?”

“Once upon a dream...” he whispered, his voice reverent, lost to a memory that only he could see. “Ah... unfortunately she had to leave so soon. I wished—oh, I so wished I could have danced with her, like this!”

Without another word, he seized Fauna gently by the hands, pulling her into a spontaneous twirl. He closed his eyes, a soft hum escaping him as he guided her through the imaginary waltz. His feet moved light across the floor, as though the whole cottage had become a ballroom beneath him.

“He’s... in love,” Fauna gasped quietly, her voice full of both awe and rising concern.

“Oh no. No, no—this is terrible!” Merryweather shook her head vehemently, her worried tone sharp against the air.

The words sliced through Aurelio’s trance. He froze mid-step, blinking rapidly as he looked to Merryweather in confusion.

“But why?” He asked softly, a faint, uncertain laugh breaking from him. “I’m no longer sixteen, Aunt Merryweather. I’m twenty-two—shouldn’t I have a life of my own by now?”

It was a truth that had long weighed upon him, a quiet frustration he dare never spoken aloud. Even now, they kept him cloistered in the woods, always so cautious whenever he wished to venture beyond its borders. He had never understood why and they had never given him a true answer.

Flora sighed deeply, folding her hands before her.

“It isn’t that, dear...” she began with sorrowful eyes. “You’re already betrothed.”

His smile faltered and his brows drew together in visible confusion.

“Betrothed?” he repeated, the word foreign in his mouth.

“Yes, dear... to Princess—” But Flora had no time to finish.

“Princess?” He interrupted swiftly, voice rising in disbelief. “I-I don’t understand. I’m no prince—so how could I possibly marry a princess? And how... w-when did any of this even happen?”

His voice trembled now, the laugh that followed brittle, lacking any trace of real humor. The unease had begun to twist within him—a gnawing sense that something had been kept from him for far too long.

“You are a prince... Prince Aurelio,” Flora said gently, her hand reaching to rest upon his sleeve. But he recoiled instinctively, stepping back, with eyes wide.

“Huh? W-Wait... you’re telling me...” His gaze dropped, shoulders trembling faintly. His voice broke as he spoke again, it's barely more than a breath.

“I... I’ve been living a lie as Sweetbriar?” His breath caught in his throat. “I... I don’t understand. You must be playing with me... right?”

“Oh no, we aren’t...” Flora sighed, her voice weighed down by guilt, as though every word cost her a piece of breath. “And tonight... tonight, we are taking you back to your parents—King Stefan and Queen Leah. They miss you dearly and are awaiting for your arrival.”

Those words struck Aurelio like a blade. His entire body stiffened, the warmth in his face draining in an instant.

“Wha—N-No!” he choked out. He stumbled a step back, distance is suddenly an instinctive need. His voice rose before he could stop it.

“I don’t want to see them! Not after what they did!”

The force of his outburst startled the three godmothers, each one recoiling in surprise. But Aurelio was beyond caring. His eyes normally so soft now blazed with hurt and betrayal.

“You said they miss me? But then they threw me away! Left me to be raised in the woods by three women who lied to my face for twenty-two years! And now they want me back?” His breaths were uneven, chest rising and falling as though he’d run miles. His gaze, burning with unshed tears, swept over them.

“Why did they do this? Why did you agree to it?”

“A-Aurelio, dear—” Merryweather tried, voice small and trembling but his heart could not bear the name that isn't his.

“Don’t call me that!” He snapped, the sound of it like a whip through the room.

For a moment, silence swallowed them whole. The tension in the cottage hung thick, suffocating. The three women stood frozen, eyes shining with regret. Finally, Flora spoke again, voice hoarse.

“Sweetbriar... we wanted to tell you, but...” she faltered. “I-It was so hard. So hard to put it into words...”

Aurelio’s jaw tensed, fists clenching at his sides, “Hard to tell or you just don't want to tell me?” He shook his head sharply, golden strands of hair slipping loose around his face.

“And even if you tell me now—it’s too late,” he said, voice breaking on the last word. “...Don’t blame me if I no longer trust your words.”

Before they could respond, before they could offer another excuse, he turned on his heel and stormed toward the stairs. They called after him but he didn’t look back.

Up the stairs, his feet thudded heavily, echoing the thunder of his own heart. When he reached his room, he slammed the door shut with a deafening crack that made the walls tremble.

His breath came in ragged bursts. He dragged trembling fingers through his golden locks, then gripped the black ribbon that bound them. With one harsh pull, he yanked it free. His long hair tumbled loose across his shoulders.

He braced both hands against the windowsill, knuckles white with strain. His head bowed low as he drew in a deep breath, chest aching.

"In... out. In... out."

But no breath could calm the storm within him.

His gaze lifted at last, drawn to the familiar sprawl of the forest beyond the glass. His throat constricted painfully.

"How could they?"

The question rang through his mind over and over. Why had they kept him here? Why had they never told him the truth?

Tears welled, stinging his eyes. He bit his lower lip hard, but the tremor in his body would not stop. His reflection in the glass looked back at him.

"Who Am I anymore...?"

And in the silence of his room, his heart whispered the name of the only person who wasn't part of this all—you.

If only he could see you again...

.

.

.

Whatever is running through Aurelio's mind, it left him visibly shaking. His arms are way more tightly around your waist like if he lets go, it would undo him completely.

His golden lashes tremble over glassy eyes, his lower lip drawn between his teeth to keep it from quivering. He is teetering on the very edge of tears.

“I... I should apologize to them too,” he whispers at last, voice fraying at the edges. His fingers twitch against your back. “I still feel... so betrayed. I don’t even understand why they had to keep everything from me. That I’m cursed... all of it.” He shakes his head slightly, breath catching. “I... I would have understood.”

A deep hum stirs in your throat. You had caught a glimpse of his anger earlier, raw and uncontained, but hearing the full weight of it now cuts deeper than you expect.

“I don’t blame you,” you say gently, your voice steady. One of your hands instinctively rises, brushing soothing circles along his back. “I’d act the same if I found out the people who raised me had been lying all this time...”

You pull back just slightly, enough to see his downturned face, and continue softly.

“And maybe the you now would understand. But... back then? Maybe not. Maybe they feared you’d be crushed by the truth. Knowing you were cursed, knowing your life was bound by it—that’s a heavy burden to carry as a child.”

Aurelio says nothing. The room falls into a hush, save for the faint flicker of candlelight and the soft thrum of his uneven breathing. His head bows lower, forehead nearly brushing your collarbone.

“I... don’t know,” he murmurs, almost to himself and his grip loosens a fraction.

You choose not to press him, sometimes silence is the kindest gift one can offer. So, for a while, you sit together in the bed, enjoying each other's warmth.

His voice breaks the stillness again.

“[Name]...?” You hum in response. “Would you mind if we danced? Something to cheer ourselves up?” He asks, a hopeful glint tucked within his gaze.

You blink at him, caught off guard. “I… I wouldn’t mind,” you admit. “It’s just—I don’t really dance.” You let out a sheepish chuckle, one hand moving awkwardly to rub your neck as your cheeks grow noticeably warm.

His grin lighting up his face like sunrise. “Oh, it’s not complicated at all!” He exclaims, his excitement contagious.

Before you can protest, he’s already on his feet, tugging you gently up with him. His touch is light, but full of purpose—like he’s been waiting for this moment. He guides you into the center of the room with all the grace of someone who was born to move like this.

“See?” he murmurs, his hand gliding down to rest gently at your waist. His other hand finds yours, fingers lacing with yours like they’ve always belonged there. “We’ll just… sway to the right…”

He leads you gently, guiding your bodies in a slow swing to the right. His voice is calm, encouraging, almost playful.

“…Then to the left,” he says, reversing the motion while his eyes remain locked on you as he does so. “And maybe… a little twirl,” he adds with a mischievous smile.

He spins you gently, slowly enough that you don’t stumble. The motion makes you laugh lightly—you can’t help it. The moment is just so... adorable. When you turn back into his arms, he’s watching you so closely, so deeply, that it steals the breath from your lungs.

And when he speaks again, it’s no longer just speech—it’s a melody. His voice dips into song, sweet and clear as he begins to waltz with you, his feet moving with unhurried grace.

[Once Upon A Time "Bill Shirley & Mary Costa"]

“I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream…” His voice is velvet, and every word lingers in the air like stardust.

“I know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam…” The room begins to feel enchanted as he sings.

The flickering candlelight seems to dance along with you and he, casting golden shadows across the walls as the two of you move slowly in a soft, endless spiral.

Aurelio leads you with an effortless rhythm, humming in between lines as he gazes at you as though you’re made of everything he’s ever longed for.

“Yet, I know it’s true that visions are seldom all they seem…”

You don’t dare interrupt him. You’re afraid the magic might slip away if you do. Your heart beats just a little faster, caught in the way he looks at you like you’re something sacred. Like he’s remembering a dream he never wanted to wake from.

“But if I know you, I know what you’ll do…” You can feel his grip on your waist tighten ever so slightly.

“You’ll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream…” He twirls you again, more gracefully this time.

The world fades out all that exists is the dance, the warmth, and the boy holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

“La-la, la-la, la, ah, ah, ah…”

His humming sounds almost like a lullaby even heavenly—like God had just sent an angel in your life. Your hands tighten around his, and without thinking, you lean your forehead against him.

“But if I know you, I know what you’ll do…”

He slows the dance, his voice dipping lower and more intimate now, “You’ll love me at once… The way you did once upon a dream.”

The last note of his song fades like a sigh into the stillness but it lingers between you as if the music itself is reluctant to leave. Aurelio's hand slowly slips from your waist, moving gently up.

His fingertips graze your jaw softly and his thumb lingers just below your cheekbone. You feel the warmth of his palm and the slight tremor in his touch—as if even now, he's still hesitant.

Then he leans closer. You don’t pull away... though more so you can’t even if you know what comes next. Something inside you locks in place as he tilts his head, his golden eyes flicking down to your lips just before his own brush against them.

The kiss is soft and careful as though he’s holding a piece of fragile glass, afraid that too much pressure will shatter it. His lips are tenderly warm and when he closes his eyes, his other hand drifts instinctively to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading lightly through your hair.

You stiffen. Not because it’s unpleasant—but because it’s new and unexpected. Your body feels like it doesn’t quite know how to respond. Your heart hammers against your ribs and you just stand there in his arms, momentarily frozen in something between awe and fear.

Slowly... the ice began melt against the flicker of flame.

You lean into him, your heart deciding for you before your mind could catch up. Your arms slip around his waist, pulling him close in a light embrace. There’s something terrifying in the intimacy of it.

You wish you could trap this second in amber and keep it with you forever. The quiet, the closeness, the way your heart feels like it’s being gently unraveled and rewoven all at once.

After what seemed like an eternity, Aurelio unfortunately pulls back but only just.

His breath brushes across your lips, and you can still feel the ghost of his kiss lingering there. His eyes open slowly, golden and flickering in the candlelight. There’s something in there you can't reach and a lump in your stomach began to form.

"I-I," he gasps out. "I didn’t mean to—well, I did, but I apologize if it made you uncomfortable..."

You stood there momentarily, looking at him with a small smile, “Aurelio,” you laugh softly, “it’s alright.” In fact... you kind of liked it—you just can't tell him, your mouth refuses to spat out the words.

His shoulders relax at your words, visibly sinking into your embrace like a weight had been lifted off him.

You both sway gently where you stand, not dancing anymore, but still slightly moving. Your hands remain looped around his waist while his linger along your the back of your head, drawing idle shapes.

The room around you seems to fade, replaced by the pulse of your heartbeat and the warmth of his arms.

"You know..." Aurelio begins once more softly, his voice almost lost in the hush of the candlelit room. "The moment I first saw you… back in the forest," he says, his breath warm against your skin, "I already felt something...”

He draws in a slow, deep breath.

“I couldn’t explain it... I didn’t know what it was but I know it was there.”

His arms tighten subtly around you, grounding himself through the feel of you against him. His voice lowers, laced with a soft kind of wonder.

“I’ve always been careful, always wary of strangers. My fairy godparents told me to not talk to any new faces because they may do something to me. But with you, on that day… it was like my guard just—dropped. Maybe because... I felt like we've met already—in a dream.” He laughs at his own words.

Then he leans in closer, resting his head lightly against yours. You can feel the weight of his sincerity in the way he exhales like releasing something long held inside.

"I think," he murmurs, almost bashfully, "I might've started falling for you then and I’ve just… kept falling since." He smiles, pulling back just enough to look at you longingly like he dreamt of this moment for many nights.

"Of course you also went through all that trouble to save me. I... haven’t even thanked you properly for that,” he continues, his tone turning wistful but tinged with a light guilt. “Honestly, I owe you my life, [Name]. I don’t think any thanks or gift could ever repay what you’ve done.

For a heartbeat, he falls silent, gazing at you with an intensity that makes your pulse catch. His eyes search yours, as if trying to memorize every curve of your face, every flicker of light in your gaze—like this moment matters too much to let it pass unnoticed.

"If you didn't brave the Moors, I may have stayed asleep for who knows how long. I don’t think a kiss could ever mean as much as what you did.”

His words land heavy in the space between you. You open your mouth, but no sound comes. How could it? You hardly see what you did as something that grand. Prince Philip faced Maleficent head on while you just talked to her and tried to understand everything.

“I… it’s nothing,” you murmur at last, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just did what I thought was right.”

And truthfully—you were lucky. Lucky that Maleficent listened at all; lucky that you even came out of the Moors with all your parts and sanity; and lucky that words could work more than swords could ever. If only life had been that simple in your world… if only fate could be bargained with so easily.

Aurelio frowns softly. His hand moves back to cup your cheek, drawing your gaze back to him.

“Don’t downplay yourself,” he says firmly, though there’s only warmth in his tone. “You didn’t just talk to her—you confronted her on her own ground. That takes bravery and you also healed something between her and my mother.” A small, knowing smile curves his lips. "Maybe even the distrust between fae folk and us humans."

You stare at him, words caught in your throat. He believes every word he says and you can see it, clear as day, shining in his eyes. You open your mouth to reply however, something catches your eye.

Behind Aurelio, atop the small, carved wooden table near the bed, your mother’s storybook is glowing. A cold ripple of dread coils in your stomach.

Your gaze sharpens. “Wait… do you see that too, Aurelio?”

He turns his head, following your line of sight.

“Isn’t that your journal?” He asks, equally perplexed.

You swallow hard. “…Y-Yes.” Your voice trembles faintly.

Before he can say more, you step away from his embrace, moving slowly toward the table. Your heart hammers against your ribs. It’s just like that first night—when the book had burst with light, pulling you into this strange, borrowed world.

Why is it happening again?

...

No.

No, no, no…

Your fingers hover uncertainly over the glowing cover. A thousand frantic thoughts whirl through your mind. It’s not going to take you back now, is it?

Aurelio steps beside you, concerned. “What’s wrong with it?” he asks, leaning in slightly.

“I… I-I don’t know…” You whisper.

Your hands move instinctively to grab the book—intent on hiding it away, tucking it into some drawer or just anywhere out of sight and never look or touch it again.

But before you can do so, the book bursts open in your grip, pages fanning wide with a strange, humming energy. A sudden explosion of light erupts from its center, engulfing your vision in brilliant white.

It blinds you, swallowing everything—the room, Aurelio’s voice, even your own desperate cry—as the world you've grown comfortable in, fades into nothingness.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

So while I was searching for the reason why the fairies didn't tell Aurora about her curse, I came upon this Reddit post [Realization about Aurora] where on the Redditor mentions how Aurora never had any control over her life which I thought would be interesting to add here. Also it took me off guard when King Hubert said he had already built a castle for Aurora and Phillip to live in before they were even married or met each other😭

And I just want to add, I'm addicted to Aurora's "La-la", it sounds so heavenly and don't get me started with the cloth physics of the movie! Especially knowing it's hand-made like... old animated movies feels so different! While writing this, I had the movie in a split screen and I just ended up watching more than writing😅 I watched it at least 5 times and I've lost count how many I've repeated the song.

・❥・

Characters & Info
✦ Twisted Tales [Extra]

Other Stories
✦ Divine Voice | Yandere.WHB x M.Reader
✦ My Dearest | Yandere.Alastor x M.Reader
✦ Solunar | Mythical.Yanderes x F.Reader

Chapter Text

꒰ა ACT III: CHAPTER 1 ໒꒱

⋇⊰White as Snow⊱⋇

❥・Word Count: 8.1k

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

At first, there is nothing but darkness—an endless void that stretches in every direction, familiar now from the last time the light had consumed you.

You drift in it, weightless, until something cold and slick drags across your cheek.

"Augh..." You groan aloud, your voice hoarse and raw with sleep. Instinctively, your hand swipes at your face, trying to bat away whatever it is but your fingers find nothing.

Confused, your heavy eyelids force themselves open. The first thing you see is a large, velvety muzzle hovering inches from your nose. A pink tongue lolls out and swipes across your cheek again.

A horse. A white horse, no less, with dark intelligent eyes staring down at you in mild curiosity. You blink blearily, the fog of sleep still clinging stubbornly to your mind.

"Samson...?" You whisper uncertainly, voice rough.

The creature merely huffs in response, lifting his head and pointing it toward something in the distance. You follow his gaze and spot an apple tree standing tall beneath the dappled morning light. Its branches droop with clusters of ripe, crimson fruit that glisten like jewels.

Wait...

You glance around in growing alarm. Gone are the familiar stone walls of Aurelio’s castle. In their place is an open forest, dense with towering trees and birdsong. You're sitting at the base of a gnarled old trunk, the moss beneath you damp and cool.

Panic flickers in your chest.

"Where Am I?"

Lowering your gaze, you take in your lap and freeze. There, resting neatly atop your folded legs, is your mother’s book. And your clothes is no longer the ruined velvet gown. In its place is a finely crafted riding outfit: dark breeches tucked into polished boots, a soft linen shirt beneath a tailored doublet. Elegant, practical, and very much royalty.

With your slight trembling fingers, you reach for the book. Its familiar weight grounds you, though your pulse thunders in your ears. Carefully, you open it.

Your heart skips. The once-blank pages are no longer empty. After the final words of Sleeping Beauty, new writing continues on inked in a flowing, elegant hand.

You lean closer. It takes only a few sentences to realize—these are Aurelio’s thoughts. His point of view. His life.

Your breath catches. You can read what he felt when he awoke, each thought laid bare on the page. Before reaching the part where he first meets you in the forest, you snap the book shut. It feels too invasive, you're literally reading his mind.

Also... why had the book changed? Is it because of your intervention? It doesn't make quite sense why would it rewrite itself or how even. You're mother had written it by hand, permanent ink on paper.

Still unsettled, you glance down at its cover, thumb brushing along the edge. With a deep breath, you open it again—this time skipping past Aurelio’s section and past it, in looping cursive, a new chapter:

"Snow White"

You stare at the title in disbelief. So... you’re in Snow White’s tale now. You guess that when the book burst into light, it hadn’t pulled you back to your own world, instead it had transferred you to the next story. How the book can even bring you to each tale is still a big mystery to you.

Does this mean that after each tale ends, you move on to the next? What happens if you don't? Technically you can stay, if you just never opened the book you wouldn't be here at all. You suppose the story merely continues.

Then your brows furrowed as you think a bit more... Can characters from the tale travel to a different one? That... sounds impossible, right? By logic it only should be you since you're, well, an actual person travelling through the book while they're mere people who belongs to pages.

Also if you remember correctly, there are eleven stories in this... Now what happens when you reach the end? Will you be unfortunately return to your own world, trapped forever in the last late, or loop back at Aurelio's?

Speaking of him, you didn't want to leave Aurelio. Especially not when you've to actually like him. You brought your hand to your lips, you could still clearly remember the kiss... soft as feathers and how your heart beats lively for the first time in a while. And now... here you are alone again, thrown into another tale without warning.

You sigh heavily, pressing the book closed before looking above you, where branches sway gently in the breeze. A loud huff draws your attention back downward. The white horse eyes you expectantly, ears flicking.

Now that you got a better look at him, you could tell he's not Samson. Unlike him, this one has white hair instead of the midnight silk Samson had. This horse is Astor, Prince Florian’s royal steed.

You exhale through your nose, frustration simmering beneath your skin.

“What do you want?” You mutter, harsher than you intend, voice tight with the sting of loss.

Astor, undeterred, simply nudges your shoulder with a soft snort, then gestures again with a tilt of his noble head toward the apple tree.

With a lingering glance at the book's cover—mocking you with its innocent leather binding—you tuck it securely against your

side and push yourself to your feet. The moss clings stubbornly to your clothes, and you brush it off.

"Alright then," you murmur under your breath, resignation slipping into your tone.

You climb onto Astor’s back, settling the book between your lap. The stallion shifts beneath you then when you've settled in, he starts to walk toward the apple tree with a gentle and measured pace.

As you draw closer, the apples come into clearer view—fat, perfectly round, and their crimson skins gleaming with dew. They look almost unreal, like something painted into a dream. No wonder Astor is so eager... and truth be told, your own mouth waters just at the sight of them.

He halts beneath the tree, lifting his head as if urging you onward.

You reach up, fingers stretching, but even the lowest branch remains out of reach. With a determined huff, you adjust yourself and carefully shift your knees atop Astor’s broad back. He remains perfectly still beneath you.

Balancing yourself with one hand against his mane, you lean up and pluck two of the apples with a soft snap of their stems. One is immediately offered to your companion, who accepts it with a pleased huff, crunching into the fruit with vigor.

You slide back down into a seated position, settling the book in your laps once more as you lift the second apple to your lips.

The first bite releases a crisp, juicy burst of sweetness that fills your mouth. You hum in surprise, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment.

"Oh why do fruits taste so heavenly in fairy tales?"

You devour it quickly almost matching Astor’s enthusiasm, which is... a bit concerning and a feat because he's a horse with larger bites. There’s a simple comfort in the act, something that distracts—if only briefly—from the swirling uncertainty still knotted in your chest.

The core is soon discarded, and without thinking, your hand reaches for a second apple. You pluck it down easily this time, bringing it to your lips...

Before you can take that first bite, Astor’s ears twitch sharply forward. His posture shifts subtly beneath you, muscles tensing. You lower the apple slowly, eyes narrowing as you glance down at him.

“You hear something?” You whisper, voice dropping instinctively.

In response, Astor begins to move—whether to approach the sound or retreat from it, you aren’t sure. His hooves press rhythmically into the soft earth, and your brows knit together in concern.

You quickly tuck the apple into your pocket—which thankfully, it fits snugly—and your hands move to grip the reins, fingers tightening slightly around the worn leather.

“Are you sure about this?” You murmur, the question slipping out before you can stop yourself.

Astor gives no reply save for the determined flick of his ears.

You let out a sigh, resigning yourself to the journey. The forest grows denser, the foliage thick and damp with morning dew. Each branch seems to lean in, whispering secrets of this new tale you’ve unwillingly entered.

And soon, you began to hear it as well. A voice, faint but clear enough to make up the words, weaving through the trees like sunlight through mist.

"I'm wishing... for the one I love, to find me... today..." The voice is soft and angelic one that rivals even Aurelio’s in its warmth and unmistakably masculine even if it has lighter tilt.

"I'm hoping... and I'm dreaming of the nice things... she'll say..."

As you and Astor press further, the trees part to reveal the distant silhouette of a castle, its white stone gleaming beneath the sun. The song carries stronger now, drifting from somewhere within those walls.

That must be him... Snow White or whatever his name is here.

You tug gently on the reins urging Astor to stop. He obeys at once, coming to a halt beneath the sheltering canopy of leaves.

A knot twists in your stomach. You aren’t sure you want to meet him. Couldn’t you just... live quietly this time? Forge your own path, away from these woven threads of the story?

But the thought turns heavier as your mind wanders. If you did nothing, this prince would sleep forever—trapped in his glass coffin under the soil, surrounded by grief-stricken dwarves. 

That.. would never sit right with you. Especially when you knew you could change it.

Perhaps you could intervene before it came to that. The Evil Queen, after all, is no Maleficent. Surely you could find a way to stop her without needing to entangle yourself too deeply with the prince.

Then... that's settled, you have no purpose being here now, the queen will only be hunting down Snow White in the near end. What you must do, is find the dwarves' cottage first then just wait nearby until an old lady carrying a basket of apples shows her face.

"Let’s just go, Astor," you murmur, voice low with determination. You tug the reins again, turning him gently in the opposite direction... but the stubborn horse has other ideas.

Astor neighs sharply, hooves stamping in protest before he rises suddenly on his hind legs, forelegs slicing the air. You clutch the reins and the saddle instinctively, heart lurching as you nearly lose your balance.

“H-Hey! Calm down!” You cry, trying to steady both yourself and the horse.

Before you can regain control, the same voice calls out from the other side of the nearby castle stone wall.

"Hello?"

Your blood runs cold.

"Is anyone there?"

Well... isn’t that just perfect? Things are already going off the rails. You resist the urge to glare down at Astor. Thank you so very much Astor, but you’d trade him for Samson in a heartbeat.

You take a steadying breath, trying to gather some composure.

“Uh... y-yeah. Sorry if I startled you.” You clear your throat, sitting a little straighter now that Astor has finally calmed beneath you.

A warm voice answers from beyond the wall, cheerful and light as a spring breeze, “Oh, no worries! You didn’t frighten me at all! Who are you, anyway?” He calls out curiously.

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. You’d really hoped he would’ve just stopped after the first sentence. Now there’s no easy way out of this conversation.

“I’m [Name], and you are?” You keep your tone even and polite—maybe after you get his name, you can make some excuse to leave. Hopefully Astor won’t betray you again but if he did, you'll just walk by yourself.

There’s a brief pause, though soon he speaks again, “I’m Winter Weiss! Lovely to meet you, [Name].” You can almost hear the smile in his voice. “But wouldn’t it be more proper if we actually saw each other, rather than shouting at a wall?”

...Well, there goes your desire to leave for now, curiosity begins to coil in your chest.

Aurelio had been—without question—the most beautiful man you’d ever laid eyes on. His looks could rival the fairest of women. But this... is Winter Weiss, the 'fairest of them all'.

Could he really surpass Aurelio? Does the Magic Mirror's words hold true across every tale?

You bite your lip. You know you shouldn’t lean into this, but since you’re already caught in this mess, you might as well see it through.

Turning back to the wall, you study it. It isn’t particularly tall—no wonder Prince Florian in the original story could scale it with ease. You could probably do the same as well.

“I could climb over the wall… if that’s alright with you,” you call out, urging Astor a little closer.

“Of course! Just so long as you don’t hurt yourself in the process!” He responds brightly, voice edged with gentle concern.

You hesitate for a heartbeat, but curiosity wins... once more.

Exhaling softly, you take the book and you kneel atop Astor’s saddle, steadying yourself before slowly rising. You reach out, fingertips brushing the cool stone as you test your balance. With a push, you hoist yourself up, one shin resting on the top then the other joining in. 

It's way more easier to move wearing clothes made for occasions like these. You properly sit on the wall, putting the book beside you and catching your breath—when you look down, your breath stutters.

Winter Weiss is every inch the legend he’s said to be. His beauty is… ethereal. His features are delicate, almost childlike, yet undeniably captivating. His skin seems to glow beneath the sunlight, a soft radiance that’s almost otherworldly. A natural blush blooms across his cheekbones, and his dark, wavy hair frames his face like ink spilling across parchment.

For a long moment, the two of you simply stare at one another. Your mouth goes dry. It’s as if a perfectly crafted porcelain doll had come to life. His beauty is impossible, unsettling even in its flawlessness.

Then, he tilts his head, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. A soft flush deepens across his cheeks as he glances down at his worn, patched clothes.

“Oh… I apologize for my appearance,” he says softly, wrapping his slender arms around himself in an almost protective gesture. “This is all I’m allowed to wear.”

His words shake you from your daze. You blink rapidly, adjusting your posture so you’re seated more comfortably on the wall, and rest book you brought along on the stone.

“Why?” You ask, though you already know the answer.

It's the Queen’s jealousy, she fears that one day Winter Weiss' beauty will surpass her own. But you want to hear it from him, to hear how he speaks of it. How it feels to live beneath such a shadow.

He lowers his gaze for a moment, his voice quieter when he answers, “My stepmother… she believes it’s best to… hide certain things,” he says carefully. “She prefers that I not draw attention.”

“I see…” you murmur, your throat tightening slightly. You wish you knew what to say, something to soothe him, to counter the poison he’s lived under. But words feel so small against such cruelty especially of what awaits him.

Still, you offer what honesty you can. “But honestly, even in rags… you still look wonderful.”

It’s the truth. No threadbare garment could dull the radiance within him—one will only need to look carefully in order to see it.

Winter Weiss’ cheeks bloom a deeper pink. He lets out a soft, almost musical chuckle.

“That’s very kind of you, [Name]. You look… quite alluring yourself.” His words falter slightly, as though he’s unaccustomed to giving such compliments. “And, um… may I ask you something else?”

You raised a curious brow. “Of course, go ahead.”

His hands fidget, his fingers curling lightly as he speaks, “What’s it like… out there?” His voice carries a wistful tone, tinged with longing. “You see, I’m not allowed outside the castle walls.” A sheepish smile tugs at his lips as he scratches the back of his neck. “I’ve always wondered what wonders lie beyond it...”

A pang of pity settles in your chest. Such a simple wish and yet, for him, it might as well be a forbidden dream.

You glance toward the foliage beyond the wall, watching as sunlight filters through the leaves.

“Well…” you begin thoughtfully, “it’s dangerous, yes. But also… breathtaking. The forest is wild, filled with beauty and strange animals always roam freely here—small ones, large ones… most of them rather adorable, if you ask me.”

His face lights up, his eyes shining with childlike wonder.

“That sounds so wonderful!” he breathes, clasping his hands together. “Oh, how I wish I could see it for myself! However…” his voice softens, shoulders slumping faintly, “I’m afraid of what my stepmother would do if she ever caught me... She's very strict—though I know it's for my own sake!”

He laughs light for a bit before adding, "Sometimes it's tough to see... but she loves me dearly much like I do."

...

That look in his eyes as he speaks of his stepmother, it's like how you look at you mother and it does things to your heart. Does he really not see her true feelings for him?

You should really leave... Plus, now that he had mentioned it, the last thing you also want is to be caught here if the Queen ever decides to appear.

“Hm... you never know. Perhaps it will come true someday. And Winter Weiss… I should go. I enjoyed our little talk. And—here.”

You pull the apple from your pocket and toss it lightly toward him. He catches it with a delighted gasp, cradling it as though it’s a treasure.

“Thank you! And… [Name], will I see you again sometime?” His expression softens, eyes gleaming with hope—a look so open and sincere that it nearly breaks your resolve.

You offer him a small smile, though your heart twists at the lie you’re about to tell.

“Of course, you’ll see me again.” But y have no intention of getting tangled in the story—unlike in Aurelio's, though you kind of have no choice but to. Instead, you’ll do what’s needed from the shadows and nothing more. “See you soon, Winter Weiss.” You raise a hand in a gentle wave.

“I’ll be gladly waiting for you, [Name]!” He beams at you like bright and innocent child.

His words follow you like a fragile thread as you climb back down on the other side of the wall, your book tucked firmly under your arm. Astor waits patiently, as though nothing had happened at all.

You exhale slowly. Now what?

You could linger in the forest a while longer under the gentle morning sun, it truly is a beautiful place—at least that part you didn't lie about. Or perhaps you could try your luck at slipping inside the castle, though you’re not certain the guards would welcome you.

What you do know for certain is that the story will progress with or without you.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

Earlier that very morning, as with all other days, she had begun her ritual of beauty. Her pale hands traced along her skin, smoothing salves, weaving silken locks of hair until not a strand was out of place. Draped in her finest obsidian garments, she approached the chamber of her greatest tool.

The Magic Mirror.

Its towering surface gleamed beneath the flickering torches. She raised her hands high, commanding the forces that bound it.

"Slave in the Magic Mirror… come from the farthest space. Through wind and darkness, I summon thee." A swirling gust of power surged through the room. Her garments billowed violently as magic coiled in the air. "Let me see thy face."

The polished reflection dissolved, consumed by flickering flames, until the pale visage of the spirit within emerged from the depths of glass.

"What wouldst thou know, my Queen?" She smiled coldly, the familiar question already echoing in her mind.

"Magic Mirror on the wall… who is the fairest one of all?" A question she had asked a thousand times and had heard the same answer a thousand more.

"Famed is thy beauty, Majesty," the spirit began, voice hauntingly calm. "But hold—a lovely valet I see. Rags cannot hide his gentle grace. Alas… he is more fair than thee."

The Queen’s heart sank, fury coiling in her gut like smoke.

"Alas for him! Reveal his name!" She snapped, arms folding tightly across her chest. This was not the first time the Mirror had dared to name another above her but each time, she had corrected the insult and so she would again.

"Cheeks red as the rose; hair black as ebony; and skin white as snow... Winter Weiss is his name."

Winter Weiss. The child she had once watched grow with bitter suspicion. A boy whose beauty had always threatened to surpass her own and now it unfortunately had.

Her knuckles whitened as her fists clenched, fingers biting into her palm. She turned, dark robes flowing behind her like a storm.

As she strode past a tall arched window, something caught her eye—a flash of color, a movement beyond the glass. She paused and looked down at the unfolding scene below.

There, in the castle courtyard, was him. Dressed in his pitiful rags, speaking to… a young woman perched gracefully atop the stone wall. The Queen narrowed her eyes.

How quaint. The young lady threw an apple at him and he cradled the fruit like a precious gift. The woman departed soon after, leaving the boy alone beneath the soft morning sun, a small smile on his face.

"Isn’t that just lovely?" the Queen thought, her hatred simmering hotter than before. "He bests me… and now he meets a visitor as well?"

Her eyes twitched. Oh, but this would be remedied. She would not be outshone by a pitiful boy with a stolen smile. No… not for long that is.

.

.

.

In the shadowed throne room of her castle, the Queen sat upon her grand seat, its towering back crowned by a sculpted golden peacock, feathers fanned in eternal pride. Her pale fingers rested languidly on the armrests, but her eyes, sharp as daggers, pinned the man kneeling before her.

A lowly huntsman beneath her power as all should be.

Her voice rang out, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous, "Take him far into the forest," she commanded, her tone leaving no room for disobedience. "Find some secluded glade… where he may pick wildflowers."

The huntsman bowed his head low, the tremble in his shoulders betraying whether it was fear or loyalty that drove him. The Queen didn’t care, she cared only for the ease with which her will was followed.

"Of course, Your Majesty," he replied.

But her crimson lips curled, a venomous smile blooming. "Oh… but I am not done yet." Her voice dropped, thick with cruel delight. "For there, my faithful Huntsman…" She leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting like a predator sighting prey. "You will kill him."

The final words lashed out like a whip.

The huntsman stiffened. His mouth parted, desperate words spilling out, "But... Y-Your Majesty—"

"Silence!" The Queen’s fist snapped shut in the air as she sharply stood up, her voice slicing through the chamber with icy force. The man fell silent at once, his breath shallow and the room grew colder.

Her gaze held his, a coiled serpent ready to strike. "You know the penalty if you fail," she whispered, voice a low snarl. The huntsman’s head bowed lower, trembling in submission.

"And to make doubly sure you do not falter…" From beneath the folds of her dark robe, she drew forth a small red box—an ornate locket shaped like a heart, pierced through by a golden dagger. Its surface gleamed wickedly in the dim light.

"Bring back his heart in this."

For a moment, the huntsman hesitated, eyes wide with horror. But under her unflinching stare, his trembling hand finally reached out and accepted the cursed token, fingers quivering as if the box might bite.

"Now go, my huntsman, I expect you to fall in line." The Queen sat back down, her cold satisfaction blooming as she watched him retreat. But her mind burned, the embers of her rage not yet cooled.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

With little else to do for now, you climb back onto Astor’s sturdy frame, urging him forward with a light touch to his neck. The horse moves at an easy pace, hooves soft against the dirt path as you ride along the edges of the towering castle walls.

There’s no need to hurry. For a moment, you let yourself breathe in the morning the cool and crisp air beneath the wide expanse of blue sky. The forest stretches out around you like an emerald sea, its leaves shimmering beneath the sun’s gentle rays.

You let your gaze wander until a sudden sound tears through the peace.

The melodic birdsong shatters beneath the thunder of distant hurried pound of hooves. You instinctively straighten in your saddle, peering through the tangle of trees ahead.

A flash of movement—a brown horse with two riders. One of the riders caught your eye. Bright blue and yellow, flickering between the leaves like a trapped butterfly.

It's undoubtedly Winter Weiss, and you bet he's with the huntsman. You watch them vanish deeper into the forest, slipping between the ancient trunks.

You know the story well enough—Winter Weiss is meant to die this day but the huntsman will not go through with it. Unless the story is shifting again, twisting beneath your feet as it did before...

You shake off the thought, noting the direction of where they're headed so you can follow later. For now, you guide Astor onward. The kingdom’s entrance soon comes into view. You dismount smoothly, landing with a soft thud against the earth and with reins in hand, you lead Astor forward on foot.

Of course, the guards are waiting. Steel-clad figures block your path, halberds glinting in the light.

One steps forward, voice gruff beneath his iron helm, "What’s your business in the Kingdom of Tabor?"

You meet his gaze calmly, though your heart picks up just slightly.

"I’m just a passing traveler," you murmur.

However a traveler dressed in garments like yours draws suspicion. The guards glance at each other and though their faces are covered, you can feel their eyes on you. The silence stretches and you began to think your luck had run out.

Finally, with a grunt, the first guard gives a short nod. "You may pass."

You bow slightly in thanks and move past them, only releasing a breath once the weight of their gaze falls away. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding it. As you step into the heart of the kingdom… a deeper weight settles over you.

From the outside, you already sensed something was wrong. Now, within the town’s broken streets, you see it clearly.

Ruins of buildings stand like weary skeletons beneath the sun. The people move slowly, hollow-eyed, faces drawn with hunger and exhaustion. Poverty stains everything here, heavier than any rocks.

Your throat tightens.

Even the smallest villages of your world had never fallen so low. You glance from face to face—men, women, children—all of them caught beneath the same shadow.

The Queen’s shadow.

She isn’t called Evil without reason. And now, you see the clear proof of it with your own eyes. Winter Weiss is not the only one imprisoned beneath her cruelty. The entire kingdom rots under her reign.

And when the Queen dies… even then, Winter Weiss will not return to this place. He will go to Prince Florian's... your kingdom. Which wouldn't even be possible because in this, he'll just going to live with the dwarves instead, far from the courts and crowns.

A pang of guilt flickers through you. These people deserve better. It's never really stated how the they had it the tale and now you wish you never did know.

Once more, your mind turns to a dangerous thought. Perhaps there’s a chance—however small—that you could change more than just the fate of Winter Weiss. Perhaps you could mend what lies broken between him and the Queen, just as you once did between Maleficent and Queen Leah.

Surely there must be some thread of care left in the Queen’s heart. A remnant of warmth that hasn’t been smothered entirely by her vanity. After all… if she were truly monstrous to her core, Winter Weiss’ fate would already be far worse.

You think back to him—his slender frame, bright eyes, and skin glowing like porcelain. He wasn’t starved. His body bore no marks of violence or neglect. Rags or not, he was well-fed and healthy. The Queen might have dressed him in shame, might have stripped him of status, but she had not stripped him of life. Unlike the people under her command.

She could have. Long ago, when she first foresaw his beauty eclipsing her own, she could have ended his story right then but she didn’t.

That tells you something.

You’ve never believed in pure evil—at least not without reason. No one is born into darkness for no cause at all. Perhaps the Queen’s vanity is a shield, a mask for something deeper. You don't know, yet.

Perhaps there is still something human beneath her gilded cruelty. And if that’s true… maybe, this tale doesn’t need to end with hatred alone.

You glance back toward the heart of the broken town, its streets etched with scars of suffering. The Queen may rule with a cold fist, but the story is not yet finished and neither are you.

You’re no fool... or at least not entirely. Approaching a woman like the Queen directly? Yeah, no way in a thousand cycles.

You imagine it now: standing before her throne and questioning her vanity, her motives, her treatment of Winter Weiss. Just picturing her face is enough to send a chill down your spine.

She’d probably raise one perfectly shaped brow, dismiss you with a flick of her hand, and have the guards throw you out before you finished your first sentence. If you're even allowed to have an audience with her.

Now come to think of it, you have a better chance conversing with Maleficent than the Queen because unlike the fairy, she has numerous suffering people underneath her heel.

So you’ll need to be clever and catch her alone.

Which she will be when she sheds her crown and disguise into an old woman, before going alone to the dwarves’ cottage with the poisoned apple in her basket. That’s your window.

You just… have to figure out what you’ll say once you’re there because you have a lot of things you need to explain. Like how could you possibly know her plan? How did you even know she's the Queen in the first place?

Not exactly a solid plan... you kind of thought of it out of the whim but at least you have a goal. You know the direction the story is meant to take.

You sigh and let your gaze sweep across the town one last time. The villagers continue to watch you—some curious, some silently begging for something you cannot yet give. Their pain clings to you like smoke.

You lower your eyes and turn away. Time to move... you don't have much to do in here anyway, you just wanted to see what's it like inside the Queen's domain.

Gripping Astor’s reins, you lead him back to the kingdom's entrance where the two guards stood. Once you're in the clear, you pull yourself swiftly into the saddle. The leather creaks beneath your weight, and Astor lets out a soft snort.

With a sharp nudge of your heel, you guide him toward the forest—the same direction you last saw Winter Weiss and the huntsman disappear into.

You guide Astor into the winding woodland, the canopy overhead thickening as you venture deeper. Sunlight breaks through in broken shards, painting your path in flickering gold and shadow. Despite the serene beauty of it all, unease begins to coil in your chest.

When you're left alone with nothing of worth to think, thoughts begin to surface—some are quiet and curious but others... are worrisome.

What if you don’t find the clearing?

What if the wherever huntsman took Winter Weiss, you'll never find it? The Queen had told him to lead the prince into a secluded glade… and that could be anywhere in this vast, ancient forest.

And if you miss it, you may never find the dwarves’ cottage. Without it, your patchwork of a so called plan crumbles into nothing.

You let out a quiet sigh, the air heavy in your lungs. You know you shouldn’t linger on worst-case scenarios—dwelling on what might go wrong only dries out the motivation in your bones. But it’s hard not to, plus isn’t it wise to at least consider the consequences, even the unpleasant ones?

You're still chewing on that thought when broke your train of thoughts, a second set of hoofbeats, fast and urgent.

“Hm…?” You turn toward the noise, your body tensing instinctively.

It's the huntsman! He passes within several feet of you, astride his brown horse, and his eyes widen for a brief heartbeat as they meet yours. He doesn’t say anything—just clears his throat awkwardly, avoids your gaze, and rides past, retreating down the same path you came from.

You watch him disappear into the woods, then glance back in the direction he’d emerged. If he just left Winter Weiss behind… then that must be where the clearing is.

"Well, isn't that convenient," you mutter under your breath.

With a flicker of renewed hope, you nudge Astor forward. “Come on, Astor… let’s follow their trail,” you murmur, patting the side of his neck gently.

It might not be exact, but hey, you'll have what you can and this is enough.

It isn’t easy but the faint hoof marks still press into the damp soil. Even if some where not so evident, it's enough for your mind to fill in the blanks. You keep your gaze low, scanning carefully, and urging Astor forward whenever you’re confident of the route.

Eventually, the forest parts, revealing a glade blanketed in gentle grass and wildflowers.  You pause at its edge, scanning the quiet clearing. Empty, no sign of Winter Weiss or that they even had been here.

Your gaze shifts toward the far end of the clearing—the forest grows darker in that direction, trees twist and lean unnaturally toward each other, their trunks gnarled, and their limbs reaching like crooked fingers.

If you want to imagine and twisting and haunting forest, one describe like in the book, you bet your life that's what it'll look like.

Astor steps closer, and something on the grass catches your eye—wildflowers. A small bouquet scattered like spilled secrets. That's proof enough, Winter Weiss was here and had dropped the flowers in a panic.

You exhale, long and quiet, before gently urging Astor forward again. “Alright… into the woods we go.”

However, Astor shifts beneath you, his ears twitching and head tilting in hesitation.

You lean down and pat his side, voice soft but firm, “It’s going to be alright, hm? Just don’t go trying to throw me off again...”

As you move deeper, you realize it’s going to be nearly impossible to ride through here. Branches droop too low, the path too narrow, and the roots too dense for Astor’s hooves to easily find footing. You slow him to a stop, sighing as you scratch the back of your neck.

“Figures.”

With a little grunt, you swing your leg over and slide down, landing with a muted thud on the soft undergrowth. Grabbing Astor’s lead, you pat his shoulder once more.

“Come on, we’ll walk together from here.”

The deeper you go into the forest, the more the morning light fades behind you, swallowed by a growing wall of gnarled branches and thick foliage overhead. The air grows heavy with damp earth and the scent of moss, and every step forward feels like entering a different world—one that never welcomes visitors.

No wonder Winter Weiss had mistaken the trees for monsters. Add to that the fact that this is the first time he’s ever been beyond the Queen’s immaculate palace walls… it's enough to terrify anyone.

But where could he have run off to?

You slow your steps, eyes scanning the muddy floor for anything—footprints, disturbed leaves, or any broken twigs. However, there's no proof of anyone stepping foot in this forest.

As if answer the question running through your mind, Astor’s ears twitch sharply—alert, like before when he heard Winter Weiss' singing in the castle. A signal he's near or... a warning.

“What is it?” you ask quickly, voice tightening. “Do you hear him?” The horse lets out a grunt and suddenly takes off at a fast trot.

“H-Hey! Astor!” You yelp, fumbling before you lose your grip on the lead. You stumble forward, nearly falling. “Oh come on!”

You break into a run, crashing through the dense undergrowth, dodging branches that claw at your clothes and whip across your face. Your boots slip on wet leaves and your breath catches in your throat as roots nearly trip you more than once.

But he’s far too fast than you are and in mere moments, you lose sight of him completely. You skid to a halt, panting and irritated.

“Astor?” you call out into the trees, hoping he'll just neigh or something.

Yet what answered your call is the thrum of insects, the distant rustle of leaves, and your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You glance at the ground, but there are so many overlapping prints—boar hooves, deer tracks, maybe a fox or two—you can’t tell what belongs to your horse.

You press your hands to your face and drag them down with a frustrated groan. “Augh... Seriously? Why are you so...” You grumbled, rolling your eyes so far back you thought they'll be stuck.

So... what are you going to do now?

[With A Smile and A Song "Adriana Caselotti"]

When you thought you'll be lost here for who knows how long, you begin to something humming or chirping, you couldn't tell what really is it. At first, you brushed it off as the wind blowing... then came a faint voice, so barely audible you thought you're imagining it.

“With a smile and a song…”

Your eyes dart around, seeing nothing but more tangled branches and shadowed trunks.

“Life is just like a bright, sunny day… Your cares fade away, and your heart is young…”

You flinch at sudden movement in the corner of your eye. A squirrel. No—a dozen of them. Rabbits, deer, even a pair of raccoons emerge, quietly padding over the forest floor. All of them seem drawn in by the voice, heading in one direction.

You don’t even think twice. “It’s him,” you whisper, then follow behind the small parade of forest creatures. As you walk, the melody grows more louder and clearer.

“With a smile and a song… All the world seems to waken anew, rejoicing with you…”

Birds begin to flutter past you, bursts of color weaving between the trees. Their chirps harmonize with the voice, like the forest itself is joining in.

“As the song is sung… there’s no use in grumbling—when raindrops, come tumbling…”

You push past a curtain of vines, and not only did you see your horse standing idly by within the woods, but in the clearing, you see him.

Winter Weiss sits serenely in the grass floor, bathing in the filtered morning light, wearing his royal blue tunic with crimson diamonds on the sleeves along a navy blue vest; pastel yellow loose trousers; and of course his small, elegant red cape that drapes across his shoulders.

"Remember you’re the one… who can fill the world with sunshine…”

Around him, a circle of animals has gathered—rabbits, chipmunks, a fawn, even a pair of bluebirds perched above him. The baby deer nuzzles into his palm, and he strokes its soft fur with the gentlest smile.

“When you smile and you sing… everything is in tune and it’s spring, and life flows along… With a smile and a song…”

His final note fades, and a symphony of chirping fills the silence. You can't help the soft smile tugging at your lips. You found him and from here, all you need to do is quietly follow until the animals guide him to the dwarves’ cottage. Then, you wait for the Queen’s next move.

Your smile quickly fades when you glance around and Astor isn’t beside you anymore. Your heart dropped, what has he done now?

“Oh! And who are you?”

You look back sharply. Winter Weiss is now standing, gazing at Astor, who has calmly wandered into the clearing and is standing tall beside him.

His walnut eyes widen in wonder as he reaches out to stroke the horse’s shimmering white coat. “Such a beautiful coat you have!” He exclaims, voice light and full of awe. His expression is so earnest and open. “Are you lost? Who did you come with, hm?”

The frown pulling at your lips only deepens as you watch the scene play out from behind a thicket of tangled brush. Astor, that traitorous stallion, is now standing proudly beside Winter Weiss like some loyal knight, his snowy coat gleaming faintly beneath the thick canopy of leaves.

If you leave Astor now, you know he'll be safe. He’s with Winter Weiss and soon he'll be with the dwarves. A lot of people to take care of him.

Just as you begin to step back, Astor lifts his head toward your direction and releasing a snort.

...

Winter Weiss follows the movement, curiosity shining in his eyes. He squints into the dense trees, as he murmur, “What is it? Is someone there...?” His gaze then lands directly on you. “...[Name]? Is that you?”

His voice is like the sudden warmth of sun through cold mist. Without waiting for a response, he hurries toward you, his red cape fluttering behind him. The moment he reaches you, his hands grip your arm, and he tugs you gently but urgently back toward the clearing.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, eyes wide as concern clouds his delicate features. “Come on, the forest really is scary and dangerous—just like you said!”

He leads you to where the animals are still gathered, then immediately sets about brushing stray leaves and twigs off your shoulders and sleeves. His hands are light, almost hesitant, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he touches you too roughly.

“Um... thanks,” you mumble, clearing your throat and awkwardly brushing off the last of the foliage yourself. “Me and Astor—” you shoot the smug horse a quick side glance, “got lost in the woods. I didn’t expect to find you out here... and alone, no less.”

His hands pause, and the expression on his face shifts from soft worry to more sorrowful. His shoulders lower slightly and his lips press into a line before parting with a quiet sigh.

“Neither did I...” His voice is small, almost childlike. “Right after you left... so many things happened all at once!” You nod slowly, your eyes fixed on him as he begins to explain. “There was this man,” he continues, brows drawn in remembrance.

“He seemed kind at first. Asked if I could help him gather wildflowers in a glade not far from the kingdom for his significant other. I was... admittedly caught off gaurd," he chuckles softly.

"Though hesitantly I agreed, I thought my stepmother wouldn't mind me leaving if I returned a bouquet for her especially since I helped someone.” His voice trembles slightly. “But when we got there... he suddenly changed. He tried to attacked me!”

“I don’t know what stopped him. And he said... h-he said it was because of my stepmother. That she ordered him to harm me.” His voice falters, dropping lower with each word until it’s barely a whisper. “I don’t want to believe him. She raised me and she loves me. When my real parents were gone, she was there for me. She... she wouldn’t do something like that!”

His arms cross over his chest while his gaze falls to the mossy ground.

The truth claws at the back of your throat, wanting to burst free, but you bite it down. Instead, you step closer and place a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“...I’m sorry to hear that,” you say softly. “That must’ve been terrifying for you.”

His body stiffens under your touch at first, then slowly relaxes. He looks up and you catch the light flush spreading across his cheeks along with the smallest curve of a smile forming but it doesn’t last. His eyes soon return to the ground, clouded with doubt and hurt.

“I just... I don’t want to believe someone I love could ever want to hurt me.” He laughs weakly and bitterly. “No parent—by blood or not—should be capable of such things...”

Your throat tightens, and silence stretches between you both. You want to scream at him that the huntsman told the truth. That the Queen—the woman he calls his mother—is the one who wants him dead.

But if you say that now... it won’t help. He won’t believe it. Look at him, he’s clinging to the only sense of family he’s ever known, and to rip that away right now would only shatter him further. Plus, you don't even have the heart to actually tell him although you know soon enough, he'll learn the truth.

If you could only tell him everything, to warn him about the old woman and for God's sake tell him to at least not eat the apple she gives, ignoring that he took something from a stranger—wait... you could actually. Not now obviously, it'll be out of the blue, in fact, you can even take the apple yourself and discard it.

But that would mean staying with Winter Weiss. It’d go against your whole plan of not getting entangled with him. Still... just because Snow White and Prince Florian fell in love in the original tale doesn’t mean this one has to follow the same path. If you're sticking up to your new idea—there's no need for a true love's kiss.

It kind of feels off, remembering Aurelio and how your heart had fluttered in ways you never expected. Now, here you are, in a new tale, with a different prince, and a possibility that familiar warmth will bloom again.

You shake the thoughts off, burying them beneath a lie you force your lips to speak.

“Maybe he was just lying,” you say lightly, keeping your tone casual. “You really shouldn’t trust people so easily.”

Winter Weiss hums at your words, his posture relaxing just slightly.

“You’re right,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t... but it’s hard not to wonder.” He sighs again, though this time the sound is softer, more wistful than heavy. “Well... at least I feel better now, especially with you here.”

He lets out a quiet laugh and offers you a smile so pure it momentarily dulls the ache behind your ribs. “Now I’m sure everything will be alright!” His eyes gleaming with a light that seems to borrow from the morning sun.

But then his expression falters, and he tilts his head slightly. “Hey... [Name], do you remember the way back to Kingdom Tabor?”

“Uh...” You reach back and scratch your head sheepishly, gaze flicking to the side. “Not really. No...”

His brows knit together, lips pursing in mild concern. “That’s... not good. I don't either...”

He glances around, at the forest teeming with curious animal eyes. The little creatures hadn’t left—rabbits huddled near your feet, birds still perching above, watching the two of you like silent guardians.

“Hello animal friends... may I ask a favor? You see, we can’t sleep on the ground like you do,” he says with a chuckle, his tone playful as he turns to the rabbits. “And we certainly can’t sleep in trees like you guys,” he adds, glancing up at the squirrels nestled in the branches. “And I’m sure no nest would be big enough for the two of us.”

You awkwardly stand beside him, watching everything unfold while he kneels down, speaking gently to the animals.

“Do you know somewhere we can sleep for the night?” He asks them softly.

A chorus of birds chirps back in perfect harmony. You blink in quiet awe, the forest really does adore him even more so than Aurelio.

“You do?” He exclaims, eyes wide and alight with wonder. The birds nod their tiny little heads in response.

He glance at you, flashing a triumphant smile. “That’s fantastic! Will you take us there?”

At his request, the birds flutter down from their branches, circling around the two of you in a flurry of wings and motion. The deer and rabbits begin to move toward the same direction.

“Come on, [Name]!” Winter Weiss beams, suddenly looping his arm through yours causing your breathe to hitch.

"Wai—"

Then with a tug, he starts following the woodland critters, practically glowing with joy. While behind you, Astor trots along, rather proudly of himself.

Characters & Info
✦ Twisted Tales [Extra]

Other Stories
✦ Divine Voice | Yandere.WHB x M.Reader
✦ My Dearest | Yandere.Alastor x M.Reader
✦ Solunar | Mythical.Yanderes x F.Reader

Chapter Text

꒰ა ACT III: CHAPTER 2 ໒꒱

⋇⊰The Wooden Cottage⊱⋇

❥・Word Count: 10.6k

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

You find yourself being gently tugged along by Winter Weiss, his arm still loosely linked with yours as the two of you walk beneath a canopy of thick leaves and warm morning light. A slow-moving river trickles nearby, its banks dotted with pebbles and patches of moss.

It feels strange and surreal... you’ve never walked among or be with so many animals before, sometime you'd catch a stray deer outside the library but one wrong movement and it's gone.

Beside you, Winter Weiss glances over with a soft, wondering smile. “By the way, [Name]...” he begins, voice light and sweet like honey tea. “That book you’re always carrying... what is it?”

You blink and shift the weight of the familiar object tucked beneath your arm. “What? Oh… this?” You glance down at the book. “It’s nothing, really.”

Unfortunately, he doesn’t let it go easily.

“Nothing?” He lifts a brow and tilts his head at you, his expression far too curious to be brushed off. “Then why carry it all the way out here, hmm?”

You open your mouth to respond, already piecing together a vague excuse—but fate has other plans.

Your foot catches on an uneven rock buried in the soil, and before you can steady yourself, your balance falters.

“[Name]!” He gasps, reaching toward you.

He tries to stop your fall, but he’s not strong enough to hold your weight. Instead, he’s pulled forward with you, and the two of you go down together in a soft but sudden tumble.

The impact isn't harsh—the earth is damp and cushioned with moss—but it knocks the wind out of you just a little. A groan escapes your lips as you start to push yourself up… only to freeze when you realize how close the two of you are.

Winter Weiss is just above you, his hands planted at either side of your shoulders, his face mere inches from yours. His wide eyes stare into yours like you’re the only thing in the world. His cheeks are dusted in a pink hue that only deepens the longer the moment stretches.

Neither of you says a word. The world around you feels muted, as though it’s waiting for something to happen. Finally with a startled breath, he pulls back, his face glowing even brighter as he scrambles into a kneel beside you.

“A-Are you alright, [Name]?” he asks, voice just a bit too high to be casual.

You sit up slowly, brushing your clothes off with a shaky hand. Your heart is still pounding like it’s trying to climb up your throat. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.” You try to sound normal, but your voice comes out breathier than intended.

Deep breathes self. You can't allow yourself to be attached to him neither should he to you. It'll be a lot harder when you leave the dwarves' cottage after everything has been dealt with.

“Good!” he says quickly, standing up and patting down the dust on his sleeves. “You really ought to be careful, you know...”

You nod, muttering, “Noted...” before your gaze drops to the hand he suddenly offers you.

He’s still flushed, you can see it clearly against his fair skin, but he doesn’t take the offer back. After a moment, you reach up and take his hand. He tries to help you up, but your weight pulls him slightly off balance and he nearly stumbles back with you. You both chuckle awkwardly.

“Sorry,” you say with a sheepish smile, steadying yourself.

He lets out a breathy laugh, looking up at you with that earnest brightness again. “No worries, I’m just glad you’re not hurt.”

The animals, who had paused to watch your little mishap, now resume their gentle march—birds fluttering ahead, squirrels darting from tree to tree. You and Winter Weiss continue walking, his arm linked with yours once more and you noticed how he pulls you a little closer than before.

Though the walk had resumed, that earlier stumble lingers faintly between you—like the ghost of something unspoken. The silence is not awkward... but you just want to break it for some reason.

“Um... Winter Weiss?” you say, trying to keep your tone casual.

He glances at you with a gentle hum.

“I’ve been meaning to ask... How do you understand the animals?” You glance at the birds fluttering overhead, at the squirrel scampering ahead on the path like a tiny, fuzzy tour guides.

Because honestly, with the existence of a talking Magic Mirror, it wouldn’t even surprise you anymore if it's something related to telepathy or magic. The tale never really mentioned how, but it said something along the lines of Winter Weiss' kindness softened the heart of the woodland critters and have charmed them.

His laugh is soft, like a bell’s chime carried by the wind. “Oh, I don’t!” he says brightly, shaking his head as his cape flutters behind him. “I just... look into their eyes. They say the eyes are the mirror of the soul, right?”

You raise a brow slightly. That’s... a poetic answer.

He continues, sweeping his gaze around at the woodland creatures, “And I watch how they behave, you can tell so much from that. If they trust you or if they’re afraid. It’s all written in the way they move.”

You nod slowly, thinking it over. That actually makes more sense than you expected. Like a dog wagging its tail when it’s happy or a cat hissing when its... actually those things seem to hiss whether they’re mad, scared, or just mildly inconvenienced.

Still, it makes sense how someone as gentle as Winter Weiss would naturally pick up on such things.

“Then how do you think they understand you?” you ask, genuinely curious now. “Do you think they actually get the words you’re saying?”

He thinks about it for a moment then merely gives a lighthearted shrug. “Not entirely sure,” he admits with a smile, “But I think they just listen—and maybe they understand the feelings behind the words, more than the words themselves.”

He turns his gaze toward the squirrel guiding your path and offers a warm smile. “They’re quite... intelligent, aren’t you?” he asks softly.

The squirrel chitters in response, its bushy tail flicking proudly because it knows it had been praised.

You can’t help but smile at the scene, at how naturally he fits into this world of deer and birds and tiny paws. It’s not magic that binds him to them—it’s trust, tenderness, and something pure.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

The walk continues at a relaxed pace, carried by the occasional question—most of which come from Winter Weiss. He asks where you’re from, what led you into this forest, and what your journey has been like. You give answers that skirt too close to the truth without quite falling into it.

A traveler from a distant land, you say—which isn’t exactly a lie. You claim you were simply drawn to explore unfamiliar places. He seems satisfied with that, offering no suspicion and only fascination.

Time drifts by almost unnoticed, the forest growing more welcoming the deeper you go. Eventually, the animals slow to a stop—save for a group of squirrels that scurry ahead, chirping excitedly as they tug and push branches aside to reveal a narrow, hidden path.

You can already see something at the end of it. A glimpse of weathered wood tucked into the greenery.

“This must be it!” Winter Weiss brightens instantly, his excitement showing in the way his eyes sparkle.

Before you can react, he pulls you forward, hopping over the leafy threshold the squirrels cleared. The forest opens into a serene little clearing. A trickling stream cuts through the middle, crystal-clear and lit with dapples of sunlight. A wooden bridge crosses it, and beyond stands a cottage so tiny, it truly does look like it was made for dolls.

“It’s so charming!” he exclaims beside you.

You can’t help but agree. Wooden shingles, tiny little windows, and soft moss along with curling ivy covering the sides—you'd want to live in a place like this.

He walks across the grass with a lightness to his step, his arm still linked with yours. When you reach the door, it's immediately clear—this house is small. Too small for grown men, but perfect for its seven squat inhabitants.

Winter Weiss laughs quietly. “The door is so little… but I like it. It's very adorable—I wonder why it's small.” He gently unwrap his arm around yours and glances at you. “Don’t you think it’s nice?”

You nod, eyes trailing over the trees and the slow river. “It’s beautiful,” you smile softly “and peaceful. Honestly, I wouldn't mind living in a place like this.” And it's a perfect place for a gentle soul like his.

“I hope the people who live here are just as warm.”

He leans forward and knocks gently—three polite taps against the wood. You both wait, ears perked for any signs of life. Nothing. Just the soft rustle of the trees.

He knocks again, a bit more firmly this time. Still no answer. His shoulders sink, brows drawing together.

“Hmm... I guess no one’s home…” he says, disappointed.

“We could wait,” you offer, glancing at the sun still lazily drifting across the sky. “It’s still early. Maybe they’re just out for now.”

Before he can reply, a small doe steps forward—head tilted with uncanny intelligence. It pads up to the door and, to your utter astonishment, grabs the knob in its mouth and twists it.

“W-Wait—!” Winter Weiss gasps, startled, but it’s too late. The door creaks open, and a handful of animals have already slipped through the gap, waddling and hopping into the quiet cottage. Only Astor is the one left outside but you assume it's more so he couldn't go inside and if he can, he definitely will.

He turns to you, eyes wide with worry, whispering, “We can’t just walk in… that’s someone’s home.”

“Maybe… maybe if we’re respectful, they won’t be upset? We can explain… maybe we thought it was abandoned?” You press your lips into a thin line, trying not to look as startled as you feel.

He hesitates, glancing back at the open door where a curious raccoon looking back at the two of you through the crack.

“I suppose… if they live this deep in the woods, they must know how dangerous it is to stay outside for too long,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. Then, with a quiet exhale of resolve, he adds, “Alright, come on.”

He ducks beneath the tiny doorframe. Although before you follow suit, you glared at the white horse standing outside, muttering, "You're not getting away so easily... you hear me, Astor?" He merely blows a gust of wind through his nose and you give him one last look before bowing your head so you don’t bump it on the wooden arch.

Inside, the air smells faintly of pine and dust, and the cottage is dim but cozy in a chaotic, cluttered kind of way. You barely have a chance to look around before Winter Weiss lets out a loud gasp.

The sound startles the animals inside. A few birds flutter into the rafters, a squirrel dashes under the table, and a rabbit bolts behind a stack of firewood. Even you jump slightly at the sudden outburst.

“What is it now?” you ask, looking around quickly in case something is actually wrong. In the original there was nothing but you cannot be certain anymore after the surprise with Maleficent.

His expression is the picture of wonder and delight as he hurries to a tiny wooden chair. “Look at this! Isn’t it adorable?” he practically coos as he settles into it, his movements graceful and oddly elegant even as he awkwardly folds himself into the miniature seat. “Seven little chairs—can you imagine? There must be seven little children living here!”

You scowl. Really? You've forgotten all he gushed about was a chair... that scene in the book flew past your mind.

He hops back to his feet and makes his way to the long wooden table nearby. It's cluttered with unwashed plates, empty bowls, half-eaten crumbs, and bits of cloth. A pickaxe has been stabbed directly into the center, with a sock dangling limply from its handle.

He crosses his arms with a slight huff, his brows pulling into a delicate frown. “And from the look of this table… seven very untidy children.”

He stalks around the other side, eyeing the stacked dishes and scattered utensils with disapproval. “Just look at this mess!” he exclaims. “The fireplace—oh don’t even get me started! I can practically feel the dust from here. I think no body lives here at all because how could they?”

You watch him with thinly veiled amusement He’s pacing the room like a fussy noble touring a country inn for the first time, tutting at every misplaced spoon and speck of cobweb.

“And the cobwebs!” he continues, shaking his head. “Can you imagine the number of spiders hiding in those corners? Ugh!” He shivers just thinking of it.

You can’t help the faint laugh that escapes you. “You sound like you’re ready to declare war on the entire cottage.”

He ignores your tease and spins around with a determined glint in his eyes. “We have to do something about this, [Name].”

“…Come again?”

“I said, we need to clean up,” he repeats firmly. “I can’t possibly stay in a place like this.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wait—we? Since when did this become our problem? Because honestly, if anyone lives here, I don't want to mess with their stuff. Even if not, so long there's a bed and it's not covered with crawling things, I'm fine.” 

"Really?" He sighs, unamused, before shaking his head and something within him immediately shifts.

Suddenly, his giving you a pleading look, like some puppy begging to receive an abundance of love. “Well you said if we're respectful enough they may forgive us for breaking in—if we do a good deed like cleaning their home, they may just do that! And I’ll needing your help.” he exclaims, rushing over to the corner and lifting a broom covered in dust and cobwebs.

He grimaces at it, holding it at arm’s length like it might bite.

“My darling animal friends can assist, but some things need a human touch. And you’re here, so… please?”

He flashes you a hopeful smile, already winning you over without trying too hard. You sigh, but there’s a faint tug at the corner of your lips.

"Alright, fine..." You let out a resigned sigh, though a soft chuckle escapes your lips as you finally give in.

You step around the mess carefully and set your book down on one of the very few empty spots left on a side table—which honestly takes some effort. Every surface is either cluttered or buried beneath a thick layer of dust.

Winter Weiss practically beams. His entire face lights up like you’ve just agreed to bake cookies with him on a rainy day. “Yes! Thank you, [Name]!”

He claps his hands once and immediately slips into what must be his idea of an organized plan. “Now, you,” he gestures between you and a group of bright-eyed squirrels standing beside a curious-looking doe, “will do the dishes. And you…” He glances toward a group of twitchy rabbits nestled beneath a bench, “tidy up the room. And I will use the… broom…” He shivers when he caught a glimpse of that thing once more.

Just then, three small bluebirds flutter to the top rail of one of the small chairs, each chirping in slightly different tones. The last bird, smaller than the rest, belts out a long, high note like it's been waiting for its solo.

“Juuust whistle while you work~” he sings softly, following the melody with a gentle whistle.

And as if enchanted, the cottage springs to life. The animals begin moving, seemingly energized by his voice. Even you feel yourself swaying slightly as you step over to the sink and pick up a dirtied plate. Somehow, you’re already scrubbing in rhythm with the beat of his voice.

“And cheerfully together we can tidy up the place,” he continues, sweeping the floor with theatrical flair. His movements are smooth, his expression so content.

“So hum a merry tune~” he hums brightly, spinning the broom as he goes. “It won’t take long when there’s a song to help you set the pace.”

You smile to yourself… only for it to drop instantly at the chaos unfolding right next to you.

The doe—one of your appointed assistant—has taken a plate and is… licking it. Beside it, a squirrel is dragging its fluffy tail across the wet surface like it’s drying glassware. You freeze, plate in hand.

“Uhm…”

“...And as you sweep the room~ imagine that the broom—” Winter Weiss’s voice trails off behind you, only to be replaced by a loud gasp.

“Oh no, no, no!” You turn just in time to see him standing stiffly with both hands on his hips, eyes wide in alarm. "Put them in the tub!” he calls.

The squirrels scramble to collect the dirty dishes, piling them up with surprising coordination. The doe hops onto a barrel beside the washbasin and, using her nose, repeatedly pressing a lever to release a trickle of clean water.

You could only stare. Your hands are still holding the first plate you were washing.

As if performing in a synchronized dance, the animals rinse the dishes in the basin, scrub them with their paws and even dry them off with their fluffy tails and put them neatly in little stacks.

Unbeknownst to you, a squirrel casually takes the plate from your hands and finishes the job for you with efficient ease. You just stand there, useless.

Winter Weiss, meanwhile, is still bustling about the room, sweeping and singing as though the entire cottage has become a stage.

You look down at your now-empty hands. “...Why am I even here again?”

Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed your shoulders and spun you around before you could even register what was happening.

Winter Weiss’s face appeared inches from yours, lit up with gleeful excitement.

“Come on, [Name]! Whistle while you work~” he sang out in a playful tone, his voice light and charming. Without warning, he clasped your wrist and twirled you in place with surprising enthusiasm, your feet sliding awkwardly on the old wooden floorboards.

“I—haha—wait, I can’t—” You stumble with a laugh, dizzy from the sudden spin as your balance wavers. The entire room feels like it tilted sideways, and you clutch your head while the world slowly stops turning.

He just laughed, delighted at the sight. “You can’t?” he echoed in mock disbelief, grinning like he’s just heard something completely absurd. “My dear, there’s no such thing as ‘can’t’! All you have to do is make an ‘o’ and blow out through your liiiips~” he sing-songed, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

You braced a hand against a nearby table, finally steadying yourself, though you shoot him an unamused glance. “It’s not that easy,” you grumble, but your voice is softer than your scowl.

“But have you tried?” he asked, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes with playful suspicion. His expression was a mix of challenge and encouragement, like a parent daring a child to try broccoli.

You hesitated for a beat. “...No.”

That was apparently the answer he was waiting for.

“Then try it!” he beamed, triumphant, clapping once before repeating, “Make an ‘o’ and blow out through your lips!”

You stare at him, then around the room—and to your dismay, you notice that a few woodland critters are now watching you expectantly. Their little heads tilted and eyes wide. Great, there's no escaping. You sigh again, more dramatically this time, before finally caving.

You purse your lips into an 'o', gather your breath, and… pfffffff.

Nothing. Not even a faint squeak of a whistle. Just a hollow breath puffed straight through your lips like a lazy gust of wind.

There’s a moment of silence. Then—you hear it. A burst of tiny laughter. Squeaky, high-pitched giggles from somewhere off to your side. You whip your head toward the sound and spot a group of squirrels and rabbits trying—and failing—to stifle their snickers. One of the squirrels is literally rolling over its own tail.

You narrow your eyes, your mouth drawing into a thin line. “Oh, real cute,” you mutter. “Laugh it up, furballs.”

Winter Weiss is laughing too now, though his is a softer kind than these little things! “Hehe… Funny, aren’t they?” he says with a gentle giggle.

You scowl and shoot a dry glare at the animals. “Sure, they're hilarious." Rolling your eyes as your words drip with sarcasm. "Bet they’d also be delicious!”

The laughter immediately stops. The critters freeze, eyes going wide. A squirrel dives behind a flowerpot, and the rest scatter like leaves in the wind.

A gentle tapping on your shoulder draws your attention back, and you find Winter Weiss giving you a look—part amused and... scolding.

“Now, now,” he says with a chuckle, “my dear animal friends, she’s merely joking!”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a sigh escaping as you mutter, “Barely.”

Still, at least someone found your flailing attempts charming even if it wasn’t you.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

“Ah… finally, everything’s clean!” Winter Weiss sighs with satisfaction, spinning lightly on his heel as he surveys the now-tidy cottage. The sunlight filters gently through the small windows, casting a warm glow on the wooden floors that no longer carry a trace of dust or cobwebs.

He clasps his hands together, eyes gleaming. “Well, just in time for lunch, don’t you think? Are you hungry, [Name]?”

At the mere mention of food, your stomach lets out a soft but unmistakable growl. You press a hand to it, a sheepish chuckle escaping your lips. “Hungry doesn’t even begin to cover it… I’m starving.”

And truly, it hits you now—when was the last time you had a proper meal? Back in Aurelio’s tale, all you had were cherries. The only thing that touched your tongue since then was that apple this morning.

“Hmm…” He hums as he begins poking through the little kitchen, opening jars and peeking into cupboards. He mutters to himself, nose wrinkling slightly as he sorts through the supplies. “Let’s see… some flour… oh! A sack of potatoes… a bit of dried rosemary… perhaps a pinch of salt if it hasn’t clumped...”

You plop yourself into one of the small chairs near the table, sinking into it like a hero returning from war—which, to be fair, the cleaning marathon sort of was. Even if the animals did most of the work. You sigh in relief, letting your muscles relax.

Then he lights up with a grin, turning toward you, “Would creamy mashed potatoes be alright, [Name]?”

You nod, lips curling into a smile. “More than alright, that’s perfect.”

Potatoes were a simple pleasure in your world—when you still had a home to return to that is. Even those became rare luxuries when things fell apart. These days, you’ve long stopped being picky. Anything edible is a blessing, just as long as it isn’t moldy, crawling with insects you don't even know exist, or laced with poison.

“Lovely!” he chirps, already gathering ingredients with surprising grace. “You’re welcome to help if you want… but I won’t stop you from just watching.”

He hums a soft tune to himself as he gets to work, peeling one of the potatoes with practiced, gentle strokes. But then something tugs at your thoughts.

“Wait, wait.” You shoot up from your chair and hurry to his side, your brows knitting together. “Winter Weiss—maybe we shouldn’t. I think you're forgetting, someone clearly lives here. Not only did we 'break' in, cleaned their mess, and now you're going to cook too?”

He blinks at you, a bit startled by your sudden seriousness.

You gesture toward the kitchen around you. “Look at this—none of the food is spoiled. The dishes may’ve been piled up for days, sure, but this isn’t the kind of place that's been abandoned for long. Whoever lives here, they’re just… terrible at housekeeping.”

He pauses mid-peel, eyes shifting thoughtfully toward the pantry. “Hmm… maybe they left only recently. But honestly,” he mutters with a wrinkle of his nose, “I can’t imagine anyone tolerating the state this place was in. It was practically a swamp of cobwebs.”

You bite your lip, considering. Of course, he wouldn’t know what you do. That this home belongs to seven very unusual men. You glance at the door, half expecting the dwarves to come marching in at any second.

In the original tale, they adored Snow White instantly—enchanted by her beauty and charmed by her grace. But this time? It could be anything really. Winter Weiss… well, he’s charming in his own right, but that doesn’t guarantee the dwarves will warm up to either of you—especially you—without some complications.

“I just... want to remind you,” you murmur, more to yourself than him.

Winter Weiss offers a soft, understanding smile. “Once they see what we’ve done with the place, maybe they won’t be too upset. And if they return home, we will even have lunch prepared for them!”

And so, you find yourself standing by his side, arms loosely crossed, watching him move through the little kitchen.

He gathers what few ingredients he found earlier and lays them across the wooden counter: a few now peeled potatoes; a pinch of coarse salt stored in a tiny ceramic jar; a block of butter softening in a bowl; and a little pitcher of cream—thick and slightly yellowed from age.

There’s even a small bundle of herbs hanging near the window, tied with string, swaying slightly in the afternoon breeze. He fetches a pot, iron and heavy, and fills it with water using a ladle and a nearby basin. 

You lean a little against the table, arms still folded. You’ve ‘cooked’ before—if one could even call it that. Your version of cooking is little more than survival. Finding wild roots, making fires with spells, roasting meat that was barely gutted right because you were never taught how.

You’d once eaten something that gave you such a bad stomach ache you passed out under a tree for a full day. Pretty much you've been playing a game of 'Can I eat this?' Those days are your stomach's worst nightmare.

There were no cookbooks in the ruins of your mother’s library. No anyone to show you which herbs to boil and which to avoid. Just trial, error, and a lot of stubbornness.

After the pot is filled, he drops the peeled potatoes into it with a soft splash. He carries the pot to the hearth, where a small fire still smolders in the stone oven. It takes a bit of coaxing, but with the help of a few twigs and dry moss the birds found earlier, he brings the fire roaring back to life.

He sets the pot down carefully, using a worn metal hook to hold it above the flame. “We’ll let it boil for a while,” he murmurs. “After that, it’s all about mashing and mixing.”

You nod slowly, eyes still on the fire. You can already smell the earthy warmth of potatoes, mingling with the faint scent of burning wood and the herbs still drying near the window. It’s… homey. A word you haven’t truly felt in years.

You watch the fire flicker beneath the pot, listen to the gentle bubbling of the water, and you wonder what it might’ve been like if you’d grown up like him. In a world where everyone—even fate—is seemingly so kind to you, animals surround you and talk to you instead of learning how to steal, to fight for your life, and die over and over again.

For now though, you sit back down in one of the little chairs and let him handle the cooking.

Eventually, the soft bubbling of the pot over the fire fades into a gentler simmer. Winter Weiss rises from where he’d been humming to himself, dusting flour off his sleeves as he approaches the hearth.

With careful hands, he takes a square of cloth and uses it to lift the pot's lid. A rush of steam curls up and fills the kitchen with a warm, earthy aroma. Even from where you sit, your stomach growls on instinct.

He stirs the pot once with a ladle before scooping out the boiled potatoes into a wooden bowl. The edges of the bowl are chipped and darkened with age, but he handles it with care, as if it’s something treasured.

Then, grabbing a blunt, wide-handled pestle—clearly not meant for mashing but repurposed all the same—he begins pressing the potatoes down in slow, rhythmic motions.

You watch from your spot on one of the tiny chairs, chin propped on your palm. His sleeves are rolled high, forearms dusted with faint specks of flour and soot, and the faint flush on his cheeks from the fire makes him look all the more endearing.

He adds a generous pinch of salt from the jar, drops in a pat of soft, golden butter that begins melting instantly against the warmth, and pours in just a little of the thick cream from earlier. Finally, he crushes a few dried herbs between his fingers—something like rosemary or thyme, you think—and sprinkles them in with a soft breath of satisfaction.

“There,” he says with a smile, lifting the bowl to take a quick taste with the wooden ladle. “Mm! Perfect!” He turns around, picking up two ceramic bowls and gently ladles the creamy mixture into each one.

“All done!” he chirps, carefully holding the bowls with a cloth to shield his hands. He walks over and places one before you with a soft clink. “There you go... made with love, of course.”

You manage a faint laugh, feeling strangely warm at the gesture. “Thanks, Chef Weiss.”

He sits across from you, folding his hands over his lap with a little satisfied sigh. “I hope you like it! I wasn’t sure how creamy to make it, so I just… followed my heart.”

You pick up the wooden spoon resting inside the bowl and take the first bite. It's warm, soft, and buttery—simple, yet comforting in the way only food made by kind hands can be. Your eyes flutter shut just for a second, relishing the taste.

"This is... actually really good!" you admit with a small smile.

He beams, clearly proud of himself. “Really? I’m so glad! I was worried I might have overdone the salt.”

Before you can answer, you hear a soft thump on the wooden table beside you. You glance down—and see a bunny.

A round, snow-furred rabbit has hopped up beside your bowl and is staring at it expectantly, small pink nose twitching. You scowl at it.

“…Seriously?” you mutter, leaning away slightly.

Across from you, Winter Weiss giggles. “Oh, don’t be like that! They helped clean, after all.” He dips his spoon and offers a small bite to a sparrow perched beside him on the edge of his bowl. A few other animals soon approach—two more birds fluttering down from the rafters, a squirrel clambering up the chair leg.

The rabbit inches closer, ears perked up and eyes gleaming with anticipation. You sigh, shaking your head. “Fine, but only a little.”

You scoop up a bit of the mashed potatoes and carefully lower the spoon. The rabbit immediately licks it off and hops in place excitedly, clearly asking for more.

“Hey, no, don't do tha—” You don’t even finish your protest before another rabbit joins. Then a chipmunk. Then a hedgehog somehow climbs up from the chair leg. Oh uh, you're surrounded!

Winter Weiss bursts into laughter as he watches your face twist in helpless disbelief. “They love you now!” he says, covering his mouth with one hand, trying not to let his giggles overflow too loud.

"No they don't... they just want food!" You stare at the table now full of forest critters politely begging for bites of your lunch, glaring at him.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

After managing to finish your lunch and fending off the wave of fluffy woodland beggars, you leaned back with a quiet sigh.

Winter Weiss stood up gracefully, balancing both empty ceramic bowls in his hands. “I’ll take care of these,” he said softly with a cheerful lilt as he walked toward the wash basin.

You glanced toward the kitchen counter and noticed a small bundle of carrots resting in a wicker basket.

Pushing yourself up from the child-sized chair with a quiet grunt, you grabbed one of the carrots and turned toward him, “I’m just going to feed Astor. I’ll be right back.”

“Mhmm,” He hummed in acknowledgment, already rolling up his sleeves as he filled the basin with water and began washing.

Stepping outside, you felt the sunlight hit your face once again—a warm contrast to the cozy shade of the cottage. A soft breeze rustled through the trees, and birds chirped faintly from somewhere overhead.

You turned the corner of the cottage and, as expected, found Astor lounging on the patchy grass, his snow-white coat almost glowing in the afternoon light. The stubborn horse was sprawled out comfortably.

“Hey there...” you drawled, your voice edged with amusement.

Astor’s ears twitched, and the moment he caught the scent of the carrot behind your back, his head perked up like he’d just been summoned. He pushed himself upright in one fluid motion and immediately trotted over to you, snorting eagerly.

But before he could chomp down on the prize, you raised your hand high out of reach.

“Ah, ah—nope. You’re not getting this unless you promise me one thing.”

Astor huffed indignantly through his nostrils.

“I'll give you this if you'll listen when I tell you to do something and no more charging off like a madman.” You frowned, trying to look stern despite the fact you were lecturing a horse.

Astor’s ears drooped slightly, and his head dipped low in a familiar, exaggerated pout. His dark eyes flicked up to yours, then shifted to the side as if to avoid eye contact—a very guilty golden retriever in the body of a stallion.

“Do you understand?” you pressed, raising a brow.

He sighed through his nose in a long, drawn-out grumble… and then nodded.

You couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at your lips. “Good, here...”

You offered him the carrot, and Astor took it gratefully with a soft crunch, his tail flicking contentedly behind him as he chewed.

Watching him eat in peace, your shoulders finally relaxed. You step back inside the cottage. The moment you enter, the warmth of the small wooden home wraps around you like a soft blanket, and you spot Winter Weiss sitting alone at the tiny dining table.

He’s perched delicately in one of the chairs, elbow propped on the tabletop, his cheek resting against the back of his hand.

“Hey,” you murmur, brushing aside a few curious squirrels that had claimed the chair beside him. You sit down, watching his gaze, which seems to be miles away. “You look like you're lost in thought.”

He blinks, his head lifting slightly, startled from his reverie. “Hm? Oh… I—yeah, I suppose I am.” He lets out a sheepish laugh, fingers threading through his soft, raven-black hair as he leans back a little. “Just thinking about my stepmother.”

You pause. There’s an odd twist in your stomach at that name—an uncomfortable knot of dread that settles low and cold. “...Why?” you ask carefully. “I-I mean, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

He turns to you, and the gentle smile that blooms across his lips is so bright, it almost blinds you to the ache buried behind it.

“Why wouldn’t I tell you? We’re friends now, aren’t we? And friends are supposed to tell each other everything!”

He chuckles again, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, before the energy in his shoulders sinks and his voice grows softer. “It’s just… I can’t help but worry. I left the kingdom so suddenly. I bet she’s panicking right now, wondering where I’ve gone.” He hugs himself slightly, arms folding tight across his chest.

You bite the inside of your cheek. The Queen is, in fact, not worried, she’s not pacing the halls of the castle praying for his return. She’s out there right now, sending a huntsman to kill him and creating poisoned apples just for him to be put in eternal sleep.

But instead, you just nod slowly, managing a quiet, “Yeah… maybe.”

He offers you another soft smile, clearly taking comfort in your presence. “I just hope whoever lives here will forgive us for… well, breaking in.” He lets out a nervous chuckle. “And maybe they can help us get back to Kingdom Tabor.”

You hum faintly, eyes drifting toward the small, round windows where golden afternoon light trickles in like honey. “They’ll probably be home soon,” you lie. “We’ll wait for them.”

You glance at him, catching the hopeful glimmer in his eyes. He’s still thinking about her... about the Queen. About the person he believes is his family and you can't help but sigh, leaning back at the small wooden chair.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

With nothing left to do but wait, the two of you ended up lingering at the dining table, the wooden chairs creaking softly beneath your weight. The animals had scurried off to nap or doze in cozy corners, and now only a quiet hush filled the cottage.

You and Winter Weiss resumed the conversation you’d started earlier in the woods. This time, though, the topic shifted from your origins to something a little more wistful—dreams, hopes, the things that seemed so far away.

He spoke first, voice light but sincere.

“I’ve always wanted to see what’s beyond the borders of Kingdom Tabor,” he admitted, a soft glimmer in his amber eyes. “Not just the forests or neighboring towns. I want to go beyond the mountains, past the valleys… all the way to the ocean!” He chuckled faintly. “To see the stars from a different sky... or entirely new world—if it's even possible.”

You smiled faintly at his words—how pure they sounded, untouched by fear or cruelty. “That’s a lovely dream,” you murmured, fiddling with a thread in your sleeve.

When he looked at you with curiosity, you added, “Mine’s a little different, I guess. I just want peace. A life where I’m not… constantly looking over my shoulder or dreading the next day.”

That made him frown softly, his chair inching closer to yours with a slow scrape against the floor. “Is it really that bad?” he asked, voice low, almost a whisper.

You didn’t answer right away. The truth clawed at your throat, but you swallowed it down, replacing it with something gentler—something less real. “It’s not... anything serious,” you said with a soft laugh, waving it off. “Really. Just a bit messy, that's all.”

Still, he gave you a warm, earnest smile that reached all the way to his eyes. “Well, I’m glad you're enjoying yourself now. That’s something, isn’t it?”

You hummed, nodding along as you glance at your book—the one you’d set aside and forgotten for a time and just like that, reality gave you a sharp nudge.

You'd have to hide it before the Queen comes in disguise. You don't know what would happen if characters of the tale happen to touch when it's glowing or worse, if it somehow whisked you away to the next tale before you were ready. You couldn’t risk that happening again.

You're lost in thought when his voice pulled you back to the room.

“Are you really alright?” he asked gently, leaning a bit closer. His gaze searched yours like he was trying to read what you weren’t saying aloud. “You know… you could talk to me.”

His eyes reminded you of Aurelio’s when he went to your side after he saw you cry your eyes out. It made something twist in your chest...

“It’s better when you let it out rather than keeping it only for you to bear…”

Aurelio’s words echoed faintly in your mind, and your shoulders slackened at the memory. But still, you exhaled slowly and shook your head.

“I know,” you murmured. “But I promise I’m fine. And… thank you, Winter Weiss. I mean it.”

He looked at you for a moment longer—clearly not convinced—but eventually gave a small sigh and relented, resting his cheek on his palm again.

“If you say sooo…” he began, but then a yawn cut through his words. He gasped, quickly covering his mouth with both hands, a flush of red blooming across his cheeks. “Oh my! Where are my manners? S-Sorry about that!”

You glanced out the window when he did. The golden light of the setting sun spilled in through the panes, dust motes dancing lazily in its glow. Evening was settling in, and still, the dwarves were nowhere in sight.

“They’re still not home,” he mumbled, stifling another yawn with the back of his hand. “And now I’m getting… a little sleepy.” He turned to you with eyes slightly lidded, “How about you, [Name]? You must be tired too.”

You stretched out your legs beneath the table, feeling the fatigue catch up with you all at once. Your body ached with the weariness of too many sleepless nights, too many worries you couldn’t shake.

Like when is the last time you actually slept? Both tales you 'woke' up but in reality, you didn't felt like you had any sleep at all. So... does that mean you've been at least a day and maybe half awake?

“Yeah,” you murmured, your voice slower than before. “I’m kind of beat myself…”

“Well, why don’t we see what’s upstairs?” He rose from the chair with a slow stretch, arching his back and letting out a small groan. “I don’t think I can keep my eyes open long enough to wait for them to come back—if they’re even coming home at all.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, hesitating.

“Sure,” you finally say, keeping your tone casual. “That’s fine with me.”

As you followed him toward the staircase, you barely got two steps in before the animals stirred from their corners darting between your feet like excited children. You stumbled, trying not to crush a paw or tail, arms flailing slightly for balance. Honestly, these fluffy creatures are going to be the end of you!

He glances over his shoulder with a laugh, already at the top. His eyes gleaming with amusement. “Need help?” he teased, clearly enjoying the sight of your struggle.

You grumbled under your breath but ignored him, brushing past once you reached the top. You pushed open the little wooden door, ducking under the frame as you stepped into the bedroom.

The room is just as small as the rest of the house. Lined up neatly in a row in each corner of the room were seven tiny beds, each one no bigger than a child’s. The light from the setting sun poured through the window, casting warm golden rays across the patchwork quilts.

He peeks over your shoulder before stepping past you, laughing softly at the sight.

“Such peculiar little beds!” he said, voice light with amusement. “Everything’s so tiny—just like the rest of the house!” He paused to glance back at you. “I don’t know if I believe these are children’s beds though. Maybe the people who live here are just… small.”

You bit your tongue to keep from smirking. “That's possible,” you muttered.

He wandered closer to the beds, brushing a hand over the carved names etched into the footboards. “Doc, Happy, Sneezy, Dopey, Grumpy, Bashful, and Sleepy…” he read aloud, grinning. “What whimsical names! Do you think they’re nicknames? Well obviously they are—who would name their child Grumpy or Dopey! Still, those are odd nicknames…”

Before you could share your opinion, he let out a yawn that made his shoulders rise and his eyes flutter briefly shut.

“Mmm… just looking at all these beds is making me sleepier by the second…” he murmured, rubbing at one eye. “When are they coming home?”

You watched him collapse gently into one of the beds—well, four, technically. He stretched himself across Doc, Dopey, Sneezy, and Happy’s mattresses, arms folded beneath his head like a makeshift pillow.

He looked up at you as he speaks, “You should lie down too.”

You hesitated by the door.

“I’ll wait for them,” you offered. “You go ahead and rest the I’ll wake you up when they get back.”

He frowns, sitting up slightly. “Didn’t you say earlier you were tired too?” he asked. “Come on, [Name]. No one lives here, or if they do, they’re off on some grand adventure!”

“I-It’s fine, I’m not that sleepy yet.” You uneasily shifted from your spot.

He sighs, a bit more sharply this time, sitting up completely. “You always say that. That everything’s ‘fine' or it's 'nothing' but I'm no fool—I can tell it’s not. And if you don’t want to tell me what’s really bothering you, that’s alright but don’t pretend it doesn’t exist.”

His words struck something tender inside you, and for a moment, you couldn’t find anything to say. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, shoulders stiffening as your gaze dropped to the floor.

Then his voice softened again. “Come on, [Name]…” he said, patting the small space left on the bed in front of him. “Rest with me. If someone does come home, we’ll explain like we planned.”

Your eyes flicked from his face to the bed. There was only enough room for one person to lie comfortably. He's suggesting you both sleep in the same bed. Though there are still some beds left, three to be exact...

A wave of silent alarm passed over you. He hasn't shown any signs of affection beyond friendly care. He hasn't flirted or touched you without permission. In fact, he refers to you as his friend—proudly even. So, it isn’t… like that.

Right?

You exhaled slowly, gaze flicking back to him.

“What are you waiting for?” he pouted, eyebrows raised. “Don’t make me drag you over here.”

You gave a reluctant smile and rolled your eyes. Internally, you sighed. It's fine... probably. There's no malice behind it... just sleep and nothing more.

…Right?

Although… before you join him, you still have something to take care of.

“There’s no need to drag me—really!” you said quickly, flashing him a sheepish smile as you back toward the door. “I-I just need to grab something first. I’ll be back in a minute!”

You don’t wait for his reply. Turning on your heel, you hurry back downstairs, your footsteps light as they tap against the small wooden steps.

Your eyes scan the room, zeroing in on the one thing you need: the book. You took it, clutching it tightly against your chest, you ascend the stairs again and step back into the bedroom.

He glances up from his nest of pillows and quilts, blinking at you with curiosity. “Huh, it's the book... why'd you get it?” he asks, voice soft and muffled by sleep.

You hesitate, then gesture vaguely to the book as you approach the nearest drawer. “Oh, um… just didn’t want it lying around,” you reply quickly. “Thought I’d tuck it somewhere safe.”

You open the drawer and slide it in. For a second, you think he’ll press further. Instead, he hums thoughtfully and settles deeper into the bundle of beds, letting it go.

You exhale in relief, then glance at the sliver of space beside him. Here goes nothing.

You cross the room with hesitant steps, lying down as delicately as possible—your back facing him, arms stiffly at your sides, and your body as straight as a board.

It’s been so long since you’ve rested on a bed and what makes you even more tense is the fact that he’s right there behind you. Every little movement and the slightest of his breath reminds you that he’s close—too close for your comfort.

You're not used to any of this.

You lie there in the dim light filtering through the small windows, blinking up at the wooden ceiling. You count the beams, listen to the wind outside, and wait. Waiting for your heart to calm. For your mind to stop spinning. For the silence to stop feeling so loud.

Time drips by slowly, like honey from a jar.

Eventually, the room quiets even further. The subtle sound of Winter Weiss’s breathing deepens and evens out behind you. He’s asleep... unlike you.

Your eyes remain wide open like it always does, staring into the quiet dark but there’s something different this time.

You're not laying atop some books, you're entire body aching, or how uncomfortable you are with how cold it could be.

Now, it's all been replaced by warmth and a proper bed. You miss living a life like this... and so, as time slips by more and more, your eyes grow heavier. The haze of sleep pulls at you, gently tugging until you can no longer resist.

Your eyes close shut and you let the darkness consume your consciousness.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

Suddenly, a loud slam jolts you awake.

You flinch, heart skipping a beat, as your eyes snap open to... something white? For a split second, your vision is too fuzzy to process what you’re seeing—until the fabric brushing your nose clears up into the unmistakable softness of a blanket.

You blink in mild confusion.

Oh. The animals must’ve covered you and Winter Weiss while you were asleep. Isn't that sweet.

But that slam—

Your pulse kicks back up. Something's making a ruckus downstairs which means only one thing: the dwarves are home.

You shift slightly, glancing behind you and there he is, Winter Weiss, curled up under the blanket beside you, completely undisturbed. Still sound asleep, soft breaths rising and falling gently against the woven fabric.

You sigh.

Good for him, being able to sleep through literal chaos.

Now, when the dwarves come upstairs and lift this blanket, you’re the first person they’ll see. Not Winter Weiss. And while you don’t expect them to swing a pickaxe at you on sight, you can’t say you’re entirely confident in how they’ll react otherwise.

You scratch the back of your neck uneasily. You could wake Winter Weiss now and just greet them when they enter... buuuut it's so warm and cozy, your limbs have melted into the beds!

You’re finally resting after what feels like a lifetime of running. Maybe that’s why a little part of your gut is whispering, just stay still, wait and hope for the best.

Shifting into a more comfortable position, you close your eyes just pretend you’re still asleep.

Downstairs, the noise only grows—loud thumps, something clattering to the floor, voices rising in muffled squabbles. And through it all, the man beside doesn’t even twitch. He really wasn’t exaggerating about how tired he was.

BANG!

The bedroom door swings open and slams shut again. These guys are not at all sneaky.

Now you know this part. If your memory of the tale serves right, Dopey is the one who the other six dwarves chose to check upstairs and accidentally got locked in.

So... that means he’s in the room with you. Right now.

Your heart is pounding now, thumping loudly in your ears as you feel a shift in the blanket. Someone is tugging on it, revealing just a bit more of your face to the air. You don’t dare move.

Light filters across your eyelids as the blanket lifts slightly, and you hear the softest little gasp.

Footsteps retreat. Then a hushed voice from just outside the room:

"What is it, Dopey?"

Silence.

Then the blanket shifts again, pulled further back this time, until it’s completely off your head. You keep still, barely breathing, pretending to be asleep as best as you can.

A chorus of small gasps follows.

One voice whispers, “Well... i-it’s not a monster!”

Another leans in curiously, asking, “What is it?”

“It… it’s a human,” the first voice answers in awe. “Two of them…”

Then, sharper and grumpier than the others, a new voice cuts in, “How can you be so sure they’re just humans, huh? They could be shapeshifters! Pretending to be people...”

Oh that one is definitely Grumpy, you don't need to see him to confirm it.

“Shh! You’ll wake them up!” another one hisses, trying to keep the peace—which is very much like Doc.

But Grumpy scoffs again, louder this time. “Aw, let ‘em wake up! They don’t belong here anyhow!”

“Look out! He’s movin’!” A sudden, hushed voice gasps from somewhere close—followed by the slight creak of the mattress beneath you.

So now Winter Weiss decides to wake up. Not when the door slammed. Not when voices rose downstairs.

“He’s wakin’ up!” Another, more cheerful voice adds, panic barely hidden behind the whisper.

“What’ll we do?” The first one mutters again, a nervous tremor in his tone.

“Hide!” Doc barks and the room erupts in a scramble of tiny footsteps, the rustling of fabric, and soft thumps as multiple figures disappear behind whatever they can find.

Beside you, Winter Weiss groans softly, stretching his arms as he slowly sits up.

“Ooh dear…” he murmurs, yawning wide. He blinks sleepily, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “What time is it…?” His gaze shifts to the nearby window, but it’s still dark outside—deep, shadowy black. He frowns. “Strange…”

Then his hand brushes your shoulder gently. “... [Name]?” He whispers, voice tinged with uncertainty. “Please wake up... there's something—or somethings in the room…”

You groan quietly, cracking one eye open and glancing at him groggily. “What is it…?”

He doesn’t answer, only points past the bed. Following his gesture, you peer into the gloom, you already know what to see but still, you jolt at the sight of several wide eyes staring right back at you from behind the footboards.

The second your gaze meets theirs, the eyes vanish, retreating behind the frame.

“I-I don’t know... they look like little men?” He whispers beside you, his grip still on your shoulder—tight enough to betray how unsettled he is. Despite his tone trying to remain calm, his nerves are showing.

He clears his throat and tries his best to muster up a welcoming tone. “Uh… hello? Kind men? Are you perhaps… the owners of this cottage?”

There’s a long pause. Then, hesitantly, a small figure peeks over the bedframe—round glasses perched on his nose, fingers fiddling nervously. It's undoubtedly Doc!

“W-Why yes, we are!” he says, voice cracking slightly. He coughs, adjusting his glasses. “This is our home."

Winter Weiss blinks, then quickly glances at you. You give him an encouraging nod, subtly shifting the burden of diplomacy entirely to him. There is no way you’re doing the talking.

He offers a warm, apologetic smile. “Ah… I see.” He sits up straighter. “I truly apologize if we startled you. We meant no harm, I assure you. You see, we lost our way in the forest and stumbled upon this lovely cottage. We were going to wait outside, but it got dark, and… well, we thought it best not to risk the woods after nightfall.”

He lies smoothly on that last bit—more smoothly than you’d expected from someone like him. Seems even sweet, delicate Winter Weiss knows when to bend the truth. After all, the world isn't just plain ol' black and white.

“I hope it’s not too much of an intrusion,” he adds, bowing his head slightly. “We did tidy up, and… borrowed some of your food supplies to prepare a meal.”

There’s a shuffle behind the beds, as though one of the small figures is about and to speak his mind out. But the Doc had seemingly kicked this 'mysterious' dwarf to shut him up.

“It’s… it’s perfectly f-fine!” he says, though he stumbles over the words. “We, uh, we thank you for cleaning the place. It's been, well... some time since it looked this good.” He fidgets, then adds, "W-We offer our thanks!”

Winter Weiss lights up a little, clearly relieved. “It's our pleasure... Ah! But how rude of us not introducing ourselves. I’m Winter Weiss, and this is my friend, [Name]. It’s a lovely meeting you all.”

As soon as the name leaves his mouth, the dwarves collectively gasp.

“The prince?” a nasally voice asks, poking his head out from behind another bedpost. You recognize him instantly—green hat and yellow tunic. That must be Sneezy...? You're not too familiar with the details of their clothes, just the things that makes them... them.

Winter Weiss gives a modest nod.

In a flash, they all look at one another and quickly bow their heads. Even Grumpy, though he does it while muttering under his breath and rolling his eyes so hard they might fall out.

“Your Majesty!” Doc says, doffing his cap in a rush before the rest hurriedly follow.

“Oh—there’s no need for that!” Winter Weiss waves his hands, laughing softly. “I don’t really care for all the formalities.”

They slowly rise, a little stunned by his friendliness.

“Well then…” Doc clears his throat and straightens his glasses again. “I’m Doc. This here’s Grumpy, Sneezy, Sleepy, Bashful, Happy… and that’s Dopey.”

Happy chuckles, gesturing at the last dwarf, who merely smiles. “He don’t talk none.” Dopey nods cheerfully, bouncing in place like he’s proud of it.

But your friend thinks otherwise, blinking blanky at them. “You mean… he can’t talk?”

The joyful dwarve merely shrugs, still grinning. “We don’t really know. He just never tried!”

At that, you glance at the man beside you, whose expression softens. His smile falters a little, just enough to reveal his quiet sympathy for Dopey.

“That’s… unfortunate,” he murmurs gently, his voice low and full of sympathy. “But they say actions speak louder than words.” A warm, encouraging smile stretches across his face.

Dopey blinks at him, tilting his head ever so slightly—much like a curious puppy trying to understand a new sound.

“Who’s they? Why did they say that?” Happy suddenly asks, his bright tone laced with genuine curiosity.

That question catches Winter Weiss off guard. His smile falters just a touch.

“Ah—well, it’s… just a saying,” he stammers, waving his hands around vaguely. “Not someone in particular said it—or maybe someone did—but that’s not really the point!” He’s tripping over his own words now, trying and failing to explain himself to a group of short strangers who live in the woods.

You can’t help but snort quietly at the flustered look on his face. You’ve seen him graceful and gentle—but seeing him wrestle with his own awkwardness? That’s new, and honestly kind of adorable.

“What is important,” he continues, recovering with a breath, “is the message.”

Before anyone else can speak, a sharp voice cuts through the room.

“Enough of this nonsense!” Grumpy’s gruff bark echoes off the wooden walls. He’s standing stiffly, arms crossed, wearing a scowl that practically radiates disapproval. “They broke into our home, didn’t they? Tell ‘em to scram!” He throws a pointed look at Doc, clearly expecting support.

Doc jolts, adjusting his glasses. “Wha—wha—why? But the prince said they meant no harm!”

“And it’s dark out…” Sneezy adds quietly from the back, rubbing his nose.

Winter Weiss clasped his hands together like he’s praying. His expression is one of pure, innocent pleading—the exact same one he used when he asked you to help clean the cottage earlier.

You have no idea how he manages to look so pitiful.

“Please,” he says, voice as sweet as syrup. “Just for the night. We’ll be out first thing in the morning—I promise! And… I can cook dinner for you! If you'd like, of course.”

That offer slaps a sudden hush across the dwarves.

Then, all at once—excluding Grumpy—they exclaim in unison, “Cook?!”

Their eyes are practically sparkling now.

“C-Can you make dupple lumple—uh, lumpkin dapples?” Doc fumbles around the syllables like he’s fighting with a tongue twister. His face twists in frustration as he tries again.

“Apple dumplings,” Sleepy corrects in a tired mumble, barely managing to yawn the words out before slumping against the nearest post.

“Right! Crapple dumpkins!” Doc perks up, nodding rapidly. “That!”

You stifle a laugh as several of the dwarves sigh and shake their heads in exasperation.

“Yes!” Winter Weiss says brightly, hands still folded in front of his chest like he’s making the world’s most charming sales pitch. “I can also make plum pudding, gooseberry pie, and—”

“Gooseberry pie?!” They all repeat—again, except for Grumpy—with so much joy it’s almost ridiculous.

Their little hands shoot into the air, their faces gleaming with glee. “Hooray! They stay!”

You blink slowly. Is that… is that really all it took? Like that did not change?

So long someone knows how to cook, it seems, the dwarves are more than happy to overlook all trespassing crimes. Grumpy is not just grumpy for dramatic flair but because, out of all of them, he's the only one with a grain of reason.

Alas, logic is no match for the promise of a tasty meal.

“Come on! Let’s go!” Bashful waves both hands excitedly, his cheeks tinged a light pink as he gestures for the rest to follow.

The other dwarves are already halfway down the stairs, practically tumbling over one another in their eagerness.

“Already?” Winter Weiss lets out a breathy chuckle, watching them disappear with wide eyes full of amusement.

“Yes, Snow Whi—uh Winter Weiss!” Doc blurts out, fumbling over his words with a sheepish expression as he scrambles after the others.

Huh?

Did you hear him right? Was he about to say Snow White? That must've been a coincidence... but still, it sends a shiver crawling down your spine.

Doc finally scurry out, leaving only one figure remaining upstairs. Grumpy. Standing at the threshold, arms firmly crossed like he’s guarding a vault and not just a flight of stairs. His scowl hasn’t budged an inch since the second you met him. If anything, it’s only deepened.

Winter Weiss stands up and makes his way toward him, but Grumpy steps directly in his path.

“I’ve got my eye on you… both of you,” he growls, giving the prince a hard look before directing a particularly venomous glare your way.

You meet his stare blankly, not even bothering to look intimidated. He harrumphs like an angry old goat and turns on his heel with the grace of someone used to stomping dramatically. His heavy boots thud against the stairs as he disappears below.

The room falls into a quieter stillness. Then, Winter Weiss glances back over his shoulder, his expression half amused, half exasperated. “Well then, are you coming, [Name]?”

You hum and stretch out slightly before pulling the blanket up to your chin with an exaggerated motion. “Eh no thanks, it’s ridiculously comfy here.” You nestle into the beds like a cat refusing to leave its spot.

He raises a brow, planting one hand on his hip in mock scolding. “I can tell. You didn’t even budge when I was talking with seven strange little men hovering around us.” He smirks, tilting his head. "And to think you didn't want to rest in the first place..."

You snort, turning onto your side. “You should go downstairs and keep them from deciding to kick us out!”

He gives you a look before finally nodding. “Hm... fine.” He pauses at the doorway, casting one final glance your way. His tone softens. “Oh, and I didn’t get to say it earlier… but good night, [Name].”

You peek at him from beneath the blanket, your voice a soft mumble. “Mmm... good night to you too.”

And with that, he heads downstairs, leaving you alone in the room. The faint sounds of excited chatter drift up from below as you settle more comfortably into the makeshift bed for a human.

For a moment, you close your eyes and let yourself just be.

Characters & Info
✦ Twisted Tales [Extra]

Other Stories
✦ Divine Voice | Yandere.WHB x M.Reader
✦ My Dearest | Yandere.Alastor x M.Reader
✦ Solunar | Mythical.Yanderes x F.Reader

Chapter Text

꒰ა ACT III: CHAPTER 3 ໒꒱

⋇⊰Scarlet Rain⊱⋇

❥・CW: Blood, violence, slight gore

❥・Word Count: 13.5k

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

“You’re absolutely certain you’ll be fine sleeping down here?” Winter Weiss asks gently, his brows slightly drawn as he surveys the cozy yet cramped living room. His pale fingers hover near the railing, his posture reluctant to leave just yet. “I don’t see anything that even looks remotely comfortable.”

Doc lets out a chuckle, waving off his concern with a casual flick of his hand. “Oh, d-don’t worry about us! We’ll do just fine,” he assures with a crooked smile. Behind him, the other dwarves nod in firm agreement. “Right, men?”

“Yes!” they chorus in ragged unison—though from the corner of the room, Grumpy rolls his eyes so hard it’s a wonder he doesn’t tip over. With arms crossed tight over his chest, he mutters something under his breath. Probably a curse.

Winter Weiss hums quietly, the sound soft and thoughtful. He’s clearly not convinced. There’s a glint of concern in his eyes that lingers as he looks at the mismatched chairs and the single throw blanket tossed haphazardly across a stool. He wants to push more but he already suspect these little men will be stubborn—much like you.

“If you say so,” he murmurs at last, a wry smile tugging at the edge of his lips. He turns toward the staircase, boots brushing gently against the creaky wood. Just before he ascends, he glances over his shoulder. “Good night to you all and sweet dreams.”

“Good night, dear prince!” Happy beams with a cheerful bow, and the rest follow suit—some more enthusiastic than others. Sleepy waves lazily, Bashful ducks his head, and little Dopey nods his head enthusiastically. Even Grumpy manages a grunt that almost sounds polite... maybe.

With one last smile, Winter Weiss disappears up the stairs. The room seems to exhale once he’s gone.

But the peace doesn’t last long.

No sooner has his footstep faded above than the dwarves spring into chaotic motion, each one lunging for the one and only crimson pillow on the floor. Yelling breaks out, arms flail wildly, and elbows jab as they all try to lay claim to it in a flurry of curses and sleepy outrage.

All except Doc.

He stands there with a furrow in his brow, thinking to himself. Something’s been gnawing at him ever since he saw the prince and that strange girl.

“Men?” he calls out calmly, trying to get their attention.

No response. Just continued tugging, shouting, and one very dramatic cry of “It’s mine! I saw it first!”

Doc tries again, louder this time. “Men?”

Still nothing. With a heavy sigh, he straightens his posture, pushes up his glasses again and this time, bellows it.

“Men!”

That does it. Every dwarf freezes and the room falls into stunned silence as all eyes swing to Doc.

He clears as he begins slowly, “Men…” His eyes flickering with uncertainty as he wrings his hands together. “I-I want to ask you something...”

That instantly earns him a few raised brows and tilted heads. He shifts uncomfortably, glancing between each of his fellow dwarves before finally voicing the thought gnawing at the back of his mind.

“Is it just me, or… don’t you feel something strange about those two humans?”

A sharp click of the tongue breaks the moment. Of course, it’s Grumpy, who else would it be. He throws his arms up, practically puffing with exasperation.

“Oooh, I told you, didn’t I!” he snaps, jabbing a thick finger toward no one in particular. “There’s somethin’ off about ‘em! Both of those shapeshifters are upstairs right now, fast asleep. It’s the perfect time to—”

“Now, now, Grumpy, it’s not like that!” Doc interrupts quickly, waving his hands defensively. “It’s not suspicion, exactly. I just…” He pauses, eyes distant, as if he’s trying to catch the edges of a dream he barely remembers.

“I feel like I’ve seen them before. Like I… know them somehow.” His gaze lifts to the stairwell, drawn to the direction where you and Winter Weiss are resting. “Especially the girl. She seems so familiar to me and yet, at the same time, I can’t place her...”

His voice quiets into a sigh, and he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. A beat of silence follows, thick with confusion and something unspoken.

The other dwarves exchange puzzled glances, blinking at him as though unsure what to say.

Sleepy lets out a slow yawn and mumbles, “Maybe you’re just… you know, sleepy. I get all sorts of confused when I’m tired.”

“But you’re always tired,” Happy adds, grinning as if that solves everything.

Doc chuckles weakly, the weight of their logic pushing against his uncertainty. “Yeah… yeah, maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just fired—er, tired. That’s all...”

Still, he doesn’t sound convinced. His eyes linger a moment longer on the stairwell, something tugging at his gut like a whisper he can’t quite hear.

Then Grumpy spins around, his attention snapping to Dopey, who’s clutching the single crimson pillow with glee.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doin’?!” Grumpy barks, stomping over. Dopey flinches and twists around with a wide-eyed, innocent look, tilting his head like a scolded puppy. “That thing’s mine!” Grumpy insists.

“No, it’s not!” Sneezy shouts from the back, voice cracking as he readies for another sneeze.

And just like that, the great battle for the pillow resumes.

Doc is pulled into the fray this time, but even as he shouts half-heartedly and grabs at fabric, his thoughts wander. That lingering, uneasy familiarity with you and Winter Weiss hasn’t left him.

He can’t explain it but it’s there and it bothers him more than he’ll admit.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

Night blanketed Kingdom Tabor in heavy silence, but within the heart of the castle, unrest stirred.

In the dimly lit chamber that held the Magic Mirror, the Queen stood tall and rigid, draped in shadow and spite. Her bone-white fingers clutched a crimson locket. Its surface gleamed faintly in the torchlight, a lock fashioned like a golden heart impaled by an ornate dagger, a morbid trophy meant to cradle Winter Weiss’s heart.

With cruel satisfaction curling at the edge of her lips, she stepped forward, the hem of her gown whisper across the marble floor. Her voice rang with proud finality as she asked something familiar.

“Magic Mirror on the wall,” she began, her voice deceptively smooth, “who now is the fairest of them all?”

She waited—fully expecting her name—to echo back at her. The heart within the locket was supposed to be proof that her rival was no more. But fate, ever so spiteful, had other plans.

The Magic Mirror’s voice resonated like wind through a hollow crypt,  “Over the seven jeweled hills beyond the seventh fall, in the cottage of the seven dwarves dwells Winter Weiss, fairest one of all.”

The Queen’s expression froze, lips parted just slightly, eyes narrowing in disbelief. Her breath caught for only a second before fury overtook her.

“No...” she whispered, almost to herself. “No, that cannot be!”

She stared down at the locket in her palm, her hands trembling not from fear, but from rage. She unlatched the trinket with a sharp snap, exposing the bloodied organ inside.

“Winter Weiss lies dead in the forest!” she snarled, voice rising with each word. “His heart is in this very locket—my faithful huntsman wouldn't dare turn on me!”

The mirror did not waver.

“I only preach the truth, Your Majesty. Winter Weiss still lives, the fairest in the land. ’Tis the heart of a pig you hold in your hand.”

A gasp escaped her lips and the Queen’s eyes darkened, fury rising like bile in her throat. Her grip on the locket faltered for a second as the truth settled in, then tightened with enough force to turn her knuckles ashen.

“The heart of a pig, you say…” she repeated, voice dangerously calm. But her eyes gleamed with the promise of vengeance. “So he dared defy me.” She spoke each syllable like a blade drawn across stone.

Oh, the huntsman would regret this. She would make certain of that.

With a flare of her obsidian drapes, she spun on her heel and stormed from the chamber. The rich train of her gown fanned out like a shadow swallowing light, and her heels echoed with purpose against the stone floor.

She strode through the gilded archway of the throne room, her every step trembling with fury, and dropped herself into the ornate seat of power. She leaned forward slightly, resting her arms on the armrests, her eyes piercing and gleaming with cold steel.

“Bring me the huntsman,” she ordered, her voice as sharp as a dagger and just as lethal. “I don’t care if he’s fast asleep—drag him here if you must and find him if he's not in his home. I want him in this room. Now.”

The guards standing at attention along the walls flinched ever so slightly, but they bowed without hesitation.

“Yes, Your Majesty!” they echoed in unison, though the tremor in their tone was impossible to ignore.

As they scrambled to obey, the Queen watched them go, her fingers curling tighter around the throne’s gilded edge. The ivory of her skin turned ghostly with strain as her fury brewed into something far darker.

.

.

.

The grand doors of the throne room groaned open, breaking the tense stillness that had settled. Boots scuffed against the polished marble floor, and soon the Queen’s gaze flicked toward the source of the commotion.

Dragged between two armored guards was a man—rugged, broad-shouldered, though his strength was diminished beneath the weight of defeat. The Queen recognized him instantly: the huntsman. His clothes were disheveled, his hair damp with sweat, and his expression carved from grim defiance.

A cruel smile curled on the Queen’s lips. She rose from her throne with slow, deliberate grace, each footstep echoing like a countdown as she descended toward the traitor.

"Ah... my loyal huntsman," she purred. “How foolish of you to believe your treachery would slip by me unnoticed.”

She stopped a mere breath away, laying a hand over her chest in mock hurt. “It wounds me... truly. After all the years of service and loyalty. Why?” Her voice softened like honey over poison. “Why betray me now?”

The huntsman, blood at the corner of his mouth and fury burning behind tired eyes, looked up at her with unflinching contempt.

“Because you are no longer my queen,” he spat. “And I will not bow to a creature as monstrous as you!”

He jerked against the guards, trying to stand upright on his own, but their grip tightened, forcing him back to his knees. He turned his face to the nearest soldier, voice heavy with truth.

“She’s no queen. She’s a witch... a plague upon this kingdom!” he stares at the men surrounding her like dogs with golden collars strangling their necks. "Have you looked around? Have you seen how our once mighty kingdom had fallen into ru—"

“Silence!”

The Queen’s voice cracked like a whip, her composure fraying at the edges. She seized the huntsman’s jaw, her nails digging into the stubble of his skin as she forced his face toward her.

“I had such high hopes for you,” she hissed, her eyes gleaming like daggers. “But... all things rot in the end.”

"So should you..." he bites back, the corner of her eyes twitching and her velvet lips falling into a deep scowl at his words.

With a violent flick, she released him, and he slumped forward. As she ascended back to her throne, her voice rang out cold and clear:

“Bring me his heart.”

She seated herself once more, her back straight, and her expression unreadable.

A third guard approached the bound man, stepping in front of him with a blade already unsheathed. The huntsman raised his head to meet the man’s gaze.

“Why?” he asked, his voice raw but calm. “Why are you still following her?”

There was a long pause, then the guard replied quietly, “I sincerely apologize, but I have a family. Children waiting for me at home. I cannot bear the thought of them never seeing me again... alive.”

His words were a dagger of a different sort. The huntsman’s jaw clenched and his eyes dimmed as his reminded of his own family.

“You have one too, don’t you?” the guard asked, though his tone wasn’t unkind. “You should’ve thought of them... before turning on our Queen.”

There was no point in arguing. The huntsman had made his choice long ago. His eyes flicked shut. He drew a breath and did not resist. And then, the chamber was filled with the sound of steel slicing into flesh.

The blade drove deep, twisting under the sternum. Blood spilled, warm and dark, soaking into the huntsman's tunic as he cried out, back arched against the hands restraining him. The guttural scream echoed across the marble walls, but the Queen sat unmoved.

If anything, her lips twitched upward.

“This,” she said, voice smooth as ice, “is what becomes of traitors.” Her gaze swept over the guards still present. “Let this be your lesson.”

The huntsman writhed, bloodied hands reaching for the blade embedded in his chest, but there was no escaping the weight of consequence. The Queen’s words cut deeper than the steel itself.

“And should any of you dare the same—think the same,” she continued, eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction, “know that not just you, but your families may suffer the same fate... if I so desire.”

The air in the chamber turned heavy. The only sound was the ragged, failing breath of the dying man, now slumped against his captors, and the steady drip of blood onto the stone.

The Queen reclined back into her throne, calm and composed as if nothing had transpired at all.

The sound of footsteps echoed against the cold stone floor of the throne room. One of the guards approached the Queen with cautious steps, his hands outstretched, presenting the heart cradled in cloth—its dark, glistening surface still pulsing faintly with lingering warmth.

“Here it is, Your Majesty...” he murmured, bowing low as he extended the offering.

The Queen descended from her throne, her expression unreadable. She accepted the huntsman's heart, freshly torn from his chest and still damp with life.

“Hm...” Her lips curled into a delicate, satisfied smile. “Very well.”

The crimson liquid trickled down her pale fingers like spilled ink on porcelain, soaking into the fine fabric of her sleeves. She did not flinch on the contrary, she seemed to revel in the contrast—the vibrant color staining her ghostly white hands like a work of art.

The huntsman's body lay still and broken, a pool of blood darkening the stone floor beneath him.

The guard, eyes still low, dared to ask, “What would you have us do with the body, my Queen?”

She did not look at him at first. Her attention lingered on the still-warm heart in her palm, her thumb idly tracing over the soft tissue.

“Deliver his head to his family,” she said, her voice silky and detached. “The rest... burn it to ash. Let not even his bones remain. I already have what the fool doesn't deserve...” she hums, tilting the organ, her tone dropping to a mere whisper as she speaks, "Something so serene and pure doesn't belong to someone like he."

The guard stiffened. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

As he turned to bark out the orders, other soldiers moved swiftly, lifting the lifeless body with grim expressions and dragging it from the chamber, leaving behind only the trail of blood and the Queen’s satisfaction.

Still holding the heart, she stepped down from her throne and began walking toward a narrow corridor tucked behind the grand columns. Each step echoed with quiet resolve. The hem of her obsidian gown dragged across the blood-spattered stone, the scent of iron lingering in the air.

Beyond the corridor, she opened a heavy wooden door. The hinges creaked—an old sound she had come to love. A familiar fragrance spilled out: a mixture of formaldehyde, herbs, and decay.

The Chamber of Hearts.

Inside, hundreds of glass jars lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Each contained a heart, suspended in alchemical fluid. Some belonged to traitors while others, to those who had once dared to outshine her in beauty, as judged by the Magic Mirror.

She approached an empty jar already filled with preservation fluid. With a quiet hum, she dropped the heart inside. It floated serenely, its crimson hue catching the flickering light of the lanterns like a jewel lost in wine.

“Another one for my beloved collection,” she whispered, her fingers caressing the glass. Her expression darkened. “And soon... yours will join them, Winter Weiss.”

She turned away, her silhouette sweeping across the flickering room as she descended a spiraling staircase—each step taking her deeper into the palace’s hidden underbelly. Below the Chamber of Hearts was her second sanctuary: the potion room.

This chamber was older than any places above. Dust coated the stones, and cobwebs hung from low beams. But everything still worked. The cauldron was warm, flames licking its underside. Shelves overflowed with bottles, books, bones, and the occasional caged creature twitching or long mummified.

She approached a crooked bookshelf, dragging her fingertips along brittle spines until stopping at a crimson-bound tome. Pulling it free, she placed it atop an old wooden table and flipped it open, pages yellowed with age.

“Now,” she murmured, voice slow and deliberate, “a formula to transform my beauty into wretchedness... my crown into rags...”

She recited aloud as she worked.

“Mummy dust... to wither the skin.” A pinch of grey powder drifted into the bubbling brew, which hissed in response.

“To age the voice... a hag’s cackle.” Her hand reached for a vial, pouring it in. The potion turned a bright almost glowing amber.

“To whiten the hair... a scream of fright.” She uncorked another bottle—milky in appearance—and let it drip into the cauldron.

The liquid roiled, the color turning from amber to deep void. She dipped a ladle into it, pouring a portion into a glass. Holding it up to the dim light, she admired the result.

“For tomorrow morning...” she whispered. “Perfection.”

But something was missing. She turned back to the book, flipping another page until her nail tapped a specific line.

“Ah... one final touch. A special sort of death.” Her smile twisted, eyes gleaming with manic delight. “Sleeping Death.”

She let out a chilling laugh, its echo filling the chamber like the tolling of a funeral bell.

“One taste of the poison... and the victim’s eyes shall close forever... in a slumber without end.” She brought the potion to her lips, inhaling its bitter scent before setting it down gently.

“But what to use it on...?”

She recalled the scene vividly—the way Winter Weiss had smiled so softly and sweetly, as he accepted a bright red apple from a stranger’s hand. No hesitation nor suspicion. Just trust... foolish, innocent trust.

“Ah… such a simple thing,” she murmured, her voice carrying a mocking lilt. “Once it gave you joy…”

She turned toward the bubbling cauldron, the shadows playing across her face in wild patterns.

“…Now it will give you eternal sleep.”

The image played in her mind like a painting in motion—his lips parting to take a bite. Then the moment his knees buckled, the apple slipping from his hand, and his body crumpling to the earth beautifully, she will succeed in her glorious plan.

She exhaled, long and satisfied, relishing the vision like a cherished lullaby. Oh how excited she is for tomorrow morning's event.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

“Wake up…”

The voice is gentle at first, a faint whisper against the peaceful silence of sleep. A hand nudged your shoulder, just barely shaking you. You stirred, letting out a groggy grunt and lazily swatted in the general direction of the disturbance.

“Come on, [Name]…”

This time, the voice is more insistent, the shaking firmer. You mumbled incoherently and stubbornly turned over, wrapping the blanket tighter around yourself like a cocoon.

“Argh… go away…” you grumbled, your voice muffled into the pillow as your grip tightened on the blanket.

A quiet chuckle echoed from nearby, rich with amusement. And then, without warning, the blanket was yanked off you entirely.

“Hey—!” you yelped groggily, eyes blinking open against the morning light as you turn back. Your vision is still hazy, but you could just barely make out a figure in a royal blue tunic and bright yellow trousers.

“Wake up, sleepyheaaad~” Winter Weiss sang with exaggerated cheer, clasping his hands behind his back as he leaned over you. “It’s already almost noon! You missed dinner last night, and I am not letting you skip lunch too.”

His tone's teasing, but his eyes sparkled with warmth as he looked down at you. That alone was enough to snap you out of your sluggish daze.

You sat up quickly, blinking the sleep from your eyes. “I-It’s already near afternoon?” you asked, voice scratchy. He nodded in response, his curls bouncing slightly with the motion.

You ran a hand through your hair, heart skipping. How long have you been asleep? That wasn’t like you... But as your mind caught up, something more important came to the surface.

“…Winter Weiss,” you began slowly, hesitating. “This might sound weird, but… no one else stumbled into the cottage while I was sleeping, right?”

His head tilted at the question, puzzled. “No… the dwarves mentioned last night that no one has ever found this place until us. Why?” Then he added, smiling, “They’ve already left for the mines, by the way.”

You almost let out a breath of relief. "So the Queen hasn’t come yet..." That meant her cursed apple plan hadn’t been set in motion—at least not while you were asleep.

“Nothing,” you replied a little too quickly, shaking your head and mustering a faint smile. “Just wondering...”

Winter Weiss didn’t press further, though his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer. Then he beamed again, motioning toward the door.

“Well, come on,” he said cheerfully. “I made breakfast for you—though at this hour, I suppose it’s brunch... Either way, it’s downstairs and still warm! So don't let it lay around and get cold—I'll be really sad.”

He extended a hand toward you with a soft grin.

You blinked at him before your lips curved upward in return. “Thanks…”

Taking his hand, you allowed him to pull you to your feet. Despite the lingering sleepiness clinging to your limbs, you followed him out of the small bedroom and down the narrow stairs, and a soft scent of something sweet wafting up from the kitchen greeted your nostrils.

Your entire body ached in the most satisfying way as you settled into the small wooden chair by the dining table. A low groan escaped your lips as you eased yourself down, back still heavy with lingering sleep.

“Ugh…” you murmured, stretching your arms out in front of you.

You hadn’t realized how exhausted you were until last night. No wonder you slept like a child lulled to sleep by the soft hum of a lullaby by its parents.

“Sleep well?” Winter Weiss asked, appearing at your side and carefully placing a bowl in front of you.

Wisps of steam curled upward from its surface, carrying a deliciously earthy scent with it. He sat beside you, hands brushing off the dust from his sleeves as he leaned forward on the table.

You smiled sleepily at him. “Felt like heaven.”

Your eyes drifted down to the bowl. It looked hearty, simple, but fragrant and warm in a way that stirred something in your stomach.

“What’s this?” you asked curiously, tilting your head.

“Oh, it’s just some mushroom soup,” he said with a nonchalant shrug, though a hint of pride still gleamed in his voice. He rested his chin against the palm of his hand, watching you with a glint of anticipation in his eyes. “Go ahead, taste it! I want to know what you think.”

You chuckled softly, picking up the carved wooden spoon. You dipped it into the soup, lazily swirling it for a moment as you spoke, “I don’t even need to taste it to know it’s good. The look and smell already tell me everything.”

“Don’t be like that…” he huffed playfully, waving a hand as if brushing away your compliment. “I’m not perfect. I’m still human, you know. I could have messed up. It’s not easy working with the scraps we have here in this tiny cabin.”

There was something endearing about how flustered he became under praise. His cheeks tinted pink, his smile sheepish and unsure, like someone unused to hearing they’ve done well.

You smirked at that, finally bringing the spoon to your lips and blowing gently on the surface before taking a careful sip.

And just like yesterday with those mashed potatoes, this soup is also divine. Smooth, rich, and earthy, it warmed you from the inside out.

“A struggle, huh…” you said slowly, taking another, more eager sip. “If this is what you cook when you’re struggling, I’m kind of scared to know what you’d make when you’re not.”

He laughed, clearly pleased with your reaction. “You’ll see for yourself once we return to Kingdom Tabor,” he said. “Hopefully, my stepmother won’t mind if you stay for a little while.”

Your spoon paused mid-air, and your smile faltered just a little.

Though you quickly regained your composure and hummed in acknowledgment, lips pressing together faintly as the weight of what you knew settled heavily on your chest.

"So, did you ask the dwarves if they know how to get back to Kingdom Tabor?" you ask, glancing up at him between spoonfuls of the still-warm soup.

He gasps, slapping his palm against his forehead. “Ah! Right—I completely forgot!” He lets out a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his head where his soft black curls gleam faintly in the light. “Sorry about that…”

You stifle a chuckle, shaking your head gently. “It’s fine, we can just ask them once they come back later tonight. Then tomorrow, we head out.”

Your smile is meant to reassure, and it works—his eyes light up again, and he nods eagerly in response, clearly grateful you aren’t annoyed.

With that, you return to your meal with the occasional idle conversation filling the silence.

But despite the calm exterior, you can’t relax.

You keep casting your gaze toward the door. Every tick of time feels like it stretches into hours. Every creak of the wood sends a sharp jolt of tension up your spine.

And the moment arrives just as you’re about to answer one of his questions.

Knock! Knock!

You freeze.

Your spoon clatters against the bowl as your heart leaps into your throat. The voice that follows is exactly what you feared.

“Is anyone home…?”

An old woman’s voice.

Your breath catches. Cold dread coils low in your stomach like a snake awakening.

“Huh?” Winter Weiss tilts his head toward the sound, brows furrowed. “I thought the dwarves said no one ever comes here… Maybe it’s not so hidden after all. Let’s check, maybe they need help.”

You manage a small, “Uh huh…” under your breath, barely audible and certainly ignored.

He’s already walking toward the door, and you force yourself up, hesitantly stepping beside him. Your fingers twitch by your sides, every part of you bracing for what you know is waiting beyond that door.

He opens it.

And there she is.

A hunched figure cloaked in a thick, worn shawl. Her skin is sagging and blotched, her features sunken and twisted by age. Her fingers are gnarled like tree roots, curled tight around the handle of a woven basket filled with apples—green and yellow, mostly.

Except for one.

One perfect, gleaming red apple placed right on top.

Your eyes fix on it immediately.

One crimson fruit apart from the rest—easy to track and to pluck. If she had hidden it among similar ones, she might’ve confused herself. Well, it also makes it easier for you to make up a reason to take that.

She blinks at you both, clearly startled for a moment to see you standing beside Winter Weiss.

“Why hello, young ones…” Her voice is more distinct now without the door to muffle it—raspy and frayed with age. “What an adorable little house you have,” she coos.

He gives you a sideways glance, as if unsure how to respond, but he steps forward politely. “Thank you,” he says. “Is there something we can help you with?”

“Oh, yes… yes indeed.” She shifts her basket to one arm and lifts her free hand in a frail, trembling gesture. “I was on my way to Kingdom Tabor, but I seem to have lost my way. Such a pity... Would either of you happen to know which direction it lies?”

Her eyes—round and too bright—lock onto yours. You feel your skin crawl under their weight, as though she’s peering into your very thoughts.

“Ah, unfortunately… we don’t really know where it is,” you cut in, your voice steady but gentle as you step slightly in front of Winter Weiss before he can speak.

His head turns toward you in surprise, but he doesn’t protest.

You keep your tone polite, letting a warm smile touch your lips—one you hope doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “But I do know a trail that might lead you there. I can walk with you for a bit, if you’d like.”

The old woman blinks, then smiles slowly—tight at the edges, almost as if it strains her face to make the expression. “Ah, how very kind of you, dear…” she says, her voice curling around the compliment like thorns wrapped around a flower. “Here—why don’t you take this… as a small thank-you for your kindness?”

She plucks a green apple from the basket and extends it toward you.

You hesitate for only a second before taking it with both hands. It’s still cool from the shade, firm to the touch. “Thank you…” you murmur, your fingers brushing against hers—cold, almost unnaturally so.

Then her attention shifts to Winter Weiss. Her smile deepens.

“And of course, one for you as well, handsome boy.” She plucks a different fruit from the top of the basket—red as blood, its skin almost glowing in the dappled light.

You try not to react, but your throat tightens as you watch him take it with a small, grateful bow.

“I appreciate it,” he says kindly.

“Actually…” you speak up again, forcing a casual laugh as you glance at him. “Mind if we switch?”

He blinks. “Switch?”

You nod, lifting the green apple slightly. “I’ve always liked sweeter apples.”

There’s a pause, a flicker of something sour in the old woman’s expression—so faint, anyone else might miss it. But you don’t. You see how her lips twitch downward for the briefest heartbeat before she forces her smile back in place.

“Oh, sure! I don’t mind anything.” Winter Weiss grins, swapping fruits without hesitation. He doesn’t think anything of it, bless his trusting heart.

“Thanks,” you say, though your hand is now wrapped around a weapon crafted of sweetness and malice. The apple is cold, far colder than it should ever be, even more so than her hand.

You glance back toward the woman, whose dark eyes shine with something you can’t name. “Shall we?”

She gazes at you for a moment—just a beat too long. It takes everything in you not to shift under her scrutiny. You keep your expression neutral, friendly.

Then she nods, slowly. “Yes… we shall."

You step outside with her, clasping her wrinkled, veiny hand in yours. It’s like holding a branch dried by sun and age. However before you could even take another step, something tug at your shoulders.

You glance to see Astor bitting at your sleeve seemingly not wanting you to go. Sighing, you refrain from rolling your eyes as you swat him away. "Let go, Astor." He whines—obviously not wanting to, pulling you lightly away from her.

This is no time for him to act like this, so you're left with no choice but to glare daggers at him.

"What did I tell you?" He huffs, challenging you as he stares right back at your eyes. Though you didn't back down, not long he huffs and slowly he finally lets your sleeve go, backing away with his head dipping to the ground. You turn to her with a shaky smile, "Sorry about that, my horse is just a bit... stubborn you see."

"Ah, it's no trouble at all, dear."

You nod, looking back at Astor before continuing your walk with her.

The forest greets you with its usual quiet rustle. As you lead her along the way to the path—one you remember from when the forest animals guided you and Winter Weiss—you notice something.

A flash of black sails across your vision above the treetops.

You stop. Your gaze lifts toward the canopy just as two massive, coal-colored shapes settle onto the branches overhead.

Vultures.

They perch silently, hunched and watchful like sentinels of death. Their glassy black eyes fix on you, unmoving. These things had always been tied closely with death and are said to always surround the dead.

A chill prickles your skin.

If they're around the living... what does that mean? Are they here because they sense an impending doom? Then who are they for?

The Queen? Winter Weiss? Maybe even one of the dwarves? Or perhaps the reason they're following both of you is because... they're here for you and not her.

You swallow thickly, tearing your gaze away. No... you can’t afford to spiral, especially not now. What you need to focus in is not breaking in front of the Queen and get this thing done for good.

You let out a soft breath of relief when your eyes finally catch the familiar curve of the dirt trail ahead. That anxious lump in your stomach starts to loosen its hold, just a little.

“Here we are,” you murmur gently, your voice deliberately light as you glance over your shoulder.

The Queen offers you a smile but like all the other instances she smiled, it’s empty. Her lips curve, but her eyes are barren, void of any genuine warmth. “Many thanks once more, dear…” she says with syrupy politeness, though the words feel hollow. “May you and that young man back there thrive.”

You match her smile, letting out a small, polite laugh. “Safe journey to you,” you offer, your hand lifting in a casual wave. She returns the nod and finally turns her back to you.

The moment she does, your smile crumbles like cracked porcelain. Your shoulders drop and you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, one that trembles on its way out. At least she’s gone. For now.

But the relief doesn’t last long. She’ll come back., you know that. And when she does… it’s supposed to be the end for her.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the apple.

You don’t want that to happen. As vile and cruel as she might be, she’s still Winter Weiss’ only family in this world plus, someone needs to be a proper ruler for Kingdom Tabor and she's the only capable. There’s a part of you that still hopes… that people can change. That she can.

Maleficent was once painted as the monster too. But in the end, the truth behind her wasn't nearly as dark as the stories made it seem.

You glance down at the apple in your palm. It gleams beneath the sunlight—deep red and deceptively beautiful. You know you can’t just toss it aside. What if a squirrel or a deer finds it? You don’t even know if the poison affects animals, but you’re not going to risk it.

Crouching down, you gently set the apple into the grass. Then, you take a deep breath, drawing the warmth of your magic into your hands. It gathers quickly—familiar and comforting, like the pulse of your own heartbeat. The spell’s name is etched into your very soul by now, as if it had grown roots there after all the times you’ve used it.

Before anything else, you glance around the trees just to be sure. No old woman lurking in the shadows. No sharp eyes watching you. Good.

Your palm opens and aims at the apple.

“Fyria,” you whisper, and a stream of flame dances forth—red and orange like ribbons of living sunlight. It hits the apple and the grass around it, blackening the surface but not fully consuming it. You bite down on your frustration.

Again. This time stronger.

“Fyria!”

The second burst is much more forceful. Your hand burns with power as the flames surge forward, engulfing the apple completely. You stand your ground, watching as it chars and crumbles into ash. You even think you see a faint puff of smoke rise in the shape of a skull before the wind carries it away.

Your shoulders sag. A wave of fatigue presses into your spine.

Spells always comes in bursts, it never flows in a smooth and endless stream. In the end, it did its job and the apple is gone. Nothing left to tempt or to harm. No wandering animal or curious man will take a bite from it now.

You wipe your palm against your clothes and turn back toward the direction of the cottage. Time to head back.

.

.

.

The Queen lingered just off the forest path, her face half-hidden beneath the shadow of her hood. Her fingers curled around the edges of her cloak, and her sharp eyes peered through the branches, narrowed in suspicion.

She hadn't expected to encounter you of all people. She had assumed no one but him to be there—but perhaps the dwarves may be but not a human.

Something about your face tugged at her memory. It wasn't your features exactly, but the feeling—the sense that you'd been present that day.

She didn’t bother remembering irrelevant faces. Still, there was something… off. Something worth keeping an eye on.

“Fyria!”

She froze, her body tense as a drawn bowstring. Her eyes darted toward the woods behind her, where the voice had echoed from. It was your voice but the word… it puzzled her. Foreign to her ears. A spell, maybe? But why?

Her lips thinned as she turned back toward the forest, curiosity overriding caution. Quietly, with the silent grace of a serpent, she crept back into the trees, her worn boots barely disturbing the underbrush.

You were gone by the time she reached the clearing. But what you left behind… now that was interesting.

The grass was scorched in a wide ring, blackened and smoking faintly. And at its center, something misshapen and ruined apple, or what was once an apple.

She crouched beside it, her wrinkled knees cracking faintly, and extended a single gnarled finger. The moment she touched the charred remains, they disintegrated into ash, blowing apart with the slightest breath of wind.

Her lips curled into a slow, fascinated smile.

“Well… now isn’t that interesting,” she murmured, voice low and raspy, like wind scraping through dead leaves.

There was no way a normal human could’ve known that apple was laced with poison. And yet… you had burned it. Not buried it or discarded it but destroyed it with fire. Magic. She recognized the traces immediately. That incantation you cried out—it had power.

A faint glimmer danced in her dark eyes.

Perhaps you weren’t as insignificant as she’d thought.

So... she wasn't the only one capable of wielding power in this lands... You might have sensed the curse in the apple and insisting on replacing the fruit before Winter Weiss could taste its deadly sweetness. Now how that could be? That your magic extend to that as well? Do you know who she truly is?

She slowly rose to her feet, her smile widening, though the frustration of her failed plan still burned beneath her skin.

So you want to save that twat? Hmph...

Perhaps she'd remember you. Perhaps she’d carve out your heart and add it to her collection—no one's ever brought her such surprise before! And certainly, no one with magic of their own...

Her gaze turned toward the direction of the cottage, where laughter likely floated from the windows, unaware of the danger that had just brushed past their lives.

Things were getting complicated… and complicated was delicious. The Queen chuckled under her breath, her crooked silhouette slowly fading back into the woods.

“Yes…” she murmured, “this will be fun.”

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

It feels like ages have passed since the Queen paid her unexpected visit to the cottage. The tension still lingers in your chest, refusing to fade.

Now, the dwarves have returned home, their cheerful voices echoing through the small cottage as they sing and dance without a care. Winter Weiss twirls among them with a soft, delighted laugh, his pale hair catching the firelight like spun silk.

And yet… you don’t move from your spot at the dining table. Your hand taps rhythmically on the wood, faster, then slower—then faster again. A restless motion born of nerves you can't shake. You bite the inside of your cheek.

The Queen is still out there. Somewhere and who knows what she's doing or planning now that you're off of the rails.

Worst case, she’s lingering in the woods, plotting another attempt on Winter Weiss’s life. Best case? She gave up for now and returned to Kingdom Tabor—but that doesn't sound like her, you assume she would want it to be done and over immediately. You sigh, a long exhale that droops your shoulders and dips your head lower.

“Hey, [Name]!” Winter Weiss calls out as he loops his arm around Happy in a warm gesture, the joy in his voice unmistakable. He sways to the music, carefree and full of life. “Come on! Join us!”

“Yeah, [Name]! Join us!” the dwarves echo, all smiling faces and open arms.

You lift your head, a small chuckle escaping, but the smile you force onto your lips doesn’t reach your eyes. “That sounds nice… but I don’t really feel like it.”

The shift in the room is instant. Winter Weiss’s cheerful grin falters into a confused frown. The dwarves’ song slowly dies down into a murmur, like the air has been sucked out of the room.

He gently steps away from the others and makes his way to your side, sitting on the chair beside you to meet your gaze. His hand lands lightly on your shoulder, firm but gentle.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, his tone full of quiet concern. “Is it… that thing you don’t want to talk about?” His chocolate eyes search your face for a clue, anything to help him understand. “Come on, if you want privacy, we can go upstairs. It's clear you can no longer keep holding everything in.”

“I said it’s alright,” you snap, smacking his hand away. The sharpness in your voice catches you both off guard, and a pang of guilt stabs at your chest.

You didn’t mean to lash out, but emotions swell hot and unsteady inside you—anxiety, fear, and anger, mixing into an ugly brew in your heart. And though you've grown in the many cycles you endured, you still quite struggled with controlling your emotions hence affecting your magic as well.

But in all honesty, why can’t he just let it go? Why does he keep pushing? Aurelio was like this too but for some reason, you shared partly of your struggles—it felt like you were obliged to even. Perhaps, if Winter Weiss had a way with animals, the golden prince instead had a way in people's heart.

Or maybe because you have so much more to worry about than his curiosity. The Queen. The book. This entire strange, tangled story that somehow dragged you in like a whirlpool.

Saving Winter Weiss… that was never supposed to be your burden. You're not betrothed to him like you were with Aurelio, so there's no one urging you to save him.

But your foolish heart didn’t get the message. No matter how many times you tell yourself to walk away, it tightens with dread at the thought of letting him die.

“I’m sorry…” you mutter, already standing, avoiding his gaze. “I just… I need to walk.” He shifts like he wants to argue, his lips parting—but you hold up your hand firmly. “Alone."

There’s a pause. A quiet beat that stretches too long. Then he leans back in his chair, sighing quietly.

His voice is resigned when he speaks, “Fine, if that’s how you need to deal with it… then go.”

He turns away, slowly walking back to rejoin the dwarves. The music picks up again, faint and awkward, as though trying to recover from the tension that had just sliced through the cottage.

You hear them whispering—someone asking how you’re doing, if you’re okay.

You shake your head and push yourself away from the table. As your hand reaches for the door, your eyes flicker back toward the firelight and the gathering. Winter Weiss is looking at you—his brows furrowed and his gaze full of unspoken worry.

Your heart twists.

You offer no wave, no smile. Just a deepening frown as you finally step out into the night, letting the door shut quietly behind you.

The cold seeps through your sleeves like tiny needles, sharper than before. The sky is shrouded in a thick curtain of clouds, swallowing any hint of moonlight, making the forest feel endless and unwelcoming.

Thunder rumbles faintly in the distance. The smell of rain hangs heavy in the air, earthy and electric. You walk without aim, your boots pressing into the damp soil, the only sound accompanying your steps the occasional rustle of wind-stirred leaves.

Just before you'd stepped off the cottage porch, you'd paused.

Behind you, a soft huff broke through the quiet. You turned, and there was Astor, lying on the ground just outside the threshold. His ears drooped, and while his face was hard to read without the moonlight, you knew that look—worry, maybe even fear.

“I’ll be back, Astor,” you told him quietly, and then you left, not daring to look back again.

You don’t know where you’re going. You just keep moving forward, trying to shake the heaviness in your chest and the thoughts twisting in your head like thorns. Maybe you'll run into her if she’s still lurking in the woods, this might be your best chance to catch her alone.

And then, as if summoned by your thoughts, you hear the unmistakable crunch of leaves behind you. The sound is deliberate. She’s not even pretending to sneak.

“You…”

The voice that calls out isn’t raspy or aged anymore. It’s smoother now, clearer—deceptively graceful. You spin on your heel, already tense, and your eyes confirm what your instincts screamed.

She’s shed the mask of an old crone. No more hunched back or withered skin. She still wears the tattered black rags and hood, but her face is young and yet there’s something wrong in how perfectly sculpted it looks.

“Du Schlampe!” she spits, and the venom in her voice makes you flinch.

Your brows knit together. “What…?”

“I don’t know how you caught on to my plan,” she snarls, stepping into view with an eerie sort of calm. “If you even knew to begin with. But I’ve realized one thing—”

Her smile stretches wider, one that is meant to mock.

“—you know magic.”

Your blood runs cold. “What are you even talking about? I don’t—I can’t do magic, it’s not re—”

“Cut the act, girl,” she snaps, her voice lowering into a hiss as she stalks closer. You take a step back instinctively. “I saw what you did. That apple… turned to ash as I touched it..”

You stay silent. You didn’t think she’d seen that... maybe it wasn't the best idea to leave the traces.

She tilts her head slowly, studying you like a predator toying with prey. “I’ve read much in my time… but never have I heard of one who wields magic without herbs or runes.” Her eyes drift to your hands, and you unconsciously pull them behind your back.

“That means,” she purrs, “you’ve either made a pact for your power like I… or it’s in your blood.”

Did she just mention she made a pact to wield magic...?

Her mouth twists into something half amused and half contemptuous. “How fortunate for you, if it's the latter. And yet…” Her voice sharpens. “You waste it. On this.”

She throws out a hand, gesturing to the direction of the dwarves’ cottage.

“That boy... why save him? Do you fancy him? Hmm?” Her laugh is short and bitter, and the way it slithers through the air raises goosebumps on your arms. “Is that it? You like him, don’t you?”

“No,” you say, steadying your voice even though your pulse thunders. “It’s not like that. I’m doing what’s right. What should be done.”

The smile drops from her lips, and she narrows her eyes.

“He’s your son,” you continue, unable to stop yourself. “Maybe not by blood, but you raised him. And now you want to kill him? With your own hands?”

“So you do know…” she mutters, more to herself than you. Her fingers twitch slightly, then she straightens and clasps her hands together in front of her. “I have so many questions for you,” she says, grinning again. “But we’re running out of time.”

Something flutters past her shoulder—fast and sharp like a thrown knife. It vanishes into the trees, but you know what it is. A vulture.

You swallow, throat suddenly dry.

The wind began to howl through the trees, thunder murmuring low like a growl in the distance, and thick clouds choked out any trace of moonlight.

Rain pattered lightly at first but quickly escalated, cold droplets seeping through your clothes, sticking them to your skin. The scent of wet earth and something old and rotting filled the forest air.

You asked her.

“And I have a question for you…” The words left your lips slowly. You debated calling her Your Majesty or using her actual name—though truth be told, you weren’t even sure what her name was. In the end, you called her nothing. “Why?”

She tilted her head slightly, like a cat that found something amusing. “Why?” she echoed, laughing softly. Her voice was calm, but with that brittle edge, like a blade wrapped in silk. “Ah, my dear... you wouldn’t understand.”

She began to move in a slow, steady circle around you, like a wolf stalking prey it had already decided to eat. “But if you must know… the boy took the only thing that ever gave me purpose.”

Your brows knitted together, confusion tightening in your chest. “What do you mean by that?”

Her lips curled into something between a sneer and a smirk. “You see, child, in this world, all that matters is your face—your body.” She stopped, arms crossed, looking at you as if you were beneath her. “No matter your status, if you’re beautiful, if you smile and nod at all the right times, everything is handed to you.”

"..."

“Have you ever lost something that meant everything to you?” she asked, her tone almost gentle—almost... human even. “Something you’d do anything to get it back?”

The question hit harder than you expected. Instantly, your mind went to your parents—their execution, the helplessness, and the silence that followed. The ache rose in your throat, and judging by the glint in her eyes, she saw it. She continued without waiting for an answer.

“Then you do understand.”

Still, you clenched your fists and asked, “But would you really go so far as to hurt your own son?”

That made her recoil. Her lip curled in disdain. “He’s not my son,” she spat, sharp and quick like venom.

“But you raised him!” The words burst from you louder than intended. You stepped forward, desperation bleeding into your voice. “You looked after him, didn’t you?”

She was quiet for a long beat. Rain soaked the hem of her hood, water droplets clung to her lashes.

“Yes... I did.” Her voice was almost nostalgic for a fleeting second. “But I’m also the reason he’s an orphan.”

“What…?”

She chuckled darkly, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Oh yes,” she purred, “his mother died from an illness. His father, poor fool, was so consumed by grief he went searching for something to fill the void she left behind. And what did he find?”

She placed a delicate, mockingly sorrowful hand over her heart. “Me. Enchanted by my beauty, he married me. And I…” Her smile turned wicked. “I poisoned him. Much like I'll do to his lovely son. Their quite similar and I would love to make their end the same also~”

Her laughter echoed, brittle and sharp against the thunder that cracked above. Her arms stretched out, as though she welcomed the storm itself.

“If you won’t serve me…” Her voice had changed again—no longer cruelly amused, but cold, purposeful. “Then I’ll have to erase you.” Lighting strikes the ground the very moment she finishes, you're not sure if it's coincidence or on purpose.

You stumbled a step back, your heart hammering against your ribs. Could she actually wield magic? Had she really made some dark pact?

You didn't have time to ask. You could feel your own magic surging in your palms, pulsing with warmth against the cold storm wrapping around you. Light flickered at your fingertips. You lifted your hands and met her gaze.

“Well it’s not going to be that easy!”

The Queen’s grin stretches unnaturally wide, her teeth flashing in the dark as lightning dances like erratic threads around her fingertips. She looks unhinged—drunk on power and obsession, a woman fully swallowed by the vanity she wears like a second skin.

Thunder snarls overhead. Your breath catches in your throat. You didn’t come here expecting a battle—certainly not against her. But now there's no denying it. She's too far gone.

You brace yourself, feet sliding against the slick earth, preparing to counter her magic even if your own light might betray you in this storm. The rain is relentless, soaking your clothes, your hair, everything. It's hard to even see properly, but you won’t let your guard down.

Her hand lifts, electricity crackling between her fingers like something alive—and just as she’s about to strike—

A silver flash cuts through the storm.

Her body jolts, and she gasps. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, drop to the knife now lodged in her chest. She stumbles, staggering backward a step before crumpling to the wet grass. The storm roars above her.

Behind her, standing frozen, is someone you'd never expect to see...

“Winter Weiss…?” you breathe, unsure if your voice even reaches him through the deafening crash of thunder and rain.

His pale hands tremble, still curled as if holding the weight of the act. His eyes are distant, glassy, struggling to process what he’s just done. Behind him, you spot Astor lingering in the shadows, silent.

“Winter Weiss!” you shake yourself out of your own haze and hurry to him, grabbing his hands tightly between yours. They’re cold—colder than the rain. “What are you doing here? Hey look at me,” you urge, cupping his face and tilting it toward you.

“[Name]… I-I…” he stammers, barely audible over the storm. His voice cracks, delicate and broken.

You pull him into a hug, holding him tightly, shielding him as best you can. “It’s okay. You saved me. You did good—”

“No,” he whispers, interrupting you, the word leaving his lips with eerie clarity as he lightly pushes you away.

You blink, confused. “What?”

His gaze shifts to the side—to where the Queen lies sprawled across the grass, barely clinging to life. Her breaths come in wet, rattling gasps. The knife still juts from her chest like an ugly, brutal truth.

Blood mixes with the rain and mud, diluted but still thick, still vibrant. It glistens with each flash of lightning, staining the earth, the leaves—everything.

You move to block his view, hand reaching out. “Don’t look—”

But he bats your hand away.

“Is it true… Mother?” he asks hollowly, his voice stripped of all the warmth and softness you once knew. He had heard it—everything she said to you. Every twisted truth.

You hesitate, then turn to look at her yourself. She stares back through half-lidded eyes, her mouth parting, trying to speak but you don’t hear her. You don’t hear anything...

Red.

It's all you see.

Your stomach lurches, and you stagger back. It’s everywhere. On her chest. Her mouth. The grass. The rain isn’t washing it away—it only makes it spread, glowing under each lightning strike. You can’t breathe nor can you move.

“HOW COULD YOU?!” Winter Weiss’s cry rips through the downpour, dragging you back to the present. "All this time I believed you loved me that you... but it's all in vain!!"

You look at him—his face twisted in anguish, his cheeks streaked with rain and tears. “You’re a cruel… MONSTER!”

Then he rushes toward her before you can stop him. He falls to his knees beside her, grabs the knife still lodged in her chest, and yanks it out with a choked sob.

And then—

He plunges it back in.

Again.

And again.

And again...

He doesn't stop.

Each strike comes with another cry and a sickening squelching as the blade met the flesh.

“I HATE YOU!! I hate you so much! I wish...” His voice breaks, disappearing into the roar of the storm as you, once more, can’t help but stare.

You can’t move—your legs feel as if they’ve fused with the wet, muddy ground, your body frozen in place as your wide eyes stay locked on the grotesque scene unfolding just steps away.

His pale hands are stained red, the knife flashing up and down like a pendulum of fury. But with every strike, something shifts. The face of the Queen—her dark eyes, her pale skin, her bloodied face—blurs and melts into someone else. Someone you know.... someone you lost multiple times.

Your breath catches and your heart stops.

It’s no longer the Queen lying there in the grass.

It’s your mother.

And it’s not Winter Weiss who’s doing this—it’s her. That woman. One of the many who chased you and your mother through the burning town, laughing and cursing your kind, as everything you loved was reduced to ash.

You stagger back, trembling. Your eyes burn with the salt of tears you didn’t know had formed. “No,” you whisper, your voice raw and shaking. “No, this… this isn’t real…”

But the illusion continues to torment you.

Your mother’s bloodied lips part, and she raises a trembling, broken hand toward you. Her eyes are filled with so much pain it cleaves your soul in two. “My love…” she chokes, blood spilling from the corners of her mouth. “Help me…”

You shake your head, stepping back even further as your legs threaten to give out beneath you. “No… you’re not real. It’s a trick. J-Just a trick...”

But your mother's voice pierces you again, desperate and weak, “Please… [Name]... it hurts…” The agony in her voice rips straight through you.

“No!” you shout now, louder, your hands flying to your ears in a vain attempt to shut it all out. “You’re not real! This isn’t real!”

Your breathing comes in fast, shallow gasps, and your mind spins. You’ve endured so much loss and seen death with your own eyes—and you always held on. Always. So why now? Why does it shatters you now?

You whip around, squeezing your eyes shut to block out the vision of your mother’s ruined body, of the woman looming above her, of the blood painting the forest floor.

But even in the dark behind your eyelids, her voice follows you.

“Coward…” she whispers. The word lands like a dagger, right in your chest. “Weak…”

“I'm not...” you breathe out, voice trembling.

“You are,” the voice says again however, it's no longer just your mother’s, but your father’s too. Their tones twist and churn together into something warped and inhuman. “You didn’t save us. You had so many chances. So many! And you still left us behind!”

“Shut up!” you scream, pressing your palms against your ears so hard you think you might break your own skull. “I tried! I did everything I could!”

But even your own cries are drowned out by the voice—now a monstrous blend of all the grief and guilt and pain you buried long ago.

“You did not try hard enough.”

Your hands still clutched over your ears but it was useless. Even with your ears covered, the voice echoed as if it were lodged deep in your chest, vibrating against your bones, whispering through your blood.

You could still hear them and it was tearing you apart.

The doubt creeps in, crawling like thorns around your heart. What if you never tried hard enough? What if you never really gave it your all? Maybe you could have saved them. Maybe if you’d just fought harder, just been stronger, just… something, anything really! 

But you didn't and you aren't. You failed them... you couldn’t even escape your own fate—how could you have changed theirs?

Were you ever really helpless? Or just blind?

The pain wells up and crashes over you like a wave. Ugly, choking sobs escape your throat, raw and unfiltered, and tears burn trails down your rain-slicked face.

“I’m sorry,” you cry out, each word shaking from the weight of guilt in your chest. “I’m so sorry… Mama… Papa… I’m sorry I failed you. I’m sorry I was weak… I’m sorry for everything…”

Something cold and wet brushes against your cheek.

You flinch, gasping, heart thudding wildly in your chest. But when you force your tear-blurred eyes open, blinking through the rain, you see a white figure in front of you.

“...Astor?”

The horse nudges your cheek again, warm breath puffing against your skin as he lowers his head and gestures with his snout—pointing behind you.

You don’t want to look.

You don’t want to see your mother again… or the woman who stabbed her over and over while you stood frozen. But the voices are gone now. And your heart, though still aching, feels just a little bit more grounded. Maybe… just maybe… your mind had found its way back.

With a shaky breath, you turn.

And the sight that greets you—awful as it is—grounds you in reality once more.

Your mother is no longer there. The twisted hallucination is gone. All that’s left is the Queen’s lifeless body, sprawled across the rain-soaked grass. And next to her, on his knees, is Winter Weiss.

He's undone... broken. The knife lies forgotten by his side, slick with blood, and he’s sobbing uncontrollably. His cries are hoarse, almost animalistic, ripped from somewhere deep inside his soul.

You move without thinking. The invisible chains that had held you down finally snap, and you stumble through the mud to drop beside him, wrapping your arms tightly around his trembling form.

“Winter—”

He suddenly surges forward, tackling you into a tight embrace that knocks you backward into the wet earth. You don’t even care about the cold, or the way the mud stains your skin. You just hold him, even as he clings to you with desperation that borders on fear.

“I-I…” His voice cracks as he lifts his face to you. His eyes are red and swollen, cheeks streaked with tears and rain. “I can’t believe it. How could she…? How could she do that…?”

His voice cracks again, and he grips you tighter. “I don’t understand, [Name]... I don’t understand! I never thought she could be so… cruel.”

Then his words fail him completely, and he buries his head against your chest, sobbing anew.

You hold him close, your fingers threading gently into his soaked ebony hair. Nothing else matters—not the storm, not the blood, not even your own lingering pain. All you care about is Winter Weiss and the way his heart has been shattered.

Because you know what it feels like... to have no one by your side to comfort your sorrows and pain.

So you hold him. As tightly as you can. As if, somehow, that could keep him from falling any further.

The storm doesn’t let up, roaring like an angry god above your head, but you know you can’t stay here any longer.

You lower your face beside his, voice low, soft, trembling slightly but firm enough to carry meaning through the pouring rain.

“Come on, Winter Weiss... We need to go back to the cottage. The dwarves must be worried about us.”

At first, he doesn’t answer. Just shivers in your arms, soaked through and stained with sorrow. But then, a quiet hum escapes him and he nods faintly against your shoulder.

When he speaks, his voice is fragile, like any moment it and he will shatter into a million pieces, “You’re right... I want to be far away from this place as possible.”

His words hit you harder than they should. They tremble with a truth too big for someone so gentle.

You nod, even if he can’t see it, and help him to his feet. His slender frame is trembling, whether from the cold, the trauma, or both, you can’t tell. But you’re shaking too. Still, someone has to be strong—and so you grit your teeth and pretend it’s you.

Astor waits quietly nearby, his white coat splashed with mud, steam curling from his nostrils as he exhales. Maybe this is why he looked so tense earlier... like he knew something was coming. You’ll have to ask Winter Weiss or maybe the dwarves—if he can bring himself to talk about it again.

You're just about to climb up behind Winter Weiss on Astor’s back when something cuts through the storm.

["???"]

Someone's... whistling.

And it's not one born from joy or mischief like Winter Weiss’s when you cleaned the cottage together. No, this sound... this one slices through the rain and lightning like a knife, eerie and smooth and far too loud for anything natural.

Your breath catches in your throat, and something... something tugs at your senses, like invisible fingers turning your head. You don’t want to look.

But you do anyway.

At first, all you see is the Queen’s body. Barely human beneath the rain and the black rags. But just behind her... in the shadows of the trees... stands something else.

A wolf.

Not like the ones you’ve heard about in stories. This one is huge. Unnatural so. Its silver coat glimmers faintly even under the dim storm light, and its eyes—golden and cold—lock with yours.

It steps forward, slowly, almost... solemnly. Its gaze flicks down to the Queen’s body.

“Dies ist weder ihr Tod noch ihre Zeit...”

The words are guttural, alien. Deep and echoing like something from the bottom of the world.  The wolf’s head tilts, almost curious. As if it sees through you.

“Wer bist du?”

You stand frozen, unable to understand, but the meaning hangs heavy in the air like mist. That wasn’t just some animal. Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out.

You blink—just once—and it’s gone.

The wolf, the voice, the whistle... gone like smoke. Only the rain remains.

Astor neighs loudly behind you, snapping you back into yourself. You turn, wasting no time in scrambling onto the saddle behind Winter Weiss. You wrap your arms tightly around him, burying your fear into his warmth.

You don’t speak.

You can't after what you just saw.

This time, you’re not sure if what you saw was real or another figment your mind created to torment you.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

The moment you step into the dwarves' cottage, you feel the warmth hit your soaked skin like a soft blanket and along with it, a wave of concern.

“Oh, you’re here!” Happy rushes toward you, his feet pattering loudly against the wooden floor as he eyes Winter Weiss with worry. “What happened out there?”

You glance toward the black-haired prince, his drenched form leaning heavily against your side, then back at Happy.

Your voice is quiet, careful. “It’s… not my story to tell.” You don’t know how much Winter Weiss would want to share, and you're not ready to expose everything either. “Just... get him upstairs. Dry him off.”

Bashful nervously wrings his hands. “W-We don’t got clothes fit for humans…”

“That’s fine,” you reply, gently lowering Winter Weiss into Happy’s arms. “We’ll be heading to Kingdom Tabor tomorrow anyway.”

Grumpy surprises you by stepping in to help. He says nothing, but his frown is noticeably softer tonight. Between him and Happy, they guide Winter Weiss up the stairs with care. The rest of the dwarves hesitate, visibly upset by the mention of your departure.

But right now, you need answers.

“Why don’t the rest of you go help Happy and Grumpy?” you suggest, voice firmer than before. “I need to talk to Doc.”

Everyone looks back at him. He blinks, pointing to himself with a stutter. “M-Me?”

You nod.

Sensing something is off, he clears his throat and gathers himself, then waves at the others. “Go on, go. Listen to the girl—help the poor lad upstairs!”

They don’t need to be told twice, scampering up the steps and leaving you alone with Doc in the dim glow of candlelight. The storm outside still rages, thunder rumbling like distant drums of war.

Doc steps closer, brows furrowed behind his glasses. “You should dry off too, [Name]. You’ll catch a cold if you keep standing around like that.”

“I know,” you mutter as you pull out a chair and sit at their wooden table. “But there’s something else I need to ask first... Something more important.”

Doc follows your lead, sitting across from you, hands clasped nervously on the tabletop. “W-What is it?”

You hesitate, fingers tightening around your damp sleeves. “Have you ever heard… whistling in the woods? And… a strange wolf?”

Doc tilts his head, confusion crossing his features. His puzzled silence makes your stomach knot. If he doesn’t know… maybe it wasn’t real.

“Let me explain better,” you press, voice quieter now. “I saw it. After… someone died. A silver wolf. Its eyes were yellow, and it was just… watching me.”

Doc visibly flinches at the word dead. His voice becomes barely more than a whisper. “You said a wolf…?”

You nod slowly, unsure of what is to come.

He leans in, hands trembling slightly. “I don’t know about whistlin’, but if you saw a wolf after someone passed, then it sounds like… Todeswolf.”

“Todeswolf?” You echo the word, tilting your head.

“Death Wolf,” he says, the words cold and final in the candlelit room. “It gathers the souls of the dead. T-The Grim Reaper, if you will...”

You stare at him, unmoving.

Death. You saw Death. Not metaphorically or some other fancy words. But the Death straight up. That wolf... you wished it was a hallucination.

“Why would it show itself to me?” you whisper. “I’m not… I’m not dead.” At least, you don’t think you are.

“I can’t say for certain.” He shrug, his gaze turns serious. “What exactly happened back there? Grumpy was sick with worry over the two of you.”

Your brows rise in surprise. “He was?”

“Yes! Yes, he was!”

You allow a short, disbelieving laugh to slip from your lips. It’s small, but it feels strange coming from you in a moment like this. “That’s... kind of sweet. But I'm sorry Doc, like I said, I shouldn't be the one talking about it...”

But the moment fades, and you return to another question burning in your mind. “Have you heard anything about vultures? I know they’re tied to death, but do they have any other meanings?”

Doc hums thoughtfully, tapping his finger on his cheek. “Not that I recall. Though vultures only show when someone’s about to die.”

So that explains the vultures you kept seeing near the Queen—sensing her demise before it even happened. But still, that doesn’t answer why Death revealed itself to you.

And… it said something to you, it's just you didn't and still don't understand the words it spoke. You could tell Doc that much… but you don’t, it's not going to be of help anyways if you can't explain what it said. Instead, you keep that part close to your chest.

Some things are better left unsaid.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

Not long after you finished drying off by the hearth, the sound of small feet descending the staircase broke through the crackle of thunder. One by one, the six dwarves emerged from their shared room upstairs—all looking somber.

Sneezy is the one to approach you, rubbing his nose and looking up with puffy, tired eyes.

“He wants to see you, [Name]...” he say softly, voice weighed down by something more than just fatigue.

You glanced at the others, then at Doc—who gave you a gentle, encouraging nod. With a slow breath, you folded the damp towel in your lap and set it aside before heading toward the stairs.

The door creak softly as you duck beneath the frame and step into the bedroom. The air in here is still. Winter Weiss sit hunched on the edge of one of the dwarves’ tiny beds, the blanket crumpled beneath him and his posture sunken. He looked... much smaller than usual.

“Hey…” you murmur, voice soft so as not to startle him. You sit beside him, the bed dipping under your shared weight. “How are you holding up?”

He inhaled shakily. “A little better… I guess.”

His voice is hoarse, almost hollow. You could still hear the remnants of heartbreak in it. After everything that happened... it is hard to imagine he would sound any different.

Then, turning his head slightly, he met your gaze. “And you, [Name]? How are you doing?”

You gave him a small, tired smile. “Overwhelmed, if I’m being honest. But… I’m glad it’s all over now.”

He nods faintly, his hair falling in front of his eyes as he looked away again.

“Yeah, it’s done.” A sniffle slip out as he rub at his nose. “So the man… he was telling the truth all along... I wonder how he’s doing now.” His hands curled into the fabric of his pants. “If she found out what he did…”

You tap your finger absentmindedly against the edge of the mattress, staring down at your hands. “I hope he’s alright... He did the right thing, after all. Karma has a way of catching up—good or bad.”

Winter Weiss let out a soft laugh at that—barely a breath. “[Name]…” You hum in response, tilting your head slightly. “Promise me something…” he whisper, voice trembling again as his eyes—still rimmed with red from earlier tears—pleaded with you. “Promise me you won’t ever leave. That you’ll stay by my side.”

Your heart clench, caught in your throat. This… this is what you feared.

Not just because of what he was asking—but because of how much you want to say yes.

You had already become so close to him. You had laughed with him, cried with him, protected him. You wanted a life outside the tale.

But when you look at him and see a boy who had been betrayed by the person who was supposed to love him. A boy who had taken a life tonight to survive. You cannot bear the thought denying him.

So you smile. Not forced or faked like all the others—but real.

“I promise,” you say gently. “No matter what happens, I’ll be here when you need me.”

His face lit up, like your words had finally let him breathe again. And before you could say another word, he threw his arms around you.

The sudden force of it sent both of you toppling backward onto the beds. His grip around your waist is tight and his face press into your shoulder as if to make sure you wouldn’t vanish.

“Thank you…” he murmur, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek with trembling fingers. Your breath hitched as he lean closer—and for a moment, you thought he might kiss you. But instead, his lips brush the corner of your eye.

“Good night, [Name]… I’m so, so tired. I know you are too.”

He isn't wrong. You were exhausted. Mentally, emotionally… completely spent. But even now, with the storm still rattling the windows and the shadow of the Todeswolf lingering at the edges of your mind, sleep felt far away.

Still, you whisper, “Good night, Winter Weiss.”

He gave a little hum of contentment and gently rest his forehead against yours, his breath steadying, his eyelids fluttering close. You watch him for a few moments, letting the quiet settle around you both. Then, slowly, you let your eyes drift shut, unsure of what dreams—or nightmares—might come.

.

.

.

You're not sure what wakes you first—the faint warmth brushing your cheek, or the sudden orange glow that cuts through the heavy darkness of the room. It’s dim, yet unnatural. The sort of light that doesn’t belong in the middle of the night.

With a tired groan, you shift against the small bed, your body aching with exhaustion as your eyes peel open. For a moment, everything blurs, a pale haze of white consuming your vision. But when it sharpens—your breath catches.

There, standing quietly by the cabinet, is Dopey. His small hands are curled around something familiar. Something dangerous.

Your mother’s book and it’s glowing.

Panic floods your chest like ice water.

“No… no, no, no,” you whisper, voice cracking as you throw the blanket off yourself and leap from the bed. Your feet thud against the wooden floor, your hand stretching out in pure instinct.

“Dopey, don’t—!”

He turns toward you, startled, his eyes wide with innocent confusion—and in the same heartbeat, your outstretched arm begins to shift. The light grows brighter, warping your fingers, your skin, your very form as you're pulled forward.

You barely manage another gasp before the room is gone, devoured by a blinding white flare.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Aurelio hummed quietly to himself as he swept the dust off the wooden windowpane, sunlight streaming through the glass and warming his cheeks. It was like any other morning in the little cottage—birds chirping outside, the distant rustle of the wind teasing the trees.

But today… today was supposed to be special. It was his twenty-second birthday!

He blinked, pausing mid-stroke. “Wait…”

His twenty-second? Or… twenty-third?

That couldn’t be right. Hadn’t he already turned twenty-two? He distinctly remembered… something. A cake, candles, even a suit! A prickling feeling of unease crept up his spine.

Still holding the feathered duster, Aurelio turned and made his way toward the stairs, brushing off the odd sensation. Maybe he was just excited.

Halfway down, he heard their voices—his three godmothers, whispering urgently in the kitchen.

“...but how are we going to get him out of the house?” came Merryweather’s voice.

“Oh, I’ll think of something,” Flora replied with cheerfulness, and the three women laughed together.

Aurelio stopped again, heart skipping. That conversation sounded familiar... His fingers tightened slightly on the handle. Déjà vu was one thing… but this felt wrong.

“So very odd…” he whispered, brushing his knuckles against his temple as if trying to knock clarity loose.

When he reached the bottom, Fauna looked up with surprise, her eyes going wide.

“Sweetbriar! You’re already awake?”

He smiled politely, but it felt stiff, like it had to be pushed through some invisible resistance. “Yes, I am. Good morning to you all three.”

They all greeted him with matching smiles. Something about them now stirred something bitter in his chest.

“What are you dears up to, hm?” he asked casually, though his tone laced with suspicion he hadn’t meant to show.

“W-Well… we, uh, weee…” Flora stammered, her hands fumbling for something.

“We want you to pick some berries!” Merryweather chimed in, too brightly, as if desperate to fill the air with normalcy. She grabs a nearby wicker basket in the process.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. Somehow he expects that very scene to occur.

“I see...” He didn’t let his expression shift. “Before I go, may I ask you something?”

The women exchanged uneasy glances.

“Why, go ahead, dear. What is it?” Flora replied, smiling a little too hard.

He looks down on the floor then finally up at them. “Are you hiding something from me?”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“O-Of course not!” Merryweather laughed shrilly. “We would never hide anything from you!”

“Yes, we always tell you everything,” Fauna added, eyes darting.

He hummed thoughtfully. His mind wanted to believe them. Wanted to trust the ones who raised him. But his heart? It pulsed with the sharp twinge of doubt.

“Alright then…”

“Now go, dear! Pick some wild berries for us!” Flora took the basket from Merryweather and pushed a wicker basket into his arms with haste. “Take your time, but be back before dusk!”

He stared down at the basket, then back at them. Their smiles remained, too wide and too strained.

“…Of course,” he said at last, his voice quiet. And with that, he stepped outside the cabin.

The sunlight felt heavy on his shoulders as he walked deeper into the forest. Something deep inside him whispered... 

"I’ve done this before."

Characters & Info
✦ Twisted Tales [Extra]

Other Stories
✦ Divine Voice | Yandere.WHB x M.Reader
✦ My Dearest | Yandere.Alastor x M.Reader
✦ Solunar | Mythical.Yanderes x F.Reader

Chapter Text

꒰ა SPECIAL CHAPTER ໒꒱

⋇⊰Fairest of All⊱⋇

❥・CW:  Implied prostitution, blood, slight gore

❥・A/N: If you feel uncomfortable with the subjects above [especially the implied prostitution—the act is not written out but the reactions after are and they are not pleasing] then feel free to skip the parts in the "⋆.˚☁️⋆"

❥・Word Count: 10.4k

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

The town of Baden, nestled among the hills and forests of Germany, was small, modest, and often overlooked by nobles and kings alike. Life here was simple, carved from hardship and humility. And in the heart of this humble town lived a girl named Belladonna—young, strikingly beautiful, and no stranger to the sting of poverty.

Though she hailed from a life of struggle, Belladonna's presence was like the bloom of an out-of-season flower.

Her pale skin gleamed beneath the sun like porcelain kissed by morning dew. Dark, nearly black hair cascaded down her back in gentle waves, and her slim figure, graceful in movement, turned heads wherever she walked. But her beauty, a gift of nature, often felt more like a curse.

Each morning, she helped her father with his modest vegetable stall, their only source of income. Her voice would ring across the market square, light and earnest, even as her hands grew raw from labor.

“We have the freshest vegetables here—perfect for the upcoming festival!” Belladonna called out, her smile radiant as she waved toward the wandering crowd.

The response was always the same—men. Far too many men. Young men, old men, married men. They came to her stand with empty baskets and eager eyes, their gazes lingering on far more than her produce.

Women, by contrast, watched her from the corners of the market with narrowed eyes and thinly veiled scorn, whispering amongst themselves like wolves waiting for a stumble.

Belladonna saw it all. She wasn’t naïve. She noticed the stares, the hushed insults, the way the other vendors talked behind cupped hands. But she smiled anyway. She laughed, she thanked each man with graceful poise, even as her stomach twisted in discomfort.

“Thank you so much for buying from us,” she said sweetly, hands folded in front of her, voice as delicate as rose petals.

But behind her smile was a flicker of disgust—revulsion for the way their eyes devoured her. She felt like a prize hog in a butcher’s stall, dressed in ribbons just to make the slaughter prettier.

As the sun began to dip and the market started thinning out, the warm light of dusk cast long shadows across the cobblestones. Belladonna bundled the last of her baskets and slung a worn cloth over her goods, ready to return home.

That was when she bumped into him.

She stumbled slightly from the unexpected impact, turning to face a tall, middle-aged man. His coat was travel-worn, his boots caked in dry mud, and his expression—too familiar in its hunger.

“O-Oh… sorry,” she murmured quickly, stepping to the side in hopes of brushing past him.

But the man didn’t move. Instead, his voice rasped like gravel beneath cartwheels.

“You know, young lady... you could do more with that beauty of yours.”

She froze mid-step, her spine stiffening as she slowly turned to look back at him. The dying light of the sun caught the edge of his face, giving his features a burnt orange glow. His smile was wide and far too knowing.

"What...?” she asked cautiously, her brows tightening.

He took a step forward, looming over her, his shadow stretching out like a stain.

“A lot of men would pay for that," he said with a tilt of the head. "And women? They’d kill to look like you.”

His lips curled into a leer. “I know a place where your looks could feed your whole family... and some as well.”

Her stomach turned, twisting tight with cold revulsion. Her face, once so composed, cracked with clear disgust as she took a sharp step back, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not going to sell my body,” she hissed, her voice low and laced with anger. “I’d rather starve.”

With that, she turned on her heel, the hem of her skirt snapping in the air.

Behind her, the man chuckled—hoarse and careless. “If you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.”

She didn’t look back.

That wasn’t the life she wanted and she swore it never would be.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

The plague came like a thief in the night.

It began with whispers in the neighboring villages, of fevered children and coughing elders, of death-slicked hands and homes left hollow.

The illness struck the frail first, dragging them into bed with wracking coughs and sweating skin, before moving to the strong. And for Belladonna, there was no doubt where its cruel hand would fall: her father.

He had always been a gentle man, kind but frail. Ever since her mother’s departure, he had withered like a vine cut from its root. Though he tried to stay strong for her, there were days he barely rose from bed. So when the coughing began… Belladonna already knew.

She sat at his bedside, her fingers gripping his with desperation, even as his warmth slowly faded. His breaths came in short, shallow bursts, each one raspier than the last. The dim candlelight cast a flickering halo around his sunken face.

“Oh, Father…” She whispered, voice cracking as tears slipped silently down her pale cheeks.

The man stirred with effort, his eyes fluttering half-open, dull and clouded. “My dear Belladonna…” he wheezed, each word a battle. “You shouldn’t be here… You might catch it too.”

“I don’t care!” she cried, her voice suddenly loud in the stillness. She clung to him, arms trembling. “Everyone out there is sick already. It doesn’t matter anymore!”

Her father’s expression twisted into a faint scowl—not of anger, but frustration, sadness. “You’re still young… so many still lie before you,” he croaked, turning his head slightly.

“We’ll get through this,” she said firmly, though her voice wavered. “The vegetables we got this week—they’re still fresh. I know someone will buy them. You’ll see, we just... need time.”

His gaze turned toward the wall, and the silence between them deepened. She saw it then—the quiet surrender in his eyes. He may have given up hope, but she hasn't, their God is a merciful being. He wouldn't take someone like her father.

Wiping her tears with the back of her sleeve, she stood, jaw tight. She couldn’t sit here and wait for death to take him. She had to do something.

Gathering what little goods they still had, she wrapped them in cloth and carried them through the eerily quiet streets toward the market.

But Baden was no longer the place she remembered.

The roads were nearly empty. Shutters were closed. Doors locked tight. Even the air felt different—thicker and heavier, like it, too, carried the weight of grief. Those few who still wandered kept their distance, their eyes hollow, their steps hurried.

She sat quietly behind her stall, mindlessly drumming her fingers on the wooden table, watching as the wind danced through the dust and silence.

Then a shadow fell across her.

She looked up quickly, a flicker of hope flashing in her eyes—only for it to vanish the moment she saw him.

That same man. The one from weeks ago. The one who offered her something vile in exchange for her survival...

Her features darkened into a scowl. “What now…?” she said coldly, her voice clipped like the snap of a blade.

The man leaned in slightly, voice low and smooth, like poison whispered into a cup. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what I told you.”

Her eye twitched. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She wanted nothing more than to claw the smugness off his face—strip it down to bare bone.

He gestured lazily around the barren marketplace. “No one’s buying. No one’s out. And you—” he glanced over her near-empty stall—“you need money. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

He reached into his worn coat and pulled out a weathered envelope, setting it down on her table with a quiet tap.

“There's an address inside,” he murmured. “Go to it and you'll find it there.”

And without another word, he turned and walked away, the crunch of his boots fading into the wind.

She didn’t move a muscle after. She merely stared down at the envelope as though it were a snake coiled on her table, daring her to touch it. Her chest rose and fell slowly, shallow breaths laced with restrained fury.

She didn’t open it.

She didn’t tear it apart, either.

Instead, with a stiff, calculated motion, she picked it up and tossed it into the basket with her day’s meager sellings. She doesn't know why she didn't throw it away when she should... but deep inside, she knows exactly why she kept it.

By the time Belladonna returned home, the sky had turned a murky purple, the last golden traces of daylight swallowed by dusk. The wooden door creaked softly as she stepped inside, and the scent of herbs and sickness hung heavy in the air.

Her father’s breathing echoed faintly from the back room, thin and uneven—like the final notes of a song nearing its end. She dropped her basket by the door and rushed to his bedside.

He was worse.

“Father!” she cried, catching him as he began to cough violently, his frail body shuddering with the effort.

Blood spilled from his mouth and dribbled onto his chin as he tried to speak, and panic surged through her veins like fire. She helped him sit upright, her arms shaking as she reached for a cloth and pressed it gently to his mouth.

“Here, use this... D-Do you need water?” she asked quickly, her voice trembling as her fingers gripped the edge of the mattress with white-knuckled desperation.

But he shook his head, weakly dabbing at his mouth with the cloth. “No... no, thank you, daughter,” he rasped out, each word barely clinging to breath. “But you should really get going.”

She froze. “What? No—”

“Save your strength for tomorrow,” he interrupted, managing a ghost of a smile through the blood. “Let an old man rest, why don’t you?”

Even now, he tried to be lighthearted. To ease her worry. It almost worked—almost.

Belladonna looked down at her hands. She didn’t want to leave him—not when he looked like this. But arguing with him was like yelling at the wall. He could be more stubborn than anyone she knew... even her.

“Alright...” she murmured at last.

She rose slowly, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her eyes lingered on him, memorizing his face, the way his shoulders sagged beneath the blanket, the soft rasp of his breath. “Good night, Father.”

He gave a tired nod, resting the bloodstained cloth on the small wooden cabinet beside the bed. “Goodnight, Bella.”

She closed the door behind her gently, but instead of retreating to her own room, her feet carried her to the small table downstairs. There, inside the basket she had carried all day, was something she had tried hard to forget.

Her fingers found it easily—the envelope.

She held it in her hands, staring at it in the candlelight as her father’s labored breaths echoed softly from above. The memory of that man’s voice curled in her mind like a poisonous serpent:

“You need money."

"..."

"Go to it and you'll find it there.”

She didn’t want this. She didn’t want anything to do with that kind of life. But...

Her grip on the envelope tightened.

She also couldn’t stand to watch her father deteriorate.

Doctors didn’t come cheap—especially for peasants like them. In fact, most of them didn’t come at all unless there was a coin in hand. Her father needed medicine and care from a certified individual. If this man’s words were true, if even just one night could buy a doctor’s attention...

Then maybe... just maybe... it's worth losing a part of her.

With a breath that trembled through her teeth, she tore open the envelope. Inside was a slip of paper with an address scribbled in dark ink.

Her heart sank as she read it—it was close. Just a few streets away, nestled in one of Baden’s older corners. She could go... and return before dawn, before her father even noticed she’d left.

She stood in silence for a moment, still staring at the paper, as if it might change if she looked long enough.

Then, quietly, she folded it, placed it back in the basket, and gathered her cloak. With a final glance toward the upstairs room, she stepped out into the night.

She followed the address scrawled on that crumpled slip of paper until she stood before a secluded building, its crooked frame tucked between two darkened alleyways.

The wooden door in front of her was old, weather-worn, and silent… yet it radiated something ugly. It was the kind of place people avoided mentioning in daylight.

She stared at it for a long while, her breath forming clouds in the cold night air. Her hands were shaking, but not from the cold.

She could still see him—her father—as he lay in bed earlier, coughing blood into a cloth, too weak to sit up on his own. The memory burned behind her eyes, vivid and cruel. He was losing the battle against the plague… and she was losing time.

She clenched her fists and looked down at the ground. "Selling vegetables isn't enough..." she reminded herself. "If I want my father to live another day... I-I must..."

...

She could give up. Turn back. Pretend none of this ever happened.

But what if that meant watching her father waste away before her eyes?

"Just a few nights," she told herself. "Enough to pay for a doctor and I'm done—I'll never come back to this horrid place."

Her heart thudded heavily in her chest as she lifted her hand and knocked—once, then twice—on the door.

Moments passed. Then came the low creak of old hinges, and the door slowly opened.

There he was.

The man from before, dressed in the same worn coat, a grin curling across his face like smoke. “I knew you’d make the right decision,” he drawled, voice like oil.

Belladonna bit down the bile rising in her throat. Her entire body screamed to run, maybe curse him along the way as you do so. But instead, she stepped forward, brushing past him with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“Right…” she muttered through gritted teeth, her voice low and venomous.

He chuckled behind her. “Young lady, you’d do well to fix that little attitude if you want the big pay.”

She stopped briefly, her jaw tightening. Her fists clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms until they stung. But she said nothing.

Without looking back, she moved deeper into the building.

Inside, the air was thick—muggy with the scent of smoke, perfume, sweat, and something... darker. Laughter echoed off the wooden walls, loud and leering. Of course… the eyes.

Dozens of them.

Old men, young men, all turning to look at her the moment she entered. Their gazes roamed over her body like fingers—uninvited, unwanted, and filthy. But it wasn’t just men. There were women too, seated in corners or leaning over balconies above, their expressions sultry, their stares dripping with interest.

Belladonna’s stomach twisted.

She hated this kind of attention even in the daylight—when strangers stared at her too long in the market, when women whispered about her beauty behind jealous smiles. But here, in this place, it was amplified.

She couldn’t ignore it. Not when they were all around her.

Every fiber of her being recoiled.

Still she didn’t turn away.

She kept walking—head high, spine straight—even as her skin crawled beneath her cloak. She kept reminding herself over and over, like a mantra stitched into her bones: "This is for him. This is for Father."

Her mother had left them—abandoned them to fate and filth. Belladonna didn’t even know if she was still alive nor did she have an inkling of care. While her father had stayed. He had raised her, protected her, even as his body failed him.

She wouldn’t let him die.

In fact, she would do anything to keep him alive.

Even... this.

It was a way to repay back his sacrifice, his determination, and pretty much everything he has ever done for her, both the things she was aware of and not.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆

The door groaned open behind her as Belladonna stumbled out into the cold night, the dim lamplight of the brothel spilling briefly over her shoulders before vanishing as the door shut with a heavy thud. She made it only a few paces before doubling over, clutching her mouth with trembling fingers.

Her body shuddered violently, bile rising to her throat like poison, and she nearly collapsed onto the cobblestone street right then and there.

Tears stung the corners of her eyes, hot and threatening to fall, but she gritted her teeth and swallowed them back.

Her other hand, numb with cold and shame, slipped into the pocket of her cloak—and there it was. The weight. The reward. A small pouch bursting with coins, dragging the fabric down against her hip with its unfamiliar heaviness.

Belladonna stared at the ground, heart pounding against her ribs. She felt… filthy. Hollow. But in that moment, she reminded herself why she did it. "This is enough for a doctor's attention... far more."

So she ran.

Through back alleys and frost-lined streets, she made her way home with frantic urgency. The stars above had begun to fade, and a faint silver glow was cresting the rooftops—the first breath of dawn. She had little time—her father would be stirring soon, and he mustn't know.

He was always an early riser, even in sickness but as she rounded a corner, her steps faltered. Her stomach gave out.

She barely made it to the edge of the alley before she collapsed to her knees and retched. Once... then again. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her throat burning, her hands gripping the stone wall to steady herself as wave after wave of nausea rolled through her.

She spat the last of it out and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, her eyes red and glassy. She didn't care how she looked. She just wanted to go home. To crawl under the covers and forget.

But even as she walked, even as the familiarity of her street came into view, her mind remained trapped in that place. The sounds, the stares, the weight of bodies too close. The smell of sweat and perfume and rot. The voices that had murmured in her ear like snakes. It clung to her skin like oil, soaked into her bones.

When she finally stepped inside her house, she moved quietly—like a thief—slipping through the dark halls to her room. She didn’t even take off her cloak. She simply collapsed onto her bed and face down.

She wasn't able to sleep that night... How could she after what she's done tonight?

Her body lay still, but her thoughts wouldn’t stop racing. The shame. The horror. The guilt. They played in loops behind her eyes.

Eventually, the orange light of morning crept into her window, brushing the wooden floor with pale gold. And with it came the birds—singing loud and unbothered, as though the world hadn't changed.

Belladonna groaned and rolled to her side, dragging her pillow over her head in a weak attempt to drown them out.

But no amount of feathers or fabric could smother what she now carried inside her heart.

Belladonna remained motionless for a long while, the coarse linen sheets clinging to her as though they, too, sensed the shame steeped into her skin.

When she finally forced herself to rise, it wasn’t with energy but resignation. Her legs trembled slightly as she stood.

She removed the black cloak, the weight of the coins inside caused the fabric to sag between her fingers as she laid it gently onto the mattress. The metal clinked faintly—reminded her of the price.

Her fingers, numb and trembling, began to undo the buttons of her dress. She peeled it off and changed into another. Her hair, though tangled, was quickly combed into order.

She didn’t dare glance at the mirror across the room. She doesn't want to look at the new reflection staring back into her eyes.

⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆

Her eyes fell shut as she exhaled through her nose. "This is for him." That thought, desperate and clinging, was the only thing keeping her upright.

With quiet steps, she padded toward her father’s room. The air in there always smelled faintly of damp wood and sickness. Her father lay curled beneath worn blankets, his skin pale and thin, his breathing light but steady.

She knelt by his side, wiping sweat from his brow, changing the cloth on his forehead, adjusting his pillow. She did it all without complaint, just as she had for days.

Before she left his side, she paused at the doorway. Her lips pulled into a soft, forced smile as she glanced back at him. “I’ll be back soon, Father,” she said gently. Then Belladonna slipped out.

She couldn’t take him to the doctor right away. The questions would come too quickly, "Where did you get the money? Why didn’t you do this yesterday?" Her father wasn’t naïve. He’d know something was wrong.

Instead of reality, a better story could be told: she had earned it at the market.

She would wait until noon, then return with a tale about an unusually lucky day of sales. That will sound reasonable...

So she went to their usual stand at the edge of the market square, barely a soul around. Morning fog still lingered over the cobblestones, curling around her feet as she called out in a voice that trembled more than it should have. Once more, very few bought.

And still, she remained. Watching the slow sun creep higher, watching the handful of daring townsfolk bustle by. She hoped there would be at least a few more buyers, sure she got the coins to pay what's needed but it's not like that'll last forever. Something... a little more would've helped.

She bit her tongue when she felt herself growing bitter. "No complaints," she reminded herself, over and over. "You got what you needed, didn’t you? You should be grateful and don't ask for more." But gratitude didn’t stop the burning in her throat or the heaviness in her chest.

When the bell tower chimed noon, she decided it was time. She closed the stall, gathered the few remaining goods, and walked home urgently back to her ailing father.

The front door creaked open, she almost forgot to shut it behind her before quickly hurrying down the narrow hallway. Her steps were light but quick. She paused at her father’s door just a second before pushing it open.

“Father!” she called out, voice brimming with strained excitement as she entered the room. It wasn't the full flame of joy, but the fragile echo of it.

Her father flinched faintly at the sudden burst of energy. His frail body, sunken into the worn mattress, trembled with the effort of turning his head. “You're back early,” he murmured, blinking with dull eyes. “What is it?”

She dropped to her knees beside his bed, her hands quickly finding his—still cold, still shaking. She held onto him gently, smoothing her thumbs across his brittle knuckles.

“I’ve gathered enough silver for a doctor,” she said with a hopeful smile that trembled at the corners. “We can finally go now!”

His eyes, though dimmed by sickness, flickered with a kind of quiet surprise. “Would that be... wise?” he asked slowly.

The smile faltered. Her chest tightened, something in her gut twisting, but before she could even form a response, he continued:

“Will we have enough left? For food, and water?”

Her grip on his hand tightened ever so slightly.

“Yes, Father,” she replied, her voice firm yet soft. “More than enough in fact. There was a kind woman at the market. She bought all my stock—said she was preparing for the plague. It was… good fortune.”

Her father's gaze lingered on her face, searching. He didn’t speak right away. She could feel his suspicion, or perhaps just concern, crawling beneath the weight of his stare.

For a split second, she feared he might ask for the truth.

But instead, he looked away. “Keep it, child. Look at me.” He gestured weakly at his thin, trembling body. “You should not waste coin on—”

“I won’t!” Belladonna snapped, the sharpness in her voice surprising even herself. Then, catching it, she took a breath and forced her tone softer. “I won’t waste it. You need help, Father. If there’s no cure yet… then perhaps the doctor can at least ease your pain.”

The room was quiet for a moment.

She looked at him—not as the girl who’d been scared last night, or the one who’d swallowed shame for the sake of silver—but as a daughter. A desperate daughter clinging to the hope that her sacrifice meant something. That the cold touch of that brothel hadn’t been for nothing.

They didn’t have time to argue. Not when his breath had begun to rattle in the mornings.

“Please,” she whispered. “Father... let me try.”

Her father, perhaps sensing that stubborn fire in her, closed his eyes and gave a shallow nod. Belladonna stood slowly, careful not to let him see the storm behind her eyes.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

For the first time in what felt like ages, Belladonna and her ailing father crossed the invisible barrier that separated their world from the other half of Baden—the side nearly untouched by the plague, where gold seemed to cling to every surface and laughter didn’t sound so hollow.

Sunlight shone a little too brightly on the cobbled streets of the rich quarter. Buildings stood tall and proud, their windows spotless, their balconies adorned with fresh flowers.

Noblewomen passed by with their parasols, and men in fine coats strode confidently, their boots polished and steps brisk. The contrast was dizzying. It was as if this side of the kingdom refused to acknowledge the sickness rotting away the other half.

Her shoulders tightened with each passing glance. The rich didn’t hide their stares—thinly veiled sneers and looks of disgust as if poverty were contagious. Her father's frail cough didn’t help matters, drawing even more attention.

But it didn't bother her, she kept her chin up, her gaze focused on the road ahead. She didn’t care about them and she never will.

Eventually, after winding through cleaner alleys and broader streets, they found the doctor’s building. The line outside was long and suffocating. People huddled close, shivering or hunched over, coughing violently into handkerchiefs stained with blood.

She tightened her grip on her father’s arm, only for him to tug lightly at her sleeve. She glanced at him.

“We shouldn’t have come…” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You’ll get sick, being around all these people.”

She exhaled, slow and heavy. “I can handle it, Father,” she murmured, her tone steady but tired. “If I couldn’t, I’d already be as sick as you. But I’m not.”

Her words made him look away. His lips pressed into a thin line, shame or guilt weighing him down as much as the illness in his lungs. He said nothing more.

They moved to join the line. Belladonna stood quietly, tapping the toe of her shoe against the stone ground, her nerves coiling tighter with every groan, every hacking cough around her. The line crept forward agonizingly slow, but eventually, the number of patients ahead of them began to dwindle.

Then, finally, a gruff voice echoed from the doorway.

"Next!”

She didn’t hesitate a beat of second. She inhaled sharply and straightened her back, a spark of determination in her chest.

“Come on,” she said softly, almost dragging her father along as she walked toward the open door.

The scent of herbs and something vaguely metallic immediately hit them square in the face.

The man seated behind the desk was no doubt the doctor, perhaps in his late forties, though time and stress had aged him prematurely. Wisps of gray threaded through his thinning brown hair, and his sharp eyes scanned the pair with veiled disdain.

"Hello, Dr...?" Belladonna began sweetly, her lips curling into a too-wide smile that didn't reach her eyes.

The man adjusted his spine, standing a little straighter, chin slightly raised. “Dr. Heiler,” he replied curtly. “And I assume you’re here for the same reason as the rest of them?”

She gave a small, polite nod, helping her father settle into the empty chair—only for Dr. Heiler to raise a hand, halting her.

“If you cannot afford the treatment,” he began, his voice already laced with judgment, “I do accept jewelry—”

Before he could finish, Belladonna sighed and rolled her eyes before reaching for the coins. With a loud clink, a stack of coins dropped onto the wooden desk. Her fingers drew back slowly, the sound deliberate, her smile now sharper than earlier..

“Would that be enough?” she asked softly, but there was no warmth in her tone.

The doctor blinked, surprised. His gaze flicked from the silver to her pale, unflinching face. “Yes,” he murmured, nodding. “That’ll be more than enough.”

He gestured for her father to sit, and she gently guided him into the chair, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve before sitting beside him.

“Is he experiencing anything beyond the coughing and fatigue?” the doctor asked, reaching for a quill.

She glanced at her father. He gave a weak shake of his head. “As far as I know, that’s all,” she answered, voice steady but tired.

Dr. Heiler made a noise of acknowledgement and bent slightly, retrieving something from beneath the table. A glass bottle emerged in his hand, filled with a dull amber liquid.

“There is no cure,” he said, as if breaking bad news for the hundredth time that day. Belladonna didn’t flinch—of course there wasn’t. Still, she nodded along, keeping up the act.

“But this,” he continued, holding the bottle out to her, “should help ease the coughing. Twice a day, a spoon full. After breakfast and again before sleep.”

She took it carefully, tucking it into her satchel without a word.

“For the fatigue,” he added, “try to make sure he eats more greens... and have him move around a bit each day. Being confined to bed will only make him worse.”

Belladonna nodded again, lips pressing into a polite line. “Thank you,” she said quietly, though even she couldn’t tell if she meant it.

With the precious medicine now tightly gripped in her hands, Belladonna and her father made the long walk back to their side of the kingdom—the poorer, forgotten side where sickness lingered like a shadow.

Each step home felt less burdensome now, as if some invisible weight had finally begun to lift from her shoulders. At least… what she had endured last night did lead to something because all this time she still had her doubts.

She still had a few coins tucked in her, enough to return for more if needed… though she swore silently to herself that she would never return to that wretched place again.

The feel of unfamiliar hands on her body still made her stomach churn...

Once they returned home, she didn’t waste a second. She made lunch, ate together with her father and right after, she spooned the first doses of medicine into her father’s mouth after lunch.

The second dose would follow after dinner. She wouldn’t let him get up—not today at least. The walk had exhausted him already, and she didn’t want him pushing himself any further.

“You’ve done enough, Father,” she murmured gently, brushing his graying hair from his forehead. “Let me do the rest.”

As night finally settled in and all the things needed to be done were accomplished, she retreated to her room. For the first time in weeks—maybe months—her chest felt lighter.

She threw herself onto the lumpy bed, limbs splaying where they landed. The old mattress creaked in protest under her weight. Her lips curled into a rare, genuine smile as she stared up at the cracked ceiling above.

For a moment, she let herself dream.

Maybe things were starting to look up. Maybe they would go back to how they once were. Maybe she could be herself again… before everything went wrong.

She closed her eyes, that small smile still lingering on her face.

Just maybe...

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

It happened again... but it was unlike before.

“FATHER!!”

Belladonna's voice cracked with horror, slicing through the still air like a blade. Her scream echoed through the small wooden cottage.

She stumbled forward, eyes wide with disbelief, as her father hunched over the washbin—his frail body convulsing violently. Blood didn’t just coat his lips now—it spilled in thick, agonizing waves, dark and heavy, splashing into the basin beneath him.

It was worse than before.

She dropped to her knees beside him, trembling hands reaching out instinctively, one placed on his back, the other gripping the edge of the bin to steady herself. Her father’s breaths came in shallow gasps, his once warm skin now ashen and clammy with cold sweat.

“Please… please, just breathe,” she whispered, choking on the words. Her voice was a whisper drenched in panic. She blinked rapidly, tears welling up but refusing to fall.

The medicine Dr. Heiler had given them had run out days ago. And for a while, it had given them hope. Her father had seemed better, coughing less, even smiling again. She had dared to believe things might go back to normal.

But now…

Her eyes fell into the basin. A mistake. Her stomach turned violently at the sight of what floated among the blood—thick, unrecognizable chunks of something no one should be vomiting. Her hand flew to her mouth, bile rising as she gagged. She forced it back down, swallowing the nausea with pure will.

There was no time to be weak.

Once her father had fallen into an exhausted sleep, she ran.

She used what little coin she had left and rushed back to Dr. Heiler. Another bottle. Another sliver of hope.

And for a few weeks... things looked better again.

He wasn’t coughing blood. He was coughing, yes—but it was dry. No ounce of blood was to be seen. She tried to believe again. She wanted so badly to believe.

But false hope is crueler than none at all.

“F-Father…?” Belladonna’s voice trembled as she entered the room, spotting him once again bent over the basin. His entire frame shook with each heave, knuckles white as his fingers clenched the wooden rim.

She dropped beside him, tears already stinging her eyes. “You’re getting worse… you’re getting worse again,” she cried, pressing a hand to his hunched back. "The medicine… i-it’s not working anymore!”

Her father turned his head, barely. His eyes were wet, rimmed with red. His lips were ghost-pale and stained with crimson. Blood clung to his chin in stringy strands, thick with spit.

“It is…” he rasped weakly, barely louder than a whisper. “It is working. I’m just… too weak now. My body… can’t take it…”

She shook her head fiercely, the desperation tightening in her chest like a vice.

“No! No, I’ll go back—I’ll go back to Dr. Heiler," even if it meant another night, "He has to have something stronger, something better—” Her voice caught. “There has to be a way to help you!!”

Her father reached up and gently wiped the corner of his mouth with trembling fingers, smearing away the blood as though it were something mundane. As though it didn’t mean anything.

“You’re only… delaying it, my child,” he said softly. A calm had entered his voice now, as if he’d already accepted the inevitable. “You’ve done more than enough... and I cannot thank you enough for it. Just… please, let me rest…”

"..."

She sat frozen on the floor beside him, her heart cracking open in silence. Her gaze fell on the bottle of medicine nearby—half empty.

There's one thing she inherited from her mother which she is very thankful of... and that was they both had never known how to surrender.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

Belladonna returned to that wretched brothel for her second night, the stale scent of sweat and smoke clinging to the air before she even crossed the threshold.

The moment the heavy door creaked open, the same middle-aged man from before stepped into view. His lips curled into a knowing smirk, his gaze deliberately raking over her in a way that made her skin crawl.

“Well, well… been a while, hasn’t it?” he drawled, his voice thick with mockery. “It starts slow… it always does.”

Her jaw clenched, fury sparking behind her pale eyes. “Why don’t you eat a pile of horse shit and keep that rotting mouth shut, hm?” she hissed, brushing past him without so much as a glance back.

Her steps were sharp and purposeful, though inside her stomach churned.

The medicine Dr. Heiler gave... it was not enough. Once the last drop was gone, his coughing returned with a vengeance, harsher and wetter than before, speckled with blood that turned her stomach.

She could not bear the sight of him gasping for breath, trembling in their small bed, the sickness hollowing his once-warm eyes.

She wanted something that would last—something to stop the coughing, the vomiting of blood, anything to give him relief. Perhaps a cure... a prototype of it had been made! But a part of her knew that was still so far ahead.

.

.

.

⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆

Hours blurred into an endless crawl until the night bled into the faintest traces of dawn. Belladonna leaned heavily against the doorframe of her small rented room, her breath uneven.

Every muscle in her body ached, and the shame felt heavier than the coin purse in her hand. She had thought the first night would be the worst—that her disgust would dull the second time. She had been wrong.

With a groan, she stumbled inside, her legs weak and her head foggy. She collapsed onto the bed without undressing, without washing away the lingering touch of strangers. The thought of lifting herself to rinse off felt impossible.

⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆ ⋆.˚☁️⋆

Exhaustion wrapped around her like a leaden blanket, draining her of all thought save one—tomorrow she would go to Dr. Heiler. Tomorrow she would beg him for something stronger, something that might keep her father alive a little longer. She had no other choice...

So... as she planned, the very next morning she returned, the weight of sleepless hours etched beneath her pale eyes. She had stood in line among the coughing, fever-ridden masses, the stench of sickness and despair thick in the air until finally, she found herself once more before Dr. Heiler.

The doctor looked far more worn than when she had last seen him. His once meticulous posture was slouched, his hands trembling faintly as he sorted through yellowed parchment and vials scattered across his desk.

He barely lifted his gaze when she approached, his voice hoarse and tired, “Na—”

Belladonna cut him off sharply, the urgency in her voice breaking through his weary haze. “I need something stronger, Dr. Heiler.”

Her tone forced him to look at her fully. His tired eyes sharpened with faint irritation and curiosity as he raised a brow. “I assume there is no cure yet, is there?” She added.

He tapped his finger against the desk before letting out a quiet hum, nodding. “You’re right. But…” his voice trailed, carrying both hesitation and faint pride, “I do have a prototype.”

She opened her mouth to press him further, but the doctor lifted one long, bony finger, commanding her silence. His skin was nearly translucent, veins faintly visible beneath the pale surface.

“It is unstable,” he warned, his tone carrying the heavy weight of responsibility. “It may have… unwanted side effects. Do more harm than good.”

But she cared little for caution. Her hands slammed down upon the desk with a desperate crack that startled him into flinching. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her desperation laid bare.

“How much?”

Dr. Heiler leaned back slightly, folding his long fingers together as his sharp eyes studied her face. He did not answer immediately, instead allowing silence to stretch and coil between them like a hungry snake.

“Quite desperate, are we?” His gaze flicked down, scanning her slim frame, her skin free of the telltale blotches of the plague. “It’s not for you… a lover, perhaps?”

Her jaw clenched, her fists tightening at her sides. “My father.”

Something softened in the physician’s expression, just faintly. He hummed again, as though weighing both her answer and the burden behind it.

Slowly, he bent down to rummage through the clutter on his desk before producing a small glass vial filled with liquid the color of tarnished silver. He set it gently before her.

“I rarely sell this,” he murmured, almost to himself. “And when I do, the cost is… much higher. But I understand the yearning to save someone you love.” His voice lowered, and for the first time Belladonna saw something raw flicker in his eyes—a shadow of grief, as though he too once stood where she now did. “I will give it to you for half-price.”

Her eyes widened, shining with a sudden light that had long been dimmed by hopeless nights. “Really?” she breathed, her voice trembling. For the first time in weeks, her heart dared to hope.

“Yes.” He gave a weary sigh. “But remember—only this once.”

She nodded furiously, her dark hair swaying with the motion as she bowed her head over and over in thanks. Gratitude poured from her lips like a prayer. It seemed there was still kindness left in this crumbling, dying world.

When she left the doctor's quarters, the vial was clutched tightly in her hands, held as though it were the most precious jewel.

The price had been steep—far steeper than the medicines she had purchased before—and this was even at half. She could scarcely imagine what the full sum might have been!

Still, she whispered silent prayers into the cold air as she hurried home, her steps quick, her heart burning with fragile hope. If the heavens still listened, if any god remained awake in this forsaken land, then let this medicine be the one..Let it bring her father back from the brink and restore him to the man he once was before the plague had stolen him away.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

She knelt at her father’s bedside, the faint creak of the wooden floorboards beneath her knees lost to the rattling sound of his shallow breaths. The air inside the chamber was heavy, tinged with sickness and herbs that did little to mask the stench of decay.

In her hands, she held a small glass vial of cloudy medicine, its contents catching the dim light of the flickering candle. She leaned forward and spoke gently, her voice quivering despite her effort to sound steady.

“Father… wake up. It’s time for your medicine.” She brushed her hand against his shoulder, nudging him softly as though afraid he might crumble beneath her touch.

The old man stirred, his eyelids dragging open to reveal dull, glassy eyes. A weak moan escaped him as his lips curved faintly. “Bella…?”

Relief rushed through her chest upon hearing his voice, but it was a fleeting comfort. “Hey…” she whispered, helping him sit up against the stack of thin pillows.

His body was frighteningly light, his skin clinging to bone. Seeing him like this carved another crack into her heart. She forced a smile and held up the small bottle.

“Here, Father. It’s a new medicine from Dr. Heiler. He says it’s more… efficient.” Her words faltered at the end, though she swallowed the darker truth—that the concoction was unstable.

Her father’s frail head tilted, his lips pressing together in doubt. He hummed, shaking his head. “My dear… how much did you pay for this? How can you afford it?” His tone was gentle, yet carried a piercing weight.

Belladonna’s heart dropped, but she quickly masked the ache with a strained grin. “It’s not that much. I’ve been selling big in the market—getting lucky, even with the plague.” She tried to keep her voice light, but the tremble in it betrayed her.

For the first time, he did not simply let the lie pass. His clouded eyes fixed on her with sudden sharpness, a rare flame of strength in his dying body. “Belladonna… I am a dying man, but I am no fool.”

Her brows furrowed, her chest tightening under the weight of his gaze. “Father—”

“Where,” he interrupted, voice cracking yet firm, “are you getting all this money?”

Her lips parted, but no words came at first. Panic and shame warred inside her.

“I-It doesn’t matter!” she burst out, the words spilling like a wound torn open. “What matters is that I can afford the medicine for you.”

He turned his face away, his expression weary, resigned. “I’m not taking it.”

The fragile smile on her face crumbled.

“What?” Her voice was a whisper, trembling with disbelief.

“I said… I’m not taking it. Not until I know.”

“Father, please…” Her hands trembled as she set the bottle and spoon down on the small wooden table by the bed. She grasped his frail hands in both of hers, desperate to anchor him to her, desperate to hold onto what little life remained in him.

“I promise you—it’s not anything dangerous, or… revolting.” Her lie burned her tongue, but she pressed on, eyes wide and pleading.

He lowered his gaze to their intertwined hands and noticed how vastly different they were. His were skeletal, mottled with spots of sickness and age, while hers were smooth, youthful, and still full of life. The contrast spoke louder than any words.

He had known the truth for some time—this illness would claim him, and no amount of coin could buy back what fate had taken. Yet his daughter, stubborn and devoted, fought against death itself as though sheer will could change the outcome.

But he... cannot fathom the thought of crushing his daughter's hope.

His lips quivered into a faint, sorrowful smile. “Fine…” he breathed, the word heavy with weariness. “But in the end, Bella, you’re the one lying to yourself.”

With that, he slipped his hands from hers and reached for the bottle, his thin fingers trembling as they closed around it.

Belladonna remained on her knees before him, silent, her gaze hollow.

Weeks had passed and it seemed it was getting better. Her days spent dragging herself to the market with baskets of herbs, fruit, or whatever she could gather.

Unbeknownst to her, her father had been hiding the true extent of his suffering. Whenever she left, his body seized with pain so violent he could hardly breathe, but he swallowed it down and waited for her return with a fragile smile.

The medicine he had been taking had moments of brilliance—he would feel strong much even more so before he caught ill—but the relief was fleeting. Very much like the first medicine he took, only he did not feel the pain after not taking it for a while.

He did not want her to see his agony, not when she already bore so much weight nor did he want to ignite the flame in her eyes.

And so, on that day, Belladonna walked home with weary steps, her sales had been meager but better than before.

She thought of nothing unusual as she clutched the small bottle of medicine and a spoon in her hands.

But the moment she entered his chamber, everything shattered.

The bottle slipped from her fingers, the glass exploding against the wooden floor. Dark liquid spread across the boards, mingling with something far more horrifying.

“FATHER!!”

Her voice ripped through the house, raw and trembling.

It was just like before... only far worse.

There he lay, crumpled on the ground, his body surrounded by a spreading pool of blood. Crimson streaks clung to his mouth and chest, mingling with small, sickening chunks of what his body had rejected.

Belladonna dropped to her knees so hard the shock rattled up her bones, but she felt nothing but panic. Her hands hovered for a moment before she touched him, desperate to turn him over only for the chill of his skin nearly made her recoil.

“No… no, no, no…” Her voice cracked as tears stung her eyes.

She forced him onto his back, clinging to the hope that if she just moved him, if she just begged loud enough, he would respond.

But his face was pale beneath the crimson, his expression slack, his eyes closed to the world forever.

“Father, wake up!” Her words spilled out in gasping sobs, rising higher with each desperate plea. “You can’t—after everything—I did all this for you! Please, don’t leave me!”

Her tears streamed freely now, blurring the horror before her eyes. Her trembling hands cupped his bloodied face as if willing warmth back into his skin. The stench of iron clung to her fingers, to her dress, but she no longer cared.

"I should’ve stayed,” she whispered brokenly, pressing her face against his chest though it was stiff and lifeless. “I should never have left you…”

Her sobs shook her frail body, and the sound of them filled the hollow little room. She clung to him with everything she had, staining herself in his blood, refusing to let go as if her embrace alone could tether him to the world.

But nothing answered her. No breath stirred beneath her ear. No heartbeat echoed in his chest. Perhaps she was dreaming... but the truth was the most cruel thing in existence.

This was no nightmare. It was a cruel, merciless reality and it swallowed her whole. Completely blowing out the flame of her spirit and forever ruining her view of this world.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

His departure tore through Belladonna's heart like a blade, leaving behind an emptiness no medicine, prayer, or tender word could ever hope to fill.

The girl she had once been—the cheerful soul who skipped down crowded markets with laughter on her lips and warmth in her eyes—was gone. That joy had been buried with her father.

Now, what remained of her was a hollow shell wrapped in beauty. Her steps no longer bounced with life but struck the cobblestone with sharp precision, each stride carrying a quiet menace.

People who once smiled at her now turned away, for her gaze was too cold, her presence too heavy.

Even the plague itself had spared her—as if wary of the woman she had become, unwilling to shatter her body as it had his.

She told herself that everything she had done was for him, that it was only right to repay his love and kindness in any way she could.

That was what good children did, wasn’t it? To give back, to honor the sacrifices of their parents? But now he was gone, and the question clawed at her chest:

What purpose remained for her?

It was then the answer formed, bitter and sharp.

If the world had stolen her father because the healers were too costly, because aid had been locked behind doors of wealth, then she would make the rich suffer.

She would bleed them of their treasures as she had bled her body for coins. Let them know her despair. Let them taste her loss.

And she had a weapon—her face, her beauty, her ability to smile sweetly at the right moment, and to play the part of what they wanted her to be. From one velvet bed to another, she let herself be adorned like a prized possession.

When their guard was lowered, when lust blinded them, she slipped their jewels and coins into her grasp. By dawn, she was gone—vanishing into the streets with enough to keep her alive and to climb higher.

She could have stayed, pretended to be a wife to one of them, settled into a life of silk and lies. But the thought sickened her... To be chained to men who looked at her with hunger and nothing else? No. Never.

Her body had been reduced to a commodity once, a sacrifice for her father’s life. But now it was a tool to carve her path toward something greater than survival... toward power.

Belladonna no longer wept at night... nor she prayed for mercy, or the girl who was foolish to believe there was a God to aid them in their darkest times.

She was now a woman seeking vengeance to the deserving. The one who was brave enough to face injustice.

The day when the Queen of Kingdom Tabor passed away was her biggest stepping stone and most probably the last. With the throne’s seat beside the king now empty, the path to ultimate power and wealth lay open before her.

The king, she reasoned, might not immediately seek another wife. Grief was still a heavy cloak around him, and he wore it for all to see.

Yet grief, as Belladonna learned, was a hunger that gnawed until it demanded to be filled—just as the void in her own chest demanded after her father’s death.

A lonely man, no matter how powerful, always longed for warmth. And she… she had mastered the art of appearing to provide it.

By then, her beauty had only ripened further. Her pale skin held the faint glow of ivory, her black hair shone with a dark luster, and her slender frame moved with the grace of a noblewoman.

Gold and jewels she had stolen and sold funded the gowns she now wore, silks dyed in deep, rich colors that spoke of luxury.

Every detail was calculated—her painted lips, her soft curls carefully arranged, even the way her perfume lingered like a whisper of flowers and smoke.

A week after the queen’s death, she crossed into Tabor’s kingdom adorned in her finest attire. Heads turned as she walked with a confident, almost regal stride, her eyes cool yet inviting.

She carried herself as if the very air parted for her. And when she finally entered the royal hall, silence stretched across the chamber, as though the world itself paused to witness her entrance.

The king sat slumped upon his throne, the weight of loss still etched upon his features. His crown felt heavy, his shoulders tired.

Yet when his gaze lifted to Belladonna, a flicker of curiosity broke through his grief. Slowly, he extended his hand, its fingers gleaming with rings.

“Hmm... greetings, my lovely lady,” he said, his voice weary yet tinged with interest. He took her hand, lifting it with surprising gentleness to his lips. His eyes searched hers. “Why is a jewel like you have come here in my palace?”

Belladonna lowered herself into a graceful bow, her movements fluid and precise. “I wished to see you, my King, and offer my condolences for your loss.” Her tone was soft, threaded with sorrow, yet beneath it lay the faintest hint of allure.

The king hummed thoughtfully, his eyes lingering on her face as though trying to memorize it. “My deepest gratitude..." He paused, then added, "May I know your name?”

A slow smile curved her lips, practiced yet dazzling. “Belladonna, Your Highness.”

He mirrored her smile on his grief-lined face albeit weaker. "A fitting name for a woman such as yourself.” She chuckled at that.

Fitting, it was in fact, for it meant beautiful lady all the while, it shares the same name as a little... deceivingly sweet and very poisonous plant.

At those words, something gleamed in his eyes—a spark of interest, fragile but it was there and that was most important.

She had set her snare, and already the king was leaning toward it. She knew, in that moment... that he was hers to capture.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

The bells of Tabor rang loud and proud, echoing across the stony walls of the great cathedral. For though the people still remembered their late queen, today marked the rise of another.

Inside the candlelit hall, incense curled toward the vaulted ceiling like pale ribbons of smoke. Guests whispered among themselves, their gazes drawn to the radiant young woman who stood before the altar.

Belladonna wore a gown of deep ivory silk, its sleeves embroidered with delicate threads of gold. A jeweled circlet rested upon her black hair, which shimmered under the glow of dozens of candles. Her pale complexion and sharp, graceful features gave her an otherworldly beauty—ethereal, almost untouchable.

Yet beneath her composed smile, her heart pulsed like a drum. Every beat reminded her of the power within her grasp. "This is it. I'll avenge your death, Father—for their greediness had inadvertently caused it."

The King of Tabor stood opposite her. Wearing ceremonial robes of crimson and sable, heavy with fur and embroidered crests. 

The priest’s voice then cut through the air, solemn and steady.

“Do you, your Majesty, take this woman, Belladonna, to be your lawful wife? To love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, until death parts you?”

The King’s answer came without hesitation. His voice was rich, steady, and filled with an eagerness that revealed just how thoroughly Belladonna’s beauty had ensnared him.

“I do.”

The priest turned his gaze to her, his aged eyes lingering on her pale face as if trying to read the truth behind her poised smile.

“And do you, Belladonna, take this man, His Majesty the King of Tabor, to be your lawful husband? To love him, honor him, obey him, and keep him, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

Her lips curved into the softest smile, her eyes gleamed with a spark that was sharper than devotion. She inclined her head, voice smooth as silk.

“I do.”

The priest raised his hands, blessing the union with words of scripture and finality. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. You may now seal your vows... with a kiss.”

The King stepped forward with reverence, his hand cupping her cheek as though she were something precious and fragile. Belladonna tilted her chin upward gracefully, allowing the kiss to brush her lips. Within her chest, her heart exulted not in love, but in triumph.

The hall erupted into applause and cheers, echoing through the grand chamber. Bells rang once more, this time in celebration.

Belladonna kept her hand within her husband’s, raising her chin with quiet pride. The weight of the crown was already upon her shoulders, and she welcomed it.

She was no longer the grieving daughter of a poor man. No longer the forgotten beauty wandering in shadows.

She was Belladonna, Queen of Tabor.

And unlike the one before her, she vowed she would leave a mark so deep upon this world that no time, no memory, and no story would ever erase it.

Well... the former queen did leave something behind, a son—an heir to the throne—only four years of age. His name was... Winter Weiss.

She often found herself studying the boy when the opportunity presented itself, and on this day, she lingered over him with a curious hum.

She was never quite fond of children or imagining herself ever having one. In fact, all those years, she never bore fruit from any of the men she slept with. Most women would mourn at this; husbands calling them names—even burning them—or find anew; but for her, it was a blessing.

He gazed up at her, his round brown eyes wide and unguarded, the kind of innocence that did not yet understand the shadows of the world.

A strange pang coursed through her chest—an emotion she despised admitting. He was beautiful, painfully so, with his pale skin and delicate features.

She could already imagine the years ahead, how his face might grow into a loveliness that could surpass her own. That thought, sharp and poisonous, stirred an ugly seed of envy that she tried to crush beneath her usual composure.

Beauty was what gave her power and this throne... it was her. Losing it... it was like losing your soul, your purpose.

“Such a fragile thing you are…” she whispered, the words slipping past her lips almost unconsciously.

Winter Weiss tilted his small head, his curls shifting as confusion danced in his gaze.

“Hmm? What?” he mumbled softly, fiddling with his chubby fingers as though her words were no more than a breeze passing him by.

Belladonna lowered her eyes, a thin smile curving her mouth.

“The world will eat you alive with looks like yours, boy,” she murmured, her tone both cruel and tender, a secret warning wrapped in disdain.

He blinked, uncomprehending. For him, cruelty was still an abstract thing, no more than a word he had heard from others, never yet felt upon his skin.

Her voice softened, though her thoughts remained venomous. “Soon you will understand… just how merciless people can be.”

She could have ended it then—silence the threat before it ever grew. But for now, the thought of removing the boy entirely was not only reckless but impractical.

His disappearance would cause an uproar in the kingdom, suspicion would fall, and her carefully woven image would unravel.

Moreover, she pitied him, in a way. To be born with beauty was a curse, a tool for others to exploit, a weapon too heavy for fragile hands. She used it for herself, but how can she be certain he can do the same?

Her lips brushed against the rim of a goblet, painted red with wine.

She drank deeply, savoring the bitterness on her tongue before whispering almost wistfully, “Do not worry, little prince. I will avenge this kingdom for all it has done to fragile people like you… and like I once was.”

But then her gaze hardened. “Your father, however…” Her fingers traced the cup, slow and deliberate. “He stands in the way of everything. You would not mind if he were gone for a while, hm?”

Winter Weiss furrowed his brows, his tiny mouth twisting as though trying to piece together meaning from her cryptic words. He could not understand, not yet—but his unease was clear.

Her laughter bubbled low in her throat, a sound both amused and chilling. She set the empty goblet aside, her hands steady as she reached for another cup already laced with poison. Rising with a grace that concealed her intent, she cast one last look at the child.

“Stay here, boy,” she said gently, her tone like silk wrapping around steel. “I shall see him.”

With the poisoned cup in hand, she turned toward the King’s chambers.

"Let no man put asunder."

She could laugh at that... for she was no man and she could very much separate their bond.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Why did I chose Baden, Germany as Snow White's setting? Well, I based it on this [Reddit Post]. It's an interesting read and delighted I found it😊

・❥・

Characters & Info
✦ Twisted Tales [Extra]

Other Stories
✦ Divine Voice | Yandere.WHB x M.Reader
✦ My Dearest | Yandere.Alastor x M.Reader
✦ Solunar | Mythical.Yanderes x F.Reader

Chapter Text

꒰ა ACT IV: CHAPTER 1 ໒꒱

⋇⊰Boy in Rags⊱⋇

❥・CW:  Blood, slight gore, slight pyshical abuse

❥・Word Count: 9.6k

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

Winter Weiss drifted in a slumber far more peaceful than he ever thought he deserved. The weight of tonight's event should have robbed him of rest—after all, he had just killed his own stepmother.

Could he even still call her that? The word mother felt like poison after what he had uncovered—that she had murdered his father so long ago.

His chest tightened at the memory of his father’s face, a memory faint and fractured since he had only been four years old when that woman stole him away. Yet, despite the years, he knew with absolute certainty that his father had been a good and kind man.

But none of that mattered anymore. The Queen was dead and you were still by his side. You had sworn to him that you would never leave, and he, in turn, had sworn the same.

For the first time, he felt like he had an actual family. You, with your gentle yet odd presence, and the seven dwarves with their curious ways—it felt warm, safe, and... real.

He wanted it to last forever. He wanted to grow old by your side, until time silvered his ivory hair and carved lines into his face. That was the future he clung to.

But then came something happened that was there to ruin all his hopes and dreams.

“Dopey, don’t—!” Your voice rang sharply, pulling him from his dreams.

He blinked awake just in time to see you leap off the bed toward Dopey, who was clutching something glowing in his small hands. Winter Weiss tried to focus on it, but your figure blocked it.

Then—

“Argh!” He cried out, shielding his eyes as a blinding flash of light burst between you and the dwarf. The brilliance burned into his vision, forcing him to squint until it faded. And when he dared to look again—

You were gone.

Only Dopey stood there, wide-eyed and frozen, the glowing object nowhere in sight.

“[Name]...?” Winter Weiss whispered your name, trying to comprehend what just happened.

He stumbled to his feet, his legs unsteady as he turned to Dopey, who looked just as shocked and bewildered as he felt.

“What happened, Dopey?” His voice cracked.

But the little dwarf didn’t answer. His hands shook at his sides, his mouth opening soundlessly as if words had abandoned him entirely.

Winter Weiss took a step forward, his heart hammering in his chest. “[Na—”

The word cut off with a strangled groan as agony split through his skull. He staggered back, clutching both sides of his head, the pain so sharp it felt as though something inside was being ripped away.

“Uuuagh... Hurts...” he gasped, pressing his back against the wooden wall for support. His mind felt as though it were unraveling.

It was as if something was being torn from him. Memories, moments, all of it was slipping away, shredded and replaced with something else.

He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to picture you—your smile that always eased his worries and your presence that made him feel whole. But no matter how hard he tried, your image slipped away, replaced by a face he did not know... yet felt he had always known.

“Do... Dopey...” His voice was weak, almost a whimper. His body shook as he tried to focus, tried to resist, but his strength was failing.

The world tilted violently, spinning out of control. He dropped to his knees, his head heavy and his breaths shallow. Dopey rushed toward him even if he himself was as in great pain as Winter Weiss was, panic in his wide eyes, but the prince was already collapsing. His skull struck the polished wooden floor with a dull thud.

Silence...

And the numbness seeped in, and his eyes drifted closed.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

You jolt awake at the sound of a loud thud. The noise makes you flinch, and your eyes dart around frantically, searching for where you are. The room you find yourself in looks grand—long dining tables, polished floors, and velvet curtains hanging heavy from the windows. You’re seated at the table and in front of you—

“My daughter, are you even listening?!” boomed a deep voice.

Your gaze snapped toward the source—a stout man with a round belly, crowned with thinning hair at the edges of his bald head. His snow-white mustache twitched as he glared at you, his words sharp with frustration. The glimmering crown on his head made it obvious—this wasn’t just anyone.

“H-Huh?” you breathed, still dazed.

Your chest tightened. Where are you? Unlike before, you didn’t awaken from slumber in a bed or the forest floor—this time it felt abrupt, dropped in the middle of something already happening.

The man sighed heavily, shaking his head as though you were a hopeless case.

“You are my beloved daughter, what my queen—your mother—gifted me. You know I love you dearly,” he said, his tone softening for a brief moment before hardening again. “But you have been avoiding your responsibilities for too long! And causing such a scene with your… your very unladylike behavior!”

You barely heard him. Your hands moved instinctively to your lap, fingers brushing against something familiar. You looked down—and your heart sank. There it is. The old leather book.

The cursed thing had dragged you out of Winter Weiss’ tale and hurled you into this one. Again.

You opened it, flipping past the last entries of Winter Weiss’ story, frustration tightening in your chest. There lay on the next page is the title of this tale.

“Cinderella…” You look down at the looping cursive.

Your head shot up, startled when he suddenly barked, “[Name]?!”

You flinched at the sound of your name on his lips. Now you recognized him—King Frederick. Prince Charming’s father.

“Haya… hopeless. Completely unruly,” he muttered under his breath, his thick brows pulling down.

You pressed your lips into a thin line. Right… if you remember correctly, Prince Charming is never the perfect son. He's adventurous, reckless, always straying from princely duties.

Also, isn't it kind of a bit force? He didn't set up the ball—it was his father. In fact, there's a possibility Prince Charming just picked Cinderella out of a whim to keep his father off his back.

It was odd—truthfully still is—to you that he didn't remember any physical traits of Cinderella... is it only the dress he noticed? There was a moment in the book when the Fairy Godmother herself didn't notice Cinderella's ruined gown—maybe it's the opposite, one noticing true beauty and the other only what a person wears.

If his counterpart was very much the same, no king or queen would especially find those attributes acceptable in a woman.

All the king wants is to have an heir to the throne, there's one prominent scene that even as a child left a mark on you. When King Frederick referred to Prince Charming's future lover as not a wife but a mother. It still bothers you... more so now actually.

“It’s high time you marry and settle down,” King Frederick hissed, leaning forward, his glare stabbing into you like daggers. “I’m not getting any younger, you know. I have no son to take after me. So, uncustomary as it may be, you will rule and I expect you to marry!”

A cold pit opened in your stomach, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Seeing your palling face, his snow-white brows furrowed deeper. “Why look so pale? Isn’t this what you wanted? You said once if you were to marry, you'd want to rule my kingdom… I've given you what you requested—so for heaven’s sake, do so! Is that too much to ask?”

Your throat tightened. You needed air. You needed to get away. “I… I have to go,” you blurted, standing so abruptly the chair screeched against the floor.

“What—? I did not give you permission to leave!” he thundered after you.

But you're already rushing out of the dining hall, clutching the book to your chest, ignoring his shouts. Thankfully, he didn’t call the guards or servants to restrain you.

The halls stretched endlessly, marble and gold gleaming in the early morning light, but you didn’t care where you were going. You just wanted to move. To breathe.

Breathe in…

Breathe out...

Your steps slowed as your chest rose and fell with effort.

“Okay…” you whispered under your breath, trying to collect yourself.

In all honesty, you weren’t even sure what your role was in this tale. Cinderella didn’t need a prince’s true love's kiss. She solved her own problems and freed herself from an abusive home. What use were you here?

But then again… could you even be sure anymore? You had already messed up two tales. You hadn’t slain Maleficent and she broke Aurelio's curse. Winter Weiss—not the dwarves—had struck down the Queen. That will mess anyone up... you messed him up.

You groaned softly, dragging a hand down your face. “Augh…”

It's like you're just here to disrupt their stories one after another because you can't have your own happy ending.

Your gaze dropped to the book in your hands, its worn cover mocking you. Heat flushed in your veins.

“You’re the one ruining this,” you hissed at it. Your voice trembled between fury and despair. And yet, wasn’t it also the only reason you were still here?

Didn’t matter.

The forsaken book is already flying across the hallway. It hit the floor with a harsh thud, skidding a little before lying still in the quiet corridor. You can't blame Dopey for getting curious, if you were in his position and you saw something glowing in a cabinet, you'd most probably go see what it was.

If there's anyone to blame, it's you—you put that thing somewhere it could be easily seen when you have an idea it may start glowing again.

You stood there, chest heaving, anger and exhaustion weighing down your shoulders.

You sigh, realizing maybe you’re overreacting a little—but you can’t help it. Your nerves are tangled from all that has happened. Still, you stumble back toward the book, clutching it quickly to your chest just in time as a maid walks past.

She stops abruptly, her eyes widening before she bows low.

“Princess [Name]!” Her voice holds both surprise and respect, though when she lifts her head to look at you again, there’s a flicker of uncertainty in her gaze. “Is there anything you need?”

For a moment you hesitate, chewing lightly on your bottom lip while considering. Then, with a small breath, you reply, “Actually… yes. Could you show me to my quarters?”

The maid’s brows twitch upward, a faint crease of confusion in her expression, but she nods immediately, obedient as ever.

“Of course, Your Highness. Right this way.” She gestures toward a hall and begins to walk, her posture stiff but careful. You follow behind her quietly, taking the chance to let your thoughts churn.

You don’t want to stay here cooped up. You don’t want a stroll in the palace gardens or a hollow walk through the ornate halls—you want the village. Where you actually belong.

At last, the maid stops before a door, bowing again as she announces softly, “Here you are, Your Highness. Is there anything else you need?”

Your mind lingers on your desire, and you glance at her from the corner of your eye. “Yes… but it might sound a little odd.” You give a sheepish chuckle, rubbing at your arm.

The maid tilts her head, curiosity breaking through her trained composure. “Anything you ask, Your Highness, I will do without question.” Her bow this time is deeper, though her voice trembles faintly.

You take in a breath, then scratch at the back of your neck. “Right… if you say so. Then why don’t we… switch clothes for a while?”

Her eyes widen instantly, almost comically, and she blurts out, “W-What for?” She clamps her hand over her mouth as soon as the words escape, horrified by her slip.

“It’s alright,” you reassure, forcing a small laugh as you gesture vaguely. “I just want to go out, and I don’t want anyone noticing me missing—or worse, recognizing me in the village.”

The maid fidgets, wringing her fingers together nervously. “Does… does His Majesty know about this?” Her voice is hushed, as if afraid someone else might hear.

“No, he doesn’t,” you say plainly, shrugging with a hint of mischief. “So I suggest you just stay here in my room. If anyone comes, tell them you need privacy. Or say you’re feeling unwell—anything to keep them away.”

Her gaze drops to the floor, and you can see the battle in her expression. At last, she exhales and nods. “Of course, Your Highness.”

The two of you switch clothes in the quiet of the room. She fidgets uncomfortably in your royal attire, tugging at the fabric as though it doesn’t belong on her skin, while you slip into her simpler maiden’s dress.

The fabric feels light and freeing compared to the suffocating weight of royal garments. You wrap your nightgown around the book and shove it deep into the closet, hidden from curious eyes.

“Sorry if you feel uneasy in those clothes,” you murmur as you adjust your borrowed dress. You offer her a small, reassuring smile. “You could change into something more comfortable if you’d like—I don’t mind.”

Her eyes widen again, this time with disbelief, and her lips part. “Can I really?” she whispers, voice trembling with a kind of hope she tries to suppress.

You nod firmly, smile softening. “Of course.”

She hums faintly, dropping her gaze once more, and you don’t press further. Before you leave, you slip a few coins into your pocket—just in case something in the village catches your eye.

With everything settled, you quietly slip out of the room, weave through the castle halls, and eventually step past the gates. The air outside feels fresher, freer, as you make your way toward the humble village.

This village is so different from the bleak town in Winter Weiss' tale. The streets bustle with vendors and their bright stalls, women carry baskets of fruit, men haggle loudly over prices, and children run between the legs of grown folk with laughter trailing behind them. Even the elderly sit along the roadside, smiling, content, and weathered but not weary.

“Well… this isn’t bad at all.” A small smile pulls at your lips as you take in the sight.

“Hey! Get back here!”

Your head turns at the sharp cry.

“Thief! Thief!” someone shouts, their voice desperate and angry.

Out of the crowd, a small figure darts forward, weaving through the legs of adults like a shadow. You spot him clearly—a ragged boy, his face smeared with dirt, clutching a whole loaf of bread to his chest as he sprints directly toward you.

Your brows furrow. And just as he tries to rush past, you reach out and grab him by the arm. The boy yelps, his thin body struggling against your grip.

“Hey, lady! Let me go!” he cries, voice cracking.

“Let a thief run free?” you raise a brow, holding him steady despite his squirming, “Not a chance.”

The words feel strange leaving your mouth. Ironic, even. Because… hadn’t you done the very same? Hunger is cruel; you know this better than most. A pang of guilt stirs inside you. Maybe this boy is stealing because he has no choice… or maybe he just wants an easy meal.

Before you can decide how to feel about it, a shadow steps closer, and someone exhales deeply beside you.

You glance up—then freeze.

Your breath catches in your throat, stolen away so suddenly you forget how to breathe altogether.

The man before you… he looks achingly familiar.

Dirty blond hair falls in short waves, catching the faint light of morning. His skin is touched by the sun, warm and golden, and his eyes… his eyes are impossibly blue, like the clearest summer sky.

“…Aurelio…?” you whisper under your breath, so quiet it’s swallowed by the noise around you. Thankfully, he doesn’t hear.

Instead, he gives you a small, almost relieved smile. “Hah… thank you, ma’am. You didn’t have to stop him.”

“I—I…” your tongue feels heavy, your mind scattered, “It’s no problem! H-Here’s your thief...” You gently push the squirming child forward, still dazed by the man’s presence.

The boy looks up at him, his face wet with tears. “Please! Sir—m-ma’am! We… we need food but w-we can’t afford it!” His voice cracks with desperation.

The man crosses his arms, his expression stern but not unkind.

“That doesn’t excuse stealing,” he says firmly, his voice steady, commanding yet gentle. “If you don’t have money, find a way to earn some. Never walk the path of thievery. It will only bring you harm, boy. Do you understand?”

The child sniffles, his small body trembling. “…Y-Yes.” With trembling hands, he offers the loaf back.

The man hums softly, regarding the bread for a long moment. Then he breaks it cleanly in half. But what really garnered your attention is his bandaged hands. You thought it's due to all the manual labor he had to do... you pity him.

“Here.” He presses one half into the boy’s hands. “Next time, don’t do it again. Now, run along.”

You release your grip on the boy, and with a last grateful glance, the child clutches the bread tightly and disappears into the crowd.

“That… that was very kind of you,” you murmur, your voice soft, your throat tight. You swallow hard, trying to steady yourself before you stutter again.

He… this man… is he Cinderella’s counterpart? His looks and his kindness—it all fits the part perfectly. He's also fitting to be Aurelio's brother with how similar they two look! If this guy grows his hair a bit more, he'll look like a much mature version of Aurelio.

He chuckles, slipping the other half of the loaf into his basket before covering it with a cloth. “It was nothing. Life can be cruel… it costs me little to show mercy.” Then his eyes meet yours again. “How can I repay you, ma’am?”

“What?” Your eyes widen as you wave both hands quickly in front of you. “N-No! It’s fine—truly! I.. I-I just happened to be here at the right time, so I… I stopped the boy. That’s all!” What is up with you and your incapability of talking straight?!

He hums, tilting his head slightly. It's quite obvious he isn’t satisfied with letting debts go unpaid.

“I’m afraid I haven’t caught your name… may I know what it is?” His tone is polite, almost careful, as though he doesn’t want to frighten you off.

It seems he does not press further, which almost makes you breathe out in relief.

“It’s [Name].” The moment your name leaves your lips, his eyes widen.

At first, you are confused—then realization strikes like a bell. Of course, you share the same name as the princess.

A nervous, shaky smile forms on your lips as you add quickly, “Oh—my mother named me after her…”

His expression softens, though he studies you with quiet interest.

Slowly, he nods. “I’ve heard that some mothers do that—naming their daughters after Princess [Name]. Well, I’m Cindereli. It’s a delight to meet you and, honestly, [Name]… I really couldn’t bear the thought of not repaying such a good deed.”

You groan inwardly. Perhaps he hasn’t truly let go of the subject.

“I know a good bakery around here,” he continues brightly, his voice filled with enthusiasm. “It’s the same one I bought these loaves of bread from. She also bakes the most delightful pie in town!” His smile beams with such warmth that saying no feels impossible—you can already sense that refusing him would mean endless persistence.

You sigh, resigning yourself. “Alright… I’ll check it out.”

The two of you walk side by side down the cobbled street. His steps are light, almost eager, while you try to keep your thoughts in order.

The resemblance between him and Aurelio gnaws at you—blond hair, a kind face, that same bright sincerity—but you force yourself to push away any thought of the golden-haired prince. Thinking of him only brings unnecessary weight.

Instead, you study the man beside you. Cindereli. The name rolls around your head with curiosity. You recall faintly that Cinderella’s true given name had once been Ella, and it was her stepsisters who cruelly dubbed her Cinderella because she often slept beside the fireplace hence she always ends up covered with ashes.

Could it be the same here? If so, then perhaps his real name is Eli. Also, why did Cinderella even keep her name if its origin is so... cruel? Is it because she's grown used to it—if your memory serves you right, she's been called Cinderella since as a child. Still though...

“Hey… Cindereli, right?” He hums in response without looking, his attention still fixed on the street. “Can I… call you Eli instead?”

That makes him stop mid-step. He turns fully to look at you, his blue eyes wide in surprise. You instantly worry you may have offended him. “Uh… is everything fine?” you ask carefully.

For a moment, he only stares, as though you have touched upon something he hasn’t thought about in a long while. Then he glances away, his gaze clouding as if a distant memory has stirred.

“…Eli,” he repeats softly, almost testing the name on his tongue. “Certainly, you can call me that. W-Why, though?”

You shrug, trying not to feel too self-conscious. “I… I don’t know. I just like it more than Cindereli. It feels more like… you.” You hope your words make sense.

A small laugh escapes him, quiet but genuine.

“I suppose it is me,” he admits. Then his demeanor brightens again, the hesitation melting away. “Well, [Name]—are you ready to taste the most delicious pie in town?” He gestures proudly toward a bakery at the end of the street.

Even from here, you can already smell the sweet aroma of baked goods drifting through the open windows. His grin widens as he adds, “You’ll love it! And the lady who owns it—Lathia, that’s her name—she’s wonderful.”

You raise a brow, the corners of your mouth tugging upward despite yourself. “You’re really pushing it. Is it that good?”

“What? You mean you’ve never tasted anything she’s baked?” His eyes widened in genuine shock. “You really must be new, then! Though I suppose I don’t go out often myself—I wouldn't be so certain…” He mumbles the last few words almost to himself.

He laughs softly, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish glance toward the ground. “I only get to go out when I need to buy something.” His voice goes quiet and you can't help but frown.

"Why so?"

The two of you walk side by side down the cobblestone street, the faint scent of fresh bread and fruit pies drifting stronger the closer you get to Lathia’s bakery. The warm aroma makes your stomach tighten pleasantly, and for once, you feel grateful you agreed to let him treat you—for something as small as catching a thief.

“Aaah…” Cindereli exhales, tilting his head toward the pale morning sky. His voice carries a heaviness that doesn’t match the cheer of the day. “I have so many things to do back at my… home.” The word sticks on his tongue, as though it tastes wrong. “So, I rarely have time to spend outside the town… or for myself.”

You lower your gaze, a faint crease forming between your brows. “I’m sorry to hear that,” you murmur softly.

You don’t notice the way his bright blue eyes soften, lingering on you for a moment longer than they should, as if your sympathy reaches somewhere no one else ever has.

Stepparents and children… the thought flickers bitterly in your mind. It always seems to end in cruelty. You almost scoff—do stepparents all secretly despise the children left in their care? Surely not all of them.

Somewhere, in some corner of the world, there must be parents who love their stepchildren as though they were their own blood. You hope Lady Tremaine isn’t as merciless as the Queen had been with Winter Weiss. The memory of that bloody, harrowing scene is still too fresh in your mind.

“Back so soon, Cindereli!” A cheerful, rugged voice jolts you from your thoughts.

Ahead of you stands a plump woman with messy caramel-colored hair tied into a loose knot, her brown eyes catching the morning sun until they gleam amber.

Cindereli brightens immediately. “Ah, Lathia!”

Her gaze sweeps over you with open curiosity before a knowing smile tugs her lips. “And who’s this lady friend of yours, hmm?~”

Heat prickles faintly at your cheeks, but before you can answer, Cindereli steps in smoothly. “She’s [Name]. Caught the little thief earlier, and I thought she deserved one of your apple pies as thanks.” For a moment you swear you caught her eyes widened for a moment—for what reason, you're not certain or if her eyes did so.

Lathia nods, her smile widening, but you catch the spark dancing mischievously in her eyes as they flick between the two of you.

“I’ve heard about the thievery. Good thing you managed to catch them!” She claps her hands together, then leans toward Cindereli. “Would you like a slice of pie yourself?”

He shakes his head quickly, raising a hand in refusal. “No, it’s fine. Maybe next time.”

“Hmm… alright then!” she says with a sing-song tone before wobbling off into the depths of her bakery, humming under her breath.

You watch her go, a small smile tugging at your lips. “She’s a lovely woman. Full of energy.”

Cindereli nods eagerly. “Yes, she is! It’s not only her pastries that bring people here—it’s her warmth, too. Whoever wins her heart will be the luckiest man alive.” His voice is cheerful, yet there’s a wistfulness in it.

Before long, Lathia returns, balancing a steaming slice of pie on a wooden plate. She sets it carefully into your hands, the buttery sweetness wafting up to greet you. “Here you go, you two! Eat while it’s still hot—it’s best when it’s fresh from the oven!”

“Thank you, Lathia,” Cindereli says quickly, pressing a few coins into her hand before steering you toward the empty chairs.

Placing the plateful of pie, you glance at him sitting down in front of you. “Shouldn’t you go back? Didn’t you say you had much to do?”

He shrugs carelessly, though the faintest grimace pulls at his mouth. “Whatever, it’s just this once. They’ll still be angry, but then again… they always are anyway.” He lets out a weary sigh, shaking his head as though to ward off the weight clinging to his shoulders.

Your lips thin into a worried line, and he notices. Quickly, he chuckles, though it’s hollow.

“I shouldn’t be saying all this, should I? Burdening you with my troubles…” He sighs again, this one long and drawn out. “I apologize. I don’t usually get to speak about these things—not to people that is.”

Your mind flickers to his feathered and furry companions. And… do those mice and birds of his actually wear tiny clothes? You'd love to see it.

“That’s fine,” you reassure him gently, lifting the fork as you prepare to take a slice of the steaming hot pie. “I don’t mind listening.” You slice off the tip of the pie and bring it to your mouth, the hot apple filling melting across your tongue. “Mmm!” You nod with approval. “You’re right. This tastes wonderful.”

His smile returns, brighter this time. “Told ya! Lathia knows her stuff.” He rests his chin lazily in his palm, watching you as though the sight of your enjoyment brings him more joy than he would like to admit.

You lift the fork again and turn it toward him. “Want a bite?”

Cindereli gives you a sly grin and says, “Sure, since you don’t mind.”

You expect him to take the fork right out of your hand, but instead, he leans forward and takes the bite directly.

His lips brush lightly against the metal, and when he chews, his bright blue eyes widen in delight. “Mmm…! It tastes even better than the last time I had some.”

The satisfied sound he makes makes you laugh through your nose. You cut another slice for yourself and take a bite, savoring the sweet flavor. For a moment, silence stretches between the two of you, comfortable but heavy with unspoken thoughts.

When he's not looking, you glance down at his bandaged hands and thought if you should ask him about it. Though, it's probably a bit too personal for him. At the end of the day, you're a stranger he bumped into earlier—who are you to pry in his privacy? Unless he says it himself.

He then clears his throat, his voice breaking the stillness.

“You know… speaking about my problems at home—” His tone sharpens for a second, bitter like a blade hidden under velvet. “—they’ll be nothing soon.”

You raise a brow, curious. “And why do you say that?”

“Well…” He pauses, his gaze flicking down as though he’s confessing something dangerous. “When I turned eighteen, I started setting aside money for myself. Just a little at first. My dream had always to move away from that… manor.” The way he hisses the word makes your chest tighten.

Your eyes widen in surprise. You’re about to protest—how could he spend money he’s been saving on you—but he cuts you off before you can scold him.

“Like I said, just this once! And who can go 'bout their day without returning the kindness?” he insists, flashing a crooked smile. “Besides, it’s been six years of saving nonstop. I probably have enough now to survive on my own… to build a home for myself. That manor…” His lips twist as if the very word tastes foul. “It doesn’t feel like home anymore. When it once did...”

Your voice softens as you ask, “...What is home to you, then?”

He stills, the question weighing heavy. He repeats it under his breath as though testing the sound. “What is home for me…?” Slowly, his expression shifts.

His eyes lift to the sky, their blue reflecting the early morning light, dreamy yet firm.

“Home is where I can finally be myself. Where no one is chaining me down or treating me like dirt beneath their shoes. Home is where I can speak and act as I please, without fearing what comes after.”

His voice drops into a whisper. “Soon…” His fists clench at his sides. “Soon, I’ll be far away from the Tremaines. Forever.”

A warm smile tugs at your lips. His determination, his effort, his longing for freedom—it feels so real, so... human. You can’t help but admire him for it. Cinderella never saved money to escape in the stories you remember, but somehow… you like this version better.

It doesn’t take long before your plate is clean. Setting your fork down, you glance at him with genuine warmth. “Thank you again, Eli. I wish you the best of luck in making that dream real.”

His smile turns soft—sweet enough to melt you. “If that day ever comes… will you visit me in my new home, [Name]?”

You laugh lightly, answering without hesitation. “Of course, Eli! Promise.”

His grin widens, eyes sparkling as he stands. You rise to your feet as well, brushing the crumbs off your lap.

"Well, I hope to see you again sometime soon, [Name].” His tone is earnest, almost reluctant to leave. “It was… nice spending time with you.”

“The same goes for you,” you say warmly. “Besides, I bet you could use the break.”

He chuckles and shrugs. You wave as he walks away, and he raises his hand in return, disappearing down the path toward the manor.

You carry the empty wooden plate back to the bakery, only to find Lathia leaning against the counter, her face resting on her palms. Was she watching the two of you the whole time?

“Here you go, Lathia,” you say, handing the plate over. A teasing smile crosses your lips as you add, “Expect a new usual customer.”

She lets out a laugh, shaking her head. “Hahaha… I’m already starting to like you, [Name]!” Her eyes gleam knowingly. “And it seems like Cindereli does too~”

You raise a brow at her, unimpressed. “Does he? Maybe. But I don’t think it’s that way.”

The mischievous look on her face says she doesn’t believe you. “Oooh? How can you be so sure, hmm?” she hums playfully.

You shrug, trying not to think too hard about it.

“I just know.” But… do you really?

You shake the thought away. It’s better not to linger. After all, you need to return to the palace soon. You can’t risk the maid being discovered and punished for your own actions.

“I’ll come back soon, Lathia!” you call over your shoulder as you make your way out.

You hurry back through the grand corridors of the palace, slipping into your chambers with quick steps. Relief washes over you when you see the maid still there, her posture straight and proud as she keeps up the act of being you. Only now she is dressed far more comfortably, no longer in the stiff finery you left her in earlier.

“Princess [Name]!” she greets brightly, springing to her feet and bowing deeply.

Your gaze darts about the room before fixing on her. “No one came in?” you ask in a hushed tone.

She shakes her head firmly. “Though His Majesty did knock,” she admits, her hands folded tightly in front of her, “but I reasoned him away.”

You exhale a small laugh, both amused and impressed. “Well, thank you for risking punishment with my… order.” Digging into your pocket, you pull out the coins you brought with you. Holding them out, you add warmly, “Here, as a token of my gratitude.”

Her eyes widen at once, her hands flying up in protest. “Oh no, Your Highness! I cannot accept something as such! I was… simply following orders.”

You sigh, “Then I order you to take these coins. It’s the least I can do.”

The maid looks from your hand to your face, hesitating for a long moment. At last, a faint, shy smile flickers across her lips, softening her nervousness.

She bows her head and whispers, “I’m grateful, Your Highness…” before finally accepting the coins from your palm. "I've heard you were... kind to us servants and knights, I bet most of them owe you a thanks as well."

Oh?

You blink, staring at her with wide doe eyes. Prince Charming was kind to commoners? You hum, you don't get to hear that be said to royalties then again, he is quite unprincipled.

The two of you quickly switch back into your rightful clothes, and you watch her disappear back into her duties with a quiet wave. The chamber feels emptier without her, and you find yourself pausing.

Now what?

You think of the town, how lively and colorful it had seemed. A part of you itches to go back, but you know you’ll save that for another time. It's also a shame you didn't get to learn about his hands, oh well, maybe next time. Instead, you sit down on the edge of your bed, your thoughts drifting to the ball tonight.

Surely, you won’t be burdened with preparations—those matters belong to King Frederick and the Grand Duke. Just like in the tale... now that is something you don't want changed.

A sigh escapes you. Perhaps you should walk around the palace to pass the hours. A place of this size certainly must have a library hidden somewhere. The thought makes your chest ache with longing.

It has been so long since you last set eyes on one. Not since you first entered your mother’s book. The idea of shelves upon shelves of words waiting to be discovered fills you with a quiet comfort—something familiar in a world that is anything but.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

Cindereli had carried the basket of bread with him, the loaves no longer steaming as they once had when he first purchased them from Lathia. The warmth had faded, but in truth, he hardly cared.

The few minutes he had spent walking and laughing with you had been the happiest moments of his life. They lingered in his chest like an ember refusing to die out.

Yet that fragile warmth quickly dissolved when the manor came into view. His heart sank. He had prayed that perhaps, by some twist of fortune, the Tremaines had not yet returned. But luck had rarely—if ever—favored him.

With hesitant hands, he pushed the wooden door open. Almost immediately, faint shouting reached his ears. The manor’s walls seemed to trap and amplify the voices, making them sharper than they should have been.

“Cindereliiii?” a shrill, high-pitched call rang out. He knew it well—it belonged to Anastasius.

“Where is he?” another voice barked, deeper yet far more grating. Dresden. “He hasn’t cooked anything for lunch yet!”

Cindereli released a heavy sigh, already weary. “I’m here…” he muttered, his voice flat with resignation.

The creak of footsteps on the staircase made him look up. Lady Tremaine descended with slow, deliberate grace, her pale green eyes piercing him like daggers. Her lips curved into a sneer as she said his name—dragging out every syllable as though it tasted foul.

“Cindereli… Where have you been?”

He froze, caught under her stare. Of course, he could not tell her the truth—not even a fool would admit such a thing. His mind scrambled for words.

“There was… a ruckus at the bakery,” he explained, forcing his voice steady, though his hands tightened around the basket’s handle. “That’s why I couldn’t return sooner.”

Lady Tremaine stepped closer, her perfume cloying, wrapping around him like a suffocating mist. Her eyes narrowed further, studying his expression, hunting for weakness.

Behind her, Anastasius whined dramatically, clutching his stomach. “Mother, I’m starviiiing!”

“My stomach aches!” Dresden snapped, his tone dripping with venom. “I don’t want some piece of bread! I want a proper meal!”

Lady Tremaine flicked a glance at her sons before turning her scorn back onto Cindereli. Her voice was low, sharp as glass. “This will not be repeated again, Cindereli. I will see to it personally.”

He barely had time to brace himself before the scene shifted to the kitchen—the same place, the same cycle, repeating endlessly. His hands, raw and bandaged from past punishments, were already trembling. The skin had been split, bruised red and purple.

Then came the sting. The wooden paddle cracked against his hand, and he flinched, a hiss slipping through his teeth as the pain burned deep.

“Do you understand, Cindereli?” Lady Tremaine’s voice cut through him as she readied another blow.

“Yes, stepmother…” he murmured, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood as the paddle struck again.

Her words blurred together after that. He had heard them so many times before that they scarcely registered anymore. After this, he knew what awaited him: his usual chores, and more, always... more.

Still, as the sting of pain lingered on his hands, a single thought took root in his heart. Soon. Soon, he would leave this place. The money he had saved lay hidden, waiting for the day he could finally use it. He had friends who would help him once he escaped. He would have a house of his own. A home.

And when that day came, he swore he would never again bow his head in this cursed manor.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

You have lost track of time in the library. The hours seem to slip away unnoticed, pages turning beneath your fingers like gentle waves. The silence here feels like a balm, comforting and steady, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you have been reading something unfamiliar.

It is refreshing. The books from your mother’s library have been read and reread until you could almost recite them word for word, blindfolded.

“Princess [Name]?”

A voice echoes suddenly in the vastness of the library. Male, polite, but unfamiliar.

You suppress a groan, snapping the book shut with reluctant fingers. Why is it that peace never lasts long? Sliding the book back onto the shelf, you straighten, brushing dust from your skirts before answering.

“Yes? I’m here.”

Your steps are slow but deliberate as you make your way toward the voice. Standing there is a butler, perhaps in his early thirties. His posture is stiff with formality, and his expression is carefully neutral.

“Your Highness.” He bows with practiced grace, though it feels a little too rehearsed. “His Majesty has been searching for you all day long. He requests your presence in the dining hall.”

Your tongue clicks softly against the roof of your mouth, a quiet display of annoyance you don’t bother to hide. Still, you incline your head. “Right… lead the way, sir.”

A flicker of something passes through his eyes at your choice of words—curiosity, perhaps even mild confusion—but he says nothing. Instead, he turns sharply and guides you through the corridors.

The dining hall greets you with a sight that makes your stomach tighten. King Frederick sits at the head of the table, his heavy gaze fixed directly on you.

His plate is empty, but yours remains untouched, food still waiting as though accusing you of absence. Judging by the hollow ache in your belly, it is already long past lunch.

You swallow hard under his scrutiny and move to take the seat across from him.

“Where have you been all day?” The scolding begins the moment you sit down, his tone clipped and sharp, no room for pleasantries.

“In the library,” you answer simply, lowering your gaze to the food before you.

Truthfully, you aren’t hungry. The apple pie from earlier still lingers pleasantly in your stomach, and after the weight of his glare, appetite feels far away.

At your words, his brow arches high, followed by a heavy sigh. He shakes his head, it looks like everything you say is a disappointment in his eyes.

“Since you are as stubborn as a mule,” he says, voice dripping with irritation, “I and the Grand Duke have decided to host a ball tomorrow night.” His hands clap together, his demeanor suddenly brightening at his own proclamation. “Surely you will find a fitting man there!”

Your thoughts stutter. Tomorrow night? You had expected it to be held tonight. In the original story, the king’s impatience had demanded immediacy. This change—it surprises you, though it also buys you time to enioy yourself.

“What do you say, my daughter?” His voice jolts you back, dragging you from your thoughts.

“It'll be fun… I guess?” you reply, voice uncertain.

King Frederick grumbles under his breath, clearly displeased by your lack of enthusiasm, but he does not push further.

“Very well. Eat your meal,” he orders, abruptly standing. His belly looks fuller than when you last saw him. “I have important matters to attend to—a ball to manage!” With a final sweep of his cloak, he leaves, footsteps echoing until silence reclaims the hall.

You are left with your plate, untouched food, and the uncomfortable presence of the two knights standing like statues by the doors. Their stillness feels oppressive, their gazes heavy even through their helmets.

You glance from the meal to them, then raise your voice. “Hey!” Both helmets tilt toward you at once. You point toward them. “You two, come over here.”

They exchange a look, silent communication passing between them, before they approach cautiously.

“What is it, Your Highness?” one asks, his voice muffled by the metal of his helmet.

“Strange request, but… I’m still full, and quite frankly, I don’t want this food to go to waste, so…” You lean back slightly, stretching the words with hesitation.

“Again, Your Highness?” the second knight interrupts gently.

“Huh?”

“Last time, you asked the same of us,” he explains. “And so did the others before us. Are you sure you are not starving yourself? We can ask the cooks to prepare something you prefer.”

You blink at the revelation, then shake your head with a small laugh. “No, no, it’s fine. I really am full.” You offer them a reassuring smile.

They hesitate for a moment, then bow. “Thank you, Your Highness,” one says earnestly.

As you stand, the other knight asks, “And where will you be, if His Majesty inquires?”

You glance back at him, your answer quick. “The library. If my… father asks, tell him I’m there.”

They nod in unison, and you leave them to enjoy the meal.

Your mind, however, lingers on their words. Again. So even the original prince or princess had done this? The idea intrigues you.

Prince Charming—he isn’t what the storybooks painted. And the thought makes you want to meet him. Or her. They seem like good, down-to-earth individuals.

What would her name be then? Char... Char... Charlotte? No, that's way too far from the original—like for example: Aurora ➜ Aurelio or Cinderella ➜ Cindereli. Those names though different have that same ring to it.

...Charmaine? The thought makes you smirk faintly. It would suit her, wouldn’t it? Charming... Charmaine. Both got the charm of a royalty.

Now you're getting curious about the other female counterparts of the princes. In Snow White the prince's name is Florian, she could either be Flora or Floria. While in Sleeping Beauty, his name is Philip... well that's a difficult name to find a female version.

Although... how could you meet them, when you are them? Unless there were some way to slip out of this role entirely and just be yourself, watching the tale unfold in the way it should be.

That's what you really want. But beggars can't be choosers, right? You sigh heavily, shoulders sinking as you wander back toward the library.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

You don’t even realize how much time has slipped away until the same butler from before interrupts your trance.

“Your Highness?”

The soft honey-laced tone makes you jolt upright, your wide eyes snapping toward him as though you’ve just been caught stealing.

“Uuh…” your voice comes out awkward, your fingers curling against the pages before you close the book slowly. “Is my… father seeking for my presence again?”

The butler raises a brow and clears his throat politely, his posture stiff but respectful.

“No, His Majesty is not calling for you.” He lingers, watching you with a strangely hesitant expression before adding carefully, “Your Highness, have you looked around?”

Curious, you tilt your head. Only when your gaze follows his suggestion do you realize the window beside you is completely swallowed by darkness. You blink in surprise.

“Oh…” a small, sheepish laugh escapes you as you push yourself out of the chair, stretching your back until a series of sharp cracks echoes in your bones. “Augh…” You groan under your breath. How long have you been sitting here, slouched in this library, letting time run away from you?

The butler clasps his hands neatly behind his back, his voice gentle. “Your Highness, would you like me to escort you back to your room?”

You shake your head quickly, waving him off with a tired smile. “No, no… I’m fine. You can go ahead. But thank you—for reminding me of the time.”

For the first time, in all the few moments you’ve glimpsed him before, he allows himself to smile back at you. “Of course, Your Highness.”

When he leaves, silence folds over the library once more. You tuck the book back into its rightful place on the shelf, completing the row of worn spines like broken teeth restored.

Tomorrow night is the ball, and though you know something—perhaps something drastic—may happen, it’s a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, all you want is sleep so you made your way back to your room which thankfully, you still remember where it is.

And sleep you do. Yet as your consciousness sinks into slumber, so does the fragile wall you’ve built around yourself—the wall holding back all the horrific moments you’ve witnessed in these stories. Slowly, your body grows heavy, and you slip not into peace, but into a world of dreams… and nightmares.

.

.

.

Cold droplets sting your skin. Your eyes fly open to the sight of a forest at night, thunder cracking in the distance. A storm rages above you, but this is not just any storm. You know this place. This very moment, still so fresh in your mind.

This is when Winter Weiss kills his stepmother.

You stand frozen, paralyzed by dread. Just ahead, Winter Weiss kneels in the mud, his shoulders trembling violently as sobs rip out of his throat. The bloody knife lies discarded beside him, gleaming faintly in the storm’s flashes of lightning.

And before him, sprawled unnaturally on the ground, is the Queen’s lifeless body, her skin a ghostly white, her sightless eyes staring at nothing.

Your chest tightens until breathing feels impossible. You try to speak, your lips parting, but no sound comes out. The guilt gnaws at you—it feels like this is your fault.

In the original tale, it isn’t him who kills her. It should have been the dwarves. But the moment you stopped him from biting into that poisoned apple, you disrupted everything.

“I’m sorry…” you whisper, though your voice is nearly swallowed by the storm.

You don’t even know if he can hear you. Even knowing this is a dream, you feel compelled to apologize. This is the only chance you’ll ever have to, it's not like you can go back into his tale again.

Forcing your legs to move, you step forward until you kneel at his side. You keep your eyes on him, refusing to let yourself look at the Queen again. You don’t think you can bear it.

“I’m sorry, Winter Weiss…” your voice trembles as you repeat yourself.

He shakes his head fiercely, finally looking at you through swollen, red-rimmed eyes streaked with tears and rain.

“It’s not your fault, [Name]… I did it, didn’t I? I killed her. I was the one who drove the knife into her chest.” His words come out broken, shattered by sobs.

“No…” you shut your eyes tight, clenching your fists until your nails dig into your palms. “No, you don’t understand. I am the root of your actions. If I… if I hadn’t stepped into your tale, if I hadn’t interfered, then none of this would have happened. You wouldn’t have had to do this.”

You shouldn't be this affected—he's just a character in a book. You know this. And yet, after spending time with him, after speaking with him, laughing with him... he feels real. In fact, all of them are real to you.

No matter how depressing that sounds... that you've stooped so low you think fictional characters are real people. Or at least, the ones you're interacting with.

You squeeze your eyes shut so tightly it almost hurts. You don’t want to see it—you don’t want to see Winter Weiss breaking down because of your actions, because of your selfish wish.

It’s unbearable. A dream shouldn’t hurt this much… and yet right now, the pain bites deeper than any wound you’ve ever endured.

It isn’t a wound that can be stitched or bandaged. No, this festers from within, raw and relentless—an itching agony inside your chest that refuses to heal.

“Pathetic.”

Your eyes snap open instantly. That voice—you’d recognize it anywhere.

Dread coils in your stomach as your gaze drifts to where the Queen still lies sprawled on the muddy grass. Her body is bloodied, lifeless… or it should be. Because now, she stirs. A low, cold laugh spills from her lips as she rises to a sitting position, her blank eyes locking directly on you.

Your heart hammers so violently it threatens to tear from your chest.

“A pitiful little child,” she hisses, her cracked smile widening as though feeding on your fear. She tilts her head at an unnatural angle, her matted hair sticking to her blood-stained skin. “You think you’re brave. You think you’ve grown stronger. But you haven’t. Deep inside,” her skeletal finger points directly at your chest, “you’re still the same.”

“That’s… that’s not true.” Your voice trembles but you force the words out.

You have changed—haven’t you? You’re no longer the hot-headed, vengeful person you once were. You don’t crave destruction, don’t yearn for humanity’s fall. You’ve been helping others, protecting them in ways you never did before.

Your eyes dart toward Winter Weiss. He’s still kneeling in the mud, shoulders bowed, but he isn’t moving anymore. He looks frozen, as if time has halted around him.

“I mean that you still run from your problems.” The Queen’s voice is a venomous whisper. Suddenly, she lunges forward, her pale hands seizing Winter Weiss by the neck. With a sickening crack, she snaps it as though it’s nothing. "You avoid it like the plague—only when someone is so persistent enough you'd break, just for a moment before patching it up."

You choke on your breath, horror flooding your veins. His limp body collapses into the mud.

“No—!” Your feet propel you upright without thought, panic flooding every nerve.You can’t breathe, your chest seizing as your vision blurs. She killed him. You just watched her kill him.

But this isn’t real. This is a dream. Just wake up. Wake up.

You clamp your eyes shut again, desperately focusing on tearing yourself free.

“See?” she chuckles, her voice circling you like a predator stalking prey. “You’re proving my point. You’re escaping, avoiding, unable to face anything.”

Even without opening your eyes, you can feel her moving.

"It's funny how you'd fix others' problems but you don't even acknowledge your own." Her presence presses against you, the air heavy with judgment, as though she’s peeling you open with nothing but her gaze.

“Just… shut up…” you growl, your fists balling so tightly your nails dig crescent marks into your palms.

“Running away will only take you so far,” she croons, her steps deliberate, pacing around you. “They’ll chase you. You’ll get tired. And eventually, they’ll catch you.”

“Shut up. Shut up!” you bark, flinging your hands up as if the gesture could block out her words.

You stumble back, forcing your body to turn and walk, anywhere, anywhere away from her.

“You’ll push and push until you'll create a wall,” she goes on, her voice right at your ear though she’s nowhere in sight. “And you’ll try to cover the cracks with your bandages of lies. But bandages always fall off, don’t they?”

Your pace quickens, the storm’s fury rising in tandem with your panic. Thunder booms overhead, the rain pelting harder, sharper, each drop striking your skin like stones.

“Nothing lasts forever, [Name],” she whispers, almost gleeful. “And no one knows that better than you.”

Tears sting at your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You walk faster, faster, until your strides break into a run.

“Go on,” she taunts, her laughter chasing you through the darkness. “Run. It’s what you do best. It’s what a craven does.”

And you do. You run. Your shoes slam into the mud, splashing filthy water up your legs as you push harder, lungs burning, and your throat raw. The storm crashes louder, the Queen’s cruel laughter weaving with the thunder until the entire forest trembles with it.

But no matter how fast you run, her voice lingers in your mind. Because you know in heart, all she said was true. Your mind just doesn't accept it.

You don’t even know where you are running to anymore. You just want distance, anything that tears you away from this nightmarish hell. You want to wake up. To forget. To make it all vanish.

But the forest has other plans.

Your foot catches on something hidden beneath the mud, and before you can stop yourself, you stumble and crash down hard. Cold, wet earth splashes against your face and clings to your clothes. You stay there for a moment, breath heaving, the storm roaring above you.

“Pathetic…”

Her voice slithers through the storm.

“Craven…”

The words are knives, sharper than the thunder itself.

You drag yourself forward, your body trembling, until your back presses against the rough bark of a tree. You slide down its trunk, curling weakly into yourself. Closing your eyes, you fight to breathe past the weight crushing your chest.

“Running away…”

You shut it all out. You have to. Focus. Just focus. Maybe… maybe if you think hard enough, if you believe hard enough, if you want it badly enough, you can wake up. Dreams bend to desire, don’t they? Maybe this one will too.

You just want rest. Just one moment of quiet. This is the first time in so long that you’ve been dragged into something like this—and it feels unbearable. So you force yourself to ignore everything.

Ignore the storm.

Ignore the mocking voice.

Ignore the ache tearing you apart from the inside out.

Little by little, it works.

The cold raindrops no longer sting your skin. The thunder fades into silence. The Queen’s cruel laughter falls away like smoke in the wind. What remains is fragile silence but it is peace nonetheless.

You take a breath that feels almost clean. Maybe you’re stirring awake. Maybe soon this will end. Though, even if it does, you don’t know if you will ever want to sleep again.

“…[Name]...?”

You inhale deeply, determined to quiet everything, to stay in that fragile stillness.

“[Name]?”

You exhale, trying to focus on waking, on pulling yourself out.

“[NAME]!!!”

Characters & Info
✦ Twisted Tales [Extra]

Other Stories
✦ Divine Voice | Yandere.WHB x M.Reader
✦ My Dearest | Yandere.Alastor x M.Reader
✦ Solunar | Mythical.Yanderes x F.Reader

Chapter Text

꒰ა ACT IV: CHAPTER 2 ໒꒱

⋇⊰Hopes and Dreams⊱⋇

❥・CW:  Slight violence

❥・Word Count: 9.2k

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

Your eyes shoot open, and at once you are blinded by a burst of brightness. The light feels almost solid, pouring into your eyes after so much gloominess.

“Augh…” you groan softly, instinctively turning your head away, your hand rising to shield your face.

“Oh, thank goodness… you’re awake!”

The voice drifts over to you, warm and achingly familiar, like a melody you once knew but haven’t heard in years. You force your lashes apart, blinking as the world slowly shapes itself into trees and sunlight.

You hear yourself whisper before your mind even catches up, your lips moving on their own. “Aurelio…?”

He is kneeling in front of you, sunlight spilling over his long curls like a soft halo. His dark eyes widen at your voice. He looks so real, so close, that your heart stumbles in your chest.

But it can’t be.

“It’s… it’s actually you,” you murmur, your voice trembling as you avert your gaze, fingers curling against your knees. “But how…? This is a dream. It has to be a dream…” You whisper the words like a mantra, like a lifeline, clinging to the thought that this can’t be real.

You didn’t wake from the nightmare—you only fell into another dream. Hopefully, this one will not shatter into something worse.

“Dream…?” he echoes, his delicate features knitting with confusion. His voice carries a faint, hesitant tremor. “I-I suppose it could be… I mean, I had fallen asleep before this, but…” He trails off, staring at the ground as if the answer might be written there. “But I don’t think this is a dream. It’s… uuuh…”

The broken way he speaks drags your attention back to him. You shoot him an equally puzzled look, brow furrowed. “Huh? I… what? W-What do you mean?”

He leans back a little, one hand coming up to rub at his chin. His eyes search the space between you, clearly trying to form an explanation.

“I don’t understand what’s been happening recently…” he says at last, voice low and unsteady. “First, you disappeared. Then I woke up, and everything seemingly repeated. And the worst part is… only I remember it.”

He pauses, breath catching in his throat, his hands curling together nervously. “And then… someone replaced you—Penelope. And she… sheee…” His voice cracks softly, as though even the name tastes strange.

“Hold on.” You raise both hands to the sides of your pounding head, pressing your palms against your temples as if you can hold your thoughts together.

His words thrum in your skull like an echo chamber. What is he even saying? What is this dream turning into?

Aurelio stays kneeling, his expression caught between worry and confusion, his long fingers fidgeting against one another.

“Can you… step back your words a bit?” you finally manage, lowering your hands and looking at him with a wary expression.

You’re trying to understand, trying to piece together what your mind is creating, but everything feels too vivid. Maybe all of the stress is finally breaking into your dreams.

“It’s all very puzzling,” Aurelio says softly, his voice trembling as though it might shatter. He inches a little closer to you, but his fingers hesitate in the air, never quite touching your skin. “I-I just want to know first… you do remember what happened, right? Between us? ...Everything?”

You let out a weak, humorless chuckle that escapes like a sigh.

“Yeah, of course. It feels like it's only happened yesterday when I met you. And I wished… I wished I could meet you again.” Your voice trails off, quieter, almost swallowed by the air itself.

But not like this. Not in… whatever this is. Your eyes drift away, scanning your surroundings.

The forest feels familiar—the air smells the same, the dapples of light between the trees fall in the same pattern as before. You could swear you’ve stood here once, long ago, in his tale. But then again, forests always look alike to you, don’t they?

“I… this is me!” Aurelio’s voice suddenly hardens, desperate, and his hands shoot up to cradle your face, forcing you to look back at him. His palms are warm and trembling. “It’s not in your head—it’s not a dream. I know it’s not in my head too. Dreams... they don’t feel like this—I would know.” His thumb brushes against your cheek with a gentle stroke, his eyes searching yours for an anchor.

“When we came closer to your glowing journal… it took you—and it—to somewhere. I don’t know where... Then, moments later, I felt this pain in my head, like someone was tearing memories from me. The next thing I knew, I woke up on the morning of my twenty-second birthday and everything seemingly started again. But instead of you, it was Princess Penelope I met in the forest. She braved the Moors like you… but s-she killed Maleficent! And Queen Le—Mother, didn't even say a thing about her friend's death yet her eyes... they mourn.”

His voice breaks, cracking under the weight of his words. His hands slide from your cheeks to his temples as though trying to hold his mind together.

“Maleficent’s dead—and no one remembers you...” His shoulders shake as he continues. “No one! I thought.. I was losing my mind. But I kept thinking about you... dreaming about you. Because I know in my heart you were real—not just a figment of my imagination.”

You struggle keep up with his abundance of nonsensical words that continuously keep falling out of his mouth. He's frantic and confused—like you, but...

This… this is impossible. How could something like that happen? How could he even do this when he's not real to begin with? His life repeating? The thought gnaws at you, it's aching familiar however—

...

You don’t even know what to believe or think of this anymore.

“[Name]…?” His voice softens again as he calls for you, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts.

“How…?” The question slips out of your mouth before you can stop it, meant more for yourself than him.

“I-I don’t know!” His voice trembles with frustration. “Where did that journal take you? Is it even a journal, like you said? Is this what’s been troubling you—the thing you said was ‘difficult for me to understand’?” His words tumble over each other, his desperation laid bare.

He has so many questions, and so do you. But neither of you have answers.

Is this really a dream? Or something else entirely? You groan softly, pressing your palm against your forehead. You wouldn’t even know how to explain it if you tried.

“I really can’t comprehend it…” you murmur, leaning back against the rough bark of the tree.

If you think about it too much, you feel as though you’ll never wake up. You close your eyes, exhaling long and slow.

Aurelio hums softly, and then—not moments later—you feel his body press gently against yours. Your eyes snap open. He’s warm, solid, the faint beating of his heart pulsing against your chest. It’s too detailed for a dream.

“It’s alright…” he mumbles, his breath ghosting against the crook of your neck. “I’m just glad you’re here.” The words are quiet but heavy, filled with a fragile hope. "That you really did exist..."

Hesitantly, your arms rise and wrap around his slender waist, almost afraid he might vanish if you hold him too tightly.

“…Where are you right now?” you ask, your voice soft, trying to enjoy the moment.

Whether he’s the real Aurelio or only your dream, it doesn’t matter right now.

He glances sideways at you, then closes his eyes, answering slowly. “I’m in the Moors, hiding… They’ll probably find me soon with the help of the fairies, but the fae folk are helping me too.” He nudges his head a little closer, making your breath hitch. “I wish I could come to you.”

“I… I think it’s best not to. I don’t even think it’s possible.” He only hums at your reply, but you can feel the weight of his longing.

You wouldn’t even know what to do if you saw him in Cindereli’s tale—or Winter Weiss for that matter. At that point, you might just start losing your hair.

“And where are you, right now?” Aurelio asks gently, tossing your question back to you. His eyes search yours, as though he might find the answer written in them.

You hesitate, your lips parting before the truth falters on your tongue.

"I’m… somewhere very far away.” The words are vague, flimsy, but it’s all you can give. "I'm not quite certain, really...." In truth, you don’t even know where Cindereli’s tale takes place, and even if you did, telling him feels dangerous—like pulling at a thread you shouldn’t touch.

He doesn’t press further, which surprises you. Instead, he lowers his gaze slightly, his next question heavy with yearning. “Can you… come back?”

The simplicity of his words makes your chest tighten painfully. Can you? You haven’t actually tried. You’ve never tested whether the book will obey your will, whether you could force it to take you to another tale—or even back to your world.

The thought sends a sharp pang through your skull, a headache building until it throbs mercilessly. You groan softly and push the thought away before it consumes you.

“I’m not sure…” you whisper, your voice weak, “but I wish I could.”

From the corner of your eye, you catch the way his face twists into a faint scowl. He hides it quickly, but the disappointment lingers in his expression, etched into the corners of his lips and the shadow in his eyes.

“Hm… I suppose this is enough,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost resigned.

His arms, which have been slowly curling around you, tighten just slightly—as though he is afraid you might slip away too soon.

“I shouldn’t yearn for more.” The words sound like an attempt to soothe himself, but you can hear the lie in them, clear as the beating of his heart against your chest.

So it goes like that. The two of you remain pressed together beneath the tree, sunlight weaving through the leaves above and spilling warmth across your skin. For a fleeting moment, the world feels still. You allow yourself to lean into him, your body loosening with quiet relief.

Your eyes grow heavy. Slowly and steadily, the weight of sleep tugs at you. Aurelio’s warmth fades, but before it became a distant memory. You felt a warm pressure just at the corner of your lips and someone speaking softly, almost solemnly...

"I hope to see you again [Name]... even if it's in my dreams."

Touch, sound, and even the beat of his heart begins to blur. Then, with a final slip into numbness, everything disappears.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Aurelio leaned closer to you, his brows furrowed as he studied the strange glow pulsing from your journal. His voice came soft but edged with concern. “What’s wrong with it?”

Your throat tightened, your eyes fixed on the shifting light. “I… I-I don’t know…” The words slipped out as barely more than a whisper.

He glanced at you quickly, searching your face for any clue, but you are just as lost as he was. The unknown pressed down like a weight between you both. Neither of you had any answers, only the fear of what might happen next.

Slowly, almost against your will, you inched closer to the book. The glow intensified, washing over your hands as you reached for it.

He stiffened, his mouth opening in protest. He had only just begun to accept that magic exists at all, he didn't know what to feel about it—it did nearly cost him eternal damnation. Now here you are, reaching for the very thing brimming with it.

The very moment your fingers touched the cover.

The world erupted.

A violent flash of light bursts from the book’s pages, blinding, consuming, and devouring everything around it with brilliance. Aurelio threw an arm up to shield his eyes, his heart lurching.

“—[NAME]!!” His voice cracked as he stumbled forward, hand outstretched, desperate to grab hold of you and hopefully pull you away.

But when his fingers close around empty air, dread twisted in his chest.

The light receded, leaving silence. The room was empty. The book was gone... and so were you.

“[Name]?” His voice trembled as he scanned the chamber, his breath quickening.

He rushed into the hallway, calling for you again, but the stone corridors echo back with nothing but the hollow sound of his own footsteps.

Panic clawed up his throat as he stumbled back into the room. He had lost you and he didn't know what to nor what even happened to you. Maybe Maleficent knows... yes, maybe she could—

His thoughts cut off as agony exploded through his skull.

“Agh!” He collapsed to his knees, clutching both sides of his head, a ragged cry tearing from his throat.

His vision spun. His mind felt as though it was being ripped apart, something precious being ripped from him.

Your image blurred. Your voice faded. Even your name begun to slip through his grasp, dissolving like water under the unforgiving sun.

“No…” His lips barely form the word before his body slackened.

His chest heaved, and the world around him drifted away into shadow.

.

.

.

The morning comes bright and golden. Sunlight spilled through the curtains of a small cottage, catching on dust motes that dance lazily in the beams.

Aurelio stirred, blinking against the soft glow. From the sill, birds trill their cheerful notes, their tiny chests puffed with pride as if welcoming him into a new day. His lips curved faintly in response, as though nothing at all was amiss.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

In the grand dining hall, laughter had been flowing easily. Maleficent sat beside Queen Leah, a cup of red wine poised elegantly in her hand.

She took a sip and instantly grimaced, her sharp features twisting in distaste. “Ugh! Mortals actually enjoy this swill? It’s vile.” Her voice dripped with disdain as she sets the glass down with a sharp clink.

Queen Leah lifted a hand to her lips, trying and failing to hide her giggle. “You’ve never had wine before? Or any kind of liquor?”

“Of course not! And I never will again,” Maleficent hissed, folding her arms with a snap. “No wonder your kind lives such short lives.”

Another laugh slipped from the queen. Her dark eyes twinkle with amusement. “Perhaps… but not all tastes are so dreadful, you know. One day you might find something you like.”

The fairy only hummed in response, her lips curving faintly downward. For a brief while, the atmosphere remains warm and light, the two old friends enjoying a rare moment of peace.

Then it striked.

A chorus of cries shattered the hall. Nobles clutched their heads, voices cracking as pain sears through them.

But one pain extended above all.

Maleficent dropped to her knees, one clawed hand clutching her chest. The agony was like a blade driven straight through her heart, her breath tearing raggedly from her throat.

“Ngh—!”

“Mal!” Queen Leah’s voice trembled, weak, as she collapsed beside her. Her gloved hand grasped at the fairy’s shoulder. “Uaagh...” Her body gave out, falling limp against the cold stone floor.

The sight tear through Maleficent worse than the pain itself. She dragged herself closer, her own body trembling violently. Her eyes burn with anguish as she reached for her friend.

"Leah..." Her voice broke, trembling with the weight of desperation.

Her skeletal fingers stretched toward her dearest friend, but before they can even brush against Leah’s skin, the world swayed and spun violently. Her body weakened, her strength slipping from her like sand through an open palm.

Her vibrant emerald eyes fixated on Queen Leah, who lie barely clinging to life, her gaze distant and fading like the last light of a dying star. That fragile, fleeting image of Leah was all Maleficent saw before the void swallowed her whole.

.

.

.

Maleficent blinked, a child waking within the safety of her Rowan tree. The Moors greet her with their brilliance and sunlight filtering through lush leaves, dappling the forest floor in a dance of gold and green.

She stretched her tiny limbs high above her head, yawning wide. The air here was so sweet and pure, filling her lungs with promise. It was a bright and cheerful day for a horned fae like she.

.

.

.

The golden-haired girl groanned, wrinkling her nose as harsh sunlight spilled through the window and striked her square in the face. She quickly dragged her pillow over her head, muffling her breath beneath the fabric.

“Leah?” A muffled voice drifts up from below—the warm, gentle sound of her mother. “Leah, wake up now! Breakfast is ready!”

Another groan escapes her throat, louder this time, thick with the stubbornness of youth. The pillow tumbled to her side as she sprawled across the bed, her curls sticking to her cheek.

More than anything, she wanted to sink deeper into her blankets, to stay in the sweet warmth of her dreams.

“Leaaah!” Her mother’s voice sharpened with insistence.

She scowled, the corners of her lips tugging down as she forced herself upright.

"I'm uuup! Augh... stupid mornings—I wish I could just sleep all the time!" With sluggish motions, she peeled herself from the comfort of her bed, every inch of her body resisting the call of the morning.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

A low groan escapes you as your eyelids peel open, heavy with fatigue. The morning sun spills brightly into the chamber, the air already alive with warmth and birdsong, but none of it reaches you. If anything, you feel more drained than when you closed your eyes.

Those dreams… first the Queen, her cold words lingering in your mind like a shadow, and then Aurelio, with his voice so vivid and too real. You stare at the carved ceiling above, your chest tightening.

Was it real? Could it be? The idea seems impossible... A character reaching out to you inside a dream? You grimace, the thought making your stomach twist. It sounds too far-fetched, the rambling of a fever dream. Not to mention all the things Aurelio told you in that said dream...

And yet… part of you doubts yourself.

You rub at your temple. Perhaps it’s all the endless thinking about this book, about the lives you’ve altered and the paths you’ve disrupted. The weight of it all gnaws at you. Maybe what you need isn’t more answers—but air, space, or something simpler. A moment to enjoy yourself, just for once.

After all, in this tale, you are spared. No lives to take. No kisses to give. The story is meant to move on its own.

With a heavy sigh, you push yourself upright. The decision is made: you will go back to town today. You smooth down your clothes, finger-combing through your hair in a quick attempt to look presentable, and slip to the door. As you crack it open, you catch sight of a familiar figure.

The maid approaches, balancing a tray of food in her hands. Her eyes widen when she sees you already awake.

“Your Highness!” she greets, a little too loudly, though her tone is warm. “I was about to wake you.”

“Well, you’ve got good timing!” You beam at her, stepping aside and gesturing for her to enter. Your cheerfulness catches her off guard—her brows twitch with surprise, her steps uncertain as she crosses into the room. “I’ll be going outside again, and… I need you to pretend to be me.”

“A-Again…?” Her voice falters, hesitation dripping through the cracks.

You pause, the sudden weight of guilt settling in your chest. Maybe she only agrees because she has no choice—because your status forces her hand.

You clear your throat, softening your tone, “Or don’t, it’s perfectly fine. I-It’s risky, I get it. I don’t want you to be caught and punished for my actions.” You mutter the words quickly, taking the tray gently from her hands and setting it on the bedside table, eager to release her of the burden.

“Oh no! It’s fine, Your Highness,” she replies quickly, her voice carrying reassurance.

“Hey,” you say softly, pulling out the chair by the small table and sitting down. The food smells inviting, though your appetite wavers. “It’s alright to decline. I’m certain I can reason with my… father.” You lift a bite to your lips, forcing yourself to eat. “Thank you for bringing me breakfast.”

“Truly, Your Highness, it’s alright with me.” She clasps her hands together tightly, as though anchoring herself. “I… I owe you for the silver coins you gave me yesterday. They were more than enough to help my little brother.”

Your fork stills. Slowly, you look up at her, caught off guard by the tremble in her voice.

“But please don’t mistake me,” she adds quickly, shaking her head. “I ask for nothing more. I only want you.. to seek your own fulfillment.”

The room falls quiet, her words lingering in the air. You sit there, watching her, until the corners of your lips curve into a small, grateful smile. Setting your food back onto the tray, you rise to your feet and cross the room. Without overthinking, you wrap your arms around her.

She stiffens at first, frozen in surprise. But then, slowly, her shoulders ease, and she returns the embrace with gentleness.

“Thank you…” Your voice breaks softly against her shoulder.

“It’s the least I can do, Your Highness,” she murmurs back.

After you untangle your arms from the maid, you finish the rest of your breakfast in quick bites, hardly tasting the food. The weight of anticipation presses against your chest, and soon you are pulling off your royal garments and switching clothes with her.

She stands awkwardly in your attire, cheeks flushed, while you smooth down the simpler gown she has lent you. Before parting, you give her a last wave, wishing her luck. She bows quickly, wishing you in return a day of joy and safety.

Finally, you are free. Free to breathe air beyond stone walls, free to wander streets without watchful eyes, and—perhaps—free to find Cindereli. If he is not too busy, that is. You sigh to yourself. Chances are, he is. Still, the thought alone tugs you forward.

The early sun greets you the moment you step outside, its golden warmth wrapping your skin without burning. Life hums in the kingdom. Merchants shout, horses clatter down the cobblestones, and the scent of bread and fruit carries on the breeze.

You already know where you want to go first: Lathia’s bakery. The problem is, without Cindereli to guide you through the bustle, you are left weaving through the crowds like a stranger. Luckily, your nose leads you—sweet, buttery aromas mingling with yeast and spice. You simply follow the scent.

“Lathia!” you call when you spot her behind her stall.

The bubbly woman glances up and her round face lights instantly with joy.

“Ah, [Name]! Good to see you again.” She waves you closer, flour still dusting her hands. “Here to buy another apple pie, hmm?”

“Not today,” you answer, though your stomach betrays you with a quiet growl. The meal you ate earlier feels as though it has vanished into thin air. “I just had breakfast—maybe later.” But then you remember, with a sinking heart, that you didn’t bring any coins with you. No later at all... you curse yourself silently for being so careless.

“Oh, that’s fine,” she says easily, leaning her chin on her plump hand, eyes narrowing playfully. “What brought you here then?”

“I wanted to see how you’re doing… and if Eli—Cindereli I mean—might have dropped by.”

At the slip of his name, Lathia chuckles knowingly, her grin widening. “No, he hasn’t... He doesn’t come here often, you know.”

You hum softly, fingers tapping against the wooden counter. “Yeah, he did mention he doesn’t have much time to see the town.” The words taste heavy, and you push them away with a sigh. “Well, it’s nice seeing you again. I’ll just be wandering around.”

“Aye, but wait!” she calls, halting you before you can turn. Her voice lowers conspiratorially. “If you really want to see him, I could tell you where the Tremaine Manor is. Oooh, but I warn ya—those folk up there aren’t friendly. Not one bit!” Her expression twists into a scowl at the mention of the name.

“That’s.. fine with me,” you answer, spinning back toward her, interest sparking bright in your chest. “Where is it?”

She raises her arm and points toward the far edge of the town. “Up there. See that old, gloomy house? That’s where they live—with Cindereli. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll catch him in the garden, tending it. But mind you—don’t let those brothers or the Lady herself catch sight of you!”

A grin spreads across your lips, excitement thrumming in your veins. “Promise I won’t. Thanks for showing me, Lathia.”

She nods firmly, though her smile softens. “Don’t promise it to me, girl. Promise it to yourself. You don’t want an earful from them!”

The two of you share a laugh at that, the sound warm against the chatter of the marketplace. But even as the moment lingers, your eyes drift toward the looming shadow of the manor on the hill.

Oh, don’t worry, Lathia. You have something up your sleeve for that... one that no body will expect.

And so you make your way toward the Tremaine’s towering château, its pale stone walls casting long shadows across the gravel path. From the gates, the place looks lifeless—no Cindereli or anyone at all.

You sigh softly, shoulders sagging. You had imagined catching even the briefest glimpse of him, maybe a chance to speak, but luck isn’t so kind today. Well then—time to play your ace card.

You outstretch your hand, willing the warmth to flow through your veins. The blood in your body hums, tingling with a strange fire as magic responds to your call. A sheet of light forms between your fingers, growing wider and wider until it ripples like a blanket.

Its brilliance forces you to squint and turn your head away for a heartbeat, before you flick both wrists. The glow bends and refracts, folding in on itself until it disappears from the naked eye.

You smile faintly.

Of all your power can do, this is the one you're most fond of—the ability to vanish from sight, to cover yourself in a shield that fools the world. You drape the blanket of light over yourself, and though you can no longer see it, you can feel it brushing against your skin like a veil.

To others, you are gone. To yourself, the world remains as clear as ever. This isn't the first time you've used it though, but back in your world it isn't much of use when they have enchanted objects that'll glow if there are unseen forces near it—like you, right now. That was how Eliot could block your invisible attacks.

Besides that, the other flaw of this power of yours—there is no way to tell if you are perfectly hidden, if some small part of you still peeks out of the illusion.

Well, it will have to do.The iron gates stand locked, but such things pose little obstacle. You press your palm to the air and conjure a stairway of light, the steps shimmering faintly beneath your feet as you climb.

At the top, you cast one last glance toward the town behind you. So much for wandering the town. But then again—isn’t sneaking into the Tremaine Manor just another kind of adventure?

Your feet carry you to the manor doors, nerves and excitement twisting inside your stomach. What might you discover here? Will you catch a glimpse of the little mice who always scurry to Cindereli’s aid in the story? Or that black cat, Lucifer? Maybe even Lady Tremaine herself.

You stop before the heavy wooden door and place your hand on the latch, whispering a silent prayer it isn’t locked. You push gently.

Click!

“Yes…!” you breathe, barely a sound.

Luck is on your side after all. And even if it hadn’t been, you could have tried shaping a key from light—though you’re not certain if it would have worked.

The door groans as it swings open, and you peek through the narrow crack. The entrance hall lies empty, polished floors reflecting the faint glow of morning seeping in from tall windows. With swift, careful steps, you slip inside, easing the door shut behind you until it meets the frame without a sound.

Although, if you did you doubt it'll be heard because somewhere upstairs comes a noise so wretched and ear-piercing you nearly wince.

You groan under your breath. “What. Is. That…?”

It’s a screeching, gasping racket, like someone strangling a weeping child. The noise grates against your ears, pulling a grimace onto your face.

Maybe that's the Tremaine sisters—or brothers like what Lathia mentioned—practicing in the music room.

“It’s way worse than what I read,” you mutter bitterly, rubbing your temple.

Still, you push forward, steps light and cautious as you take in the grandeur of the manor. The grand stairway glimmers beneath the soft glow of the chandelier, every banister polished to perfection. Clearly, Cindereli keeps this place spotless.

He must have worked tirelessly to make it so pristine. But where is he now? This house is far too vast—he could be anywhere!

You stand still, debating which direction to take first when a voice drifts down the corridor. It is soft at first, then grows clearer, filling the empty hall with a gentle melody.

“Oh, sing, sweet nightingale… Sing, sweet nightingale…”

You turn quickly toward the sound, your heart giving a startled flutter. There he is—Cindereli. He walks slowly, balancing a bucket of bubbling water in one hand, while a ragged cloth hangs limply over his shoulder.

He sets the bucket down with care, a few droplets spilling onto the polished floor before he kneels beside it. The sight of him working makes your chest ache.

The grand stairway already gleams, the chandelier overhead scattering light across spotless tiles, yet he still prepares to clean!

A heavy sigh escapes him, his shoulders sagging. It takes all your restraint not to break the invisibility shroud to rush to his side and drag him out of this prison-like manor.

From his pocket, he pulls out a pair of worn gloves. As he slips them over his hands, you catch a glimpse of the bandages wrapped underneath.

With practiced motions, he grabs the cloth from his shoulder, dips it into the soapy water, and wrings it out. All the while, he hums the same gentle tune.

You really feel bad for him. But you know soon enough he'll have a place he can call home.

But your thoughts break when something else catches your eye. On the staircase, a black figure emerges: Lucifer. His fur looks almost too fluffy for a cat with such a sharp, cruel scowl. His tail flicks with irritation, and his piercing green eyes narrow.

What unsettles you most is that his gaze lands directly on you. His pupils thin like blades, and his stare cuts through the air as if he sees straight through your shroud of light.

Panic pricks your skin. He can’t see you—but he can certainly still smell you.

With a shrill meow, Lucifer lunges forward, his claws scraping against the floor as he rushes straight at you.

“Lucifer!” Cindereli springs to his feet, quickly moving between you and the oncoming cat. His arms spread wide as he blocks the animal’s path. “What’s gotten into you? Go! Go back, I don’t want you dirtying the place up!”

Lucifer hisses, tail thrashing, but after a tense moment he pulls back. He turns, padding up the stairs with a sharp swish of his tail, though his glowing eyes remain fixed on the spot where you stand. The glare promises he has not forgotten.

Cindereli exhales a long, tired sigh.

He rubs his brow with one gloved hand and mutters under his breath, “Old cat… crazy cat…” With a small shake of his head, he kneels again beside the bucket and resumes his quiet work, as though nothing has happened.

“Always tipping over buckets, always making a mess…” Cindereli sighs heavily, his voice weighed down with frustration as he continues muttering complaints about the cat. “Always chasing rats, fighting everything that moves…” He continues to curse the cat bat the words had grown barely louder than a gust of wind.

The sight pulls a quiet laugh out of you before you even realize it, soft and fleeting—but the sound betrays you. His head snaps up immediately, bright blue eyes sharp and alert, searching the empty air around him. For a moment, he looks right in your direction, his gaze clear as a summer sky.

“…Hello?” His voice trembles with uncertainty, as if half-expecting someone to answer back.

But no response comes, and when the silence stretches, he lowers his head again, moving reluctantly back to his work. Only now, he no longer hums that sweet tune.

"Stupid." You scold yourself silently, a flare of guilt stinging your chest.

You nearly reveal yourself just for the sake of a laugh. Deciding it is best to leave and explore the manor, you make a note to avoid any more animals—especially Lucifer, who clearly sees through your tricks.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Loud, heavy knocks rattle against the wooden door, startling you both.

"Now what?” Cindereli hisses under his breath.

He pulls off his wet gloves with quick, practiced motions, hanging them neatly on the rim of the bucket before straightening his back. His footsteps are brisk and steady as he marches toward the door.

“Open in the name of the king!” A rough voice bellows from the other side.

Your stomach twists—you know this moment. This is the very announcement King Frederick promised yesterday: the royal ball, scheduled for tonight.

Cindereli hums lightly as he unlatches the door. It creaks open to reveal a short, round man with snow-white hair and a flushed face. From the satchel slung over his shoulder, the messenger produces an envelope sealed with a thick layer of crimson wax, the royal sigil stamped firmly into it.

“An urgent message from His Imperial Highness,” the man declares, his voice stiff with formality.

Cindereli accepts the letter with both hands, bowing his head politely. “Hmm… thank you.”

The messenger wastes no time, already heading off to the next home—perhaps the next street, perhaps straight back to the castle. You can only guess.

He closes the door and turns the envelope over in his fingers, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I wonder what this is…” he murmurs.

A sudden rustling sound breaks the quiet. Tiny squeaks echo faintly behind you. When you glance back, you almost gasp aloud. Two mice scurry across the floor—one plump and round like a little ball, the other thin and wiry, darting quick as a shadow.

Is that... Jaq and Gus? Well... they're certainly are very different from what your mother wrote. They don’t wear bright red or green shirts with cute little hats matching their top, nor do they stand on two legs and chatter like people. These are simply mice, ordinary as any others which is... unfortunate, you were really hoping to meet actual talking animals.

Cindereli lifts his head from the envelope and smirks, speaking to the tiny creatures as if they understand. “Do you think she sent this?”

Your brows knit together. She?

He taps the letter against his palm, his smile wry. “Oh, I know he said it’s from the king—but you know her…”

Your heart stutters. Does he mean you? Why would he expect a letter from you as the princess? You had presented yourself as nothing more than a fellow commoner, a stranger who happened to cross his path. So why…?

Unless Prince Charming and Cinderella had met before the tale you know began—still that wouldn't make sense! Then again with the changes... who knows at this point?

Cindereli shakes his head after a beat, the smirk fading. “I think it’s best to… tell this to the Tremaines. I don’t want to fall into delusions.”

With that, he brushes past you, unaware of how close he passes to where you stand. The two mice scurry after him, tiny clawed feet tapping against the polished floor, loyal as shadows.

You trail after them, careful not to step too close. The blanket of light clings to you, weightless yet strangely heavy, as if the more you move the more it threatens to betray you.

Every step up the polished floor feels risky, but the grand staircase makes no sound beneath your weight. Not a single squeak gives you away.

The further you go, the louder the racket becomes. The shrieking, the clashing—it is less music and more torture to the ears. You forgot they are even in there, practicing... it's like your mind had just blocked it out.

You hesitate, wondering if it is worth following at all when you already know what is bound to unfold. Still, curiosity wins. You push forward, just in case fate decides to twist.

“You clumsy! You did it on purpose!” a harsh voice bellows from the music room, so sharp it almost rattles the doors.

One of the Tremaine sons, no doubt.

More bickering spills out, their words tumbling over each other like a childish quarrel. You glance toward Cindereli, who smirks faintly as though the sound of their endless squabbles is an old joke to him, one he has learned to endure rather than laugh at.

Then it comes—her voice.

“Boys, boys,” Lady Tremaine croons, but even through the muffled wood her tone slices through you, cold and cutting. "Remember... above all, self-control." That voice alone demands obedience, and you shiver in spite of yourself.

Cindereli exhales softly, shoulders sinking.

“Here goes nothing…” he murmurs. With hesitation clear in every motion, he raises his bandaged hand and knocks.

The reply is immediate and vicious.

“Yes?!” The words thunder out as Lady Tremaine slams her hands onto the piano keys.

The discordant cry that follows makes you wince. Her glare pierces straight through the door, sharp enough that you feel it settle on your skin as though it finds you too.

The door creaks open and her eyes fall on Cindereli. They grow darker. “Cindereli! I warned you never to interrupt us. Unless you want me to remind you again...”

You look at him quickly. His lips pull down, corners heavy with defeat, the brightness he wore moments ago drained away.

"This just arrived from the palace,” he says flatly, his voice stripped of warmth.

The sound of it catches you off guard—it is not the same gentle tone you heard earlier, nor the cheerful one from yesterday. It is hollow, dulled down to nothing.

“From the palace?!” Both Tremaine brothers shout in unison.

They lunge forward, flailing arms and greedy hands reaching for the envelope. You stumble a step back, heart jumping at the thought of them accidentally brushing the blanket and exposing you.

"Give it here!” the higher-pitched voice demands as the red-haired one snatches the letter right from Cindereli’s grip.

His curly auburn hair bounces with each furious movement, his lilac tunic and sangria vest only making him look more ridiculous. He is certainly Anastasia's male counterpart.

“Let me have it!” The other, darker-haired and deeper-voiced, snaps back.

He wears the same style as his brother but in pistachio green and dull olive. His movements are rougher, his scowl sharper, though the noise he makes is just as unbearable. He, on the other hand, is Drizella's.

They grapple, tugging at the parchment so wildly you half-expect it to tear in half. It's like you're watching two little spoiled children ready to kill one another for something so simple. But they're kind of like that, aren't they?

“I will read it.” Lady Tremaine’s voice cuts through the commotion, smooth and cool like the edge of a knife.

The brothers freeze instantly, their squabble dissolving into silence as the letter is surrendered.

...

Then again, you suppose it's not entirely their fault why they're like this—the blame lies heavily on Lady Tremaine's shoulder. If not for her, they may never be like this.

Children are not born cruel—they are shaped as one. And Lady Tremaine has shaped her sons with an iron hand and a poison tongue, molding them into this... disaster.

It's easy to say, "But don't they know it's wrong to treat someone like the dust under their shoes?" However, the thing is, for them it is normal—it is how it should be or their actions are right because that's what they saw and still currently seeing.

In a way, they're also the victims of Lady Tremaine's yearning for... power? Riches? What does she want to gain from all of this?

...Well, that beside for now, the important question, do they or at least one of them have a chance of realizing as well as admitting fault?

You doubt Lady Tremaine will—she's like the Queen, but the brothers... only time could tell, you suppose. Although you hope one of them will realize it even if they cannot put it to words.

Lady Tremaine clears her throat, the sharp sound slicing through the quiet like the edge of a blade, and it pulls your attention back to her. Her almost feline eyes narrow, skimming over the letter in her hand.

With each word she reads, her expression shifts—her brows twitch, her lips part slightly, and then her gaze hardens. The shock growing in her features is subtle but unmistakable.

“Well…” she begins, her voice smooth and deliberate, “there’s to be a ball.”

“A ball!” one of the Tremaine brothers screeches, the pitch so shrill and girlish that it makes you wince.

“In honor of Her Highness, the princess,” Lady Tremaine continues, her tone low and commanding, as though she has already decided the role her family will play. She ignores the squeals and interruptions, her lips curling upward. “And, by royal command, every eligible magu is to attend.”

That smile—thin, wide, and uncanny—stretches across her face. It unsettles you more than if she hadn’t smiled at all.

“Why, that’s us!” The male Drizella chirps eagerly, his voice high with self-importance.

“And I’m so eligible…” While Anastasia's counterpart sighs dreamily, turning toward the window where the distant towers of the castle gleam under the morning sun.

His expression softens with longing, though it only makes his features look more absurd.

What are their names anyway?

Beside you, a heavy sigh slips into the air. You glance over to see Cindereli, his mouth set in a grimace. His blue eyes are dim with resignation. You feel awful for him to what will happen to him just to get to that ball.

A part of you aches to help him, like it did for Winter Weiss' naïveness. You want to do something—anything—before he suffers the humiliation and despair you know is waiting.

But you cannot.... you can't linger here for too long, not when the maid you entrusted is still disguised in your place back in the castle. If she is caught, her life will be at risk. That responsibility shackles you even as your heart pushes toward him.

You turn to leave, hoping distance will make this moment less painful. But then his voice stops you.

“I’ll leave you to it…” he mutters quietly, almost under his breath, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“Not coming, Cindereli?” Lady Tremaine’s voice, rich with mockery disguised as softness, cuts through the air.

“…No. I have… much to tend here in the manor.” His reply is faint, strangled almost, and though he lowers his voice, you hear the murmur he whispers only to himself. “Even if I want to…”

“Hmmm... Oh what a shame.” Lady Tremaine hums, her tone dripping with false pity followed by a dismissive chuckle. “You’ll miss out, but there are other times.”

Her words feel like a door slamming shut.

Cindereli leaves the room, his steps brisk, and you quickly follow before the Tremaine brothers’ clumsy feet nearly barrel into you. They rush out like children chasing sweets, their laughter echoing obnoxiously down the hall.

Outside the music room, small shapes scurry—his mice friends wait for him faithfully, pattering along beside his shoes. But his hands, tightly balled into fists, betray his emotions more clearly than words ever could.

You wonder what storms rage in his head. You expected him to beg, to argue, to plead for just the chance to attend. But no—he has accepted it, swallowed their cruelty as though it is normal, as though he has no right to fight against it.

And then something surprises you further. Instead of heading down the stairs toward the entrance hall to resume scrubbing, Cindereli takes a different path. His shoulders are tense as he moves toward another corner of the manor. You watch as he stops at a narrow door.

When he pushes it open, it creaks loudly, revealing a dark stairwell leading upward. The attic.

He doesn’t bother closing the door behind him.

You hesitate, your pulse quickening. The wood of the old steps looks treacherous, and you know they will groan beneath the slightest weight. If you follow, your presence might be revealed.

Yet… this is not how the story is supposed to go.

And so, curiosity drives you forward. With careful, deliberate steps, you climb after him, each squeak of the wood making your heart race.

“I hate it…” Cindereli’s voice drifts down to you, echoing faintly in the narrow stairwell. He’s climbed further ahead, his figure framed by the dim light above, but his words are clear. “I hate when they look at me like that—” he pauses, a bitter sound caught in his throat “—well, the brothers didn't even spare me a glance. It’s her.” His voice hardens at the last word.

He keeps speaking, while the two little mice struggle to clamber up the steep steps behind him. “The way she talks to me… the way her eyes glare at me—it makes me feel small.” He stops at the top landing, shoulders rising and falling with a heavy sigh.

“I can’t get used to it,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “It’s like every day it gets sharper than the last.” His bright blue eyes lower to his hands, bandaged tightly and trembling slightly. “I shouldn’t have clutched it…” he murmurs.

He turns the door handle and pushes it open. Like before, he doesn’t close it—thankfully, because that gives you a chance to slip in after him.

The two mice scramble to find a way onto his desk, their tiny claws clicking softly on the wooden surface as they climb. Cindereli walks straight to the desk, his movements slow, deliberate, like someone bracing for pain. He begins unwrapping his hands.

At first you expect nothing worse than calluses from all his cleaning, but as the cloth unwinds, its color shifts from faded yellow to dark maroon and your heart drops.

The last strip of bandage sticks to his skin, and he grits his teeth, pulling it away with a hiss. The wounds beneath are ugly—half-healed, half-fresh, raw where the flesh should be whole.

You stare, stunned. What caused that?! Lady Tremaine? Probably. There’s no other way. Could it be the brothers? They seem cruel but… you can’t say for sure.

This didn’t even happen in Cinderella’s story! You remember the original tale said she was abused, but only emotionally, not physically or at least your mother didn't wrote it. Yet here it is, right in front of you.

“Argh…” He twists his hands slowly, flexing and resting them, the motion stiff and painful. His mice friends draw closer, especially the thinner one—Jaq, you assume—like they’re trying to offer him comfort.

“I know, it looks awful,” he says, chuckling, but the sound holds no joy. “It’ll heal… don’t worry.” He reaches for a fresh bandage and starts wrapping his hands again, the clean cloth covering the angry red of his skin.

The mice suddenly squeak louder, standing upright and circling on the desk in frantic little loops.

“What…? The ball?” His eyes shift to them, narrowing. “I can’t.” They squeak louder still. “Okay… yes, I can—but I don’t have the clothes for it.”

Even with all of this happening, you can’t tear your gaze away from his hands. They pull you in so deeply you barely register what they’re discussing.

“My father’s clothes?” he repeats, pausing for a moment before shaking his head. “They’re out-fashioned. I’d stick out like a sore thumb and they’d recognize me before I even got a glance of her.”

The fat mouse scurries off somewhere and returns dragging a sewing book, squeaking eagerly.

“This is all cute, Gus… but I…” Cindereli hesitates, the words caught on his tongue. After a few seconds he finishes, softer now. “I don’t know. Even if I fix it and sneak out, the ball might be over before I get to the castle. It’s a long walk from here, and the Tremaines will take the carriage. They’ll never let me attend, so… I’ll just be here.”

Both mice lower their heads, their whiskers drooping.

“I appreciate your effort… but I should head back.”

He turns to leave the room. But as he moves, his shoulder brushes against you. The contact jolts you out of your trance like a spark.

“H-Huh?!” The sound escapes him.

Cindereli freezes. He turns, his bright eyes wide, his expression flickering between shock and fear. He looks around, searching for something—someone—but his gaze never stays on you.

You step back quickly, heart hammering. "Stupid."

He breathes heavily, glancing around the room again. “Wha… what was that?” he mutters under his breath. The mice turn tilt their tiny heads in confusion.

“Cindereli!” someone calls from below, the voice sharp and impatient.

“Cindereeeeeeli!” another follows, echoing up the stairwell.

The sound snaps his attention back. Without another glance, he hurries out of the room and down the stairs, leaving you and his furry companions alone.

You let out a long, shaky exhale you didn’t realize you were holding. The mice look toward where you stand, their tiny eyes glinting as if they sense something unseen.

You quickly cover your mouth with your hand. Alright. Time to go before you’re fully exposed.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

You leave the Tremaine manor as swiftly as you can, careful not to stir the wrong shadows. Every step feels heavier until the gates are behind you, and only then do you breathe out, your heart still pounding.

The thought of running into Lucifer chills you—without Cindereli around to hold him back, that cat would have no trouble exposing you.

Safely away from their property, you slip into a small secluded corner. The morning air feels different here, less suffocating, but still sharp against your skin. You carefully tug away the blanket of light, the veil that had been hiding you all this time.

At once, it dissolves from your shoulders, and you are visible again—no longer cloaked from the world.

That done, you begin your walk back toward the castle. Your steps drag a little, the hollowness in your stomach reminding you of what you left behind. The smell of fresh pastries from Lathia’s stand had clung to you earlier, warm and sweet, but you had no coin to spare.

Now your hunger really gnaws, your breakfast long burned away by all the tension that kept you on edge. Still, you push through, one thought keeping you steady: the maid.

You hadn’t even asked her name, yet she had already risked herself for you—twice. The first time may have been out of fear, but the second… no, this time she chose to help.

When you reach your chambers and push open the door, her head lifts immediately. She is sitting quietly on your bed, her posture straightening the moment her eyes find yours. She rises at once, bowing deeply.

“Princess [Name], you’re back.” Not a single question about your absence, no curiosity—only respect.

“Did anyone come in?” you ask, closing the door with care.

“No… none even approached your door, Your Highness,” she replies softly. Relief slips through you, though you keep your face composed. After all those close calls earlier, at least luck has not abandoned you completely.

“That’s good to hear,” you murmur, before tilting your head slightly. “Anyway… what is your name?”

Her eyes widen at the unexpected question. “M-My name..? It’s… Nadine.” Her voice is shy, uncertain, and her fingers fidget against each other, twisting restlessly.

You offer her a small smile. “Thank you again, Nadine. I promise, I won’t ask you to do anything risky like this again.”

Her expression trembles, but she bows once more. “But… if you do need it—I won’t mind, Your Highness. As I said this morning, you saved my little brother. Serving you is the least I can do in return.”

A sigh slips past your lips. You step closer, resting your hands gently on her shoulders. She stiffens under the touch, but you hold steady, your voice low.

“And if you’re caught… I don’t know if I could get you out of it. Think of your brother—if you're caught, he may never see you again.” It sounds harsh even to your ears, but better honesty than a false sense of safety.

Her gaze drops to the floor, lips pressing into a small frown. “I understand, Your Highness. I… I appreciate your concern.”

You share a faint smile together, fragile but genuine. Then, without another word, you change back into your proper clothes, the disguise no longer needed.

Nadine bows again, waves softly, and hurries out to catch up with her missed duties. You only hope her absence hasn’t stirred suspicion among the other maids.

Once she’s gone, silence folds over the room. You sink onto your bed, then fall back against the mattress, your body heavy with thought.

Cindereli…

The image of his hands haunts you—the raw wounds, the way he stared at them. The way he spoke about his family, if they could even be called that. It’s worse than you expected. Much worse.

He says he’s saving for a new home, but when will it ever be enough? And if he tries to leave, won’t they just drag him back?

A part of you aches to bring him here, to keep him safe with you. But you know what that would mean. You can already hear King Frederick’s voice, pressing, urging you to marry him.

You don’t want that pressure for Cindereli—or for yourself. A crown would weigh too heavily on either of you, perhaps enough to break you both.

You drag your hands down your face with a groan.

Tonight, the ball begins. You can only hope you’ll see him there, that it didn't change. Maybe... no hopefully by then, you’ll find a way to help him.

Characters & Info
✦ Twisted Tales [Extra]

Other Stories
✦ Divine Voice | Yandere.WHB x M.Reader
✦ My Dearest | Yandere.Alastor x M.Reader
✦ Solunar | Mythical.Yanderes x F.Reader

Chapter Text

꒰ა ACT IV: CHAPTER 3 ໒꒱

⋇⊰Glass Shoe⊱⋇

❥・Word Count: 11.0k

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

You pace restlessly across your room, the soft sound of your steps echoing in the quiet air. Your fingers fidget against each other, twisting and untwisting as you struggle to think of any way to help both Cindereli and yourself.

Yet, no matter how many ideas flicker through your mind, they all burn out the same way: running away seems like the only logical option.

Still, you doubt that’s what he wants. He’s never said it outright, but you can tell—he loves this place. Even if he barely goes outside, the way he speaks about this town reveals something tender beneath his words.

You’ve only ever been there with him once but you saw it already. He doesn’t want to leave; he just wants to belong here, to live freely without fear.

You sink down onto your bed, shoulders slumping as a sigh escapes your lips. You’re not sure how long you’ve been locked away in this room, but the dull ache in your temples tells you it’s been too long.

The headache has only worsened since you returned to the palace, a reminder of how tangled everything has become.

The Tremaines won’t let Cindereli go easily. They’ll hunt him down like a stray dog if he tries to escape. Lady Tremaine especially—who knows what she might do? Would she smear his name before King Frederick, make the King despise him? You can’t say for sure... although you're not going to be surprise if she did.

You’ve learned so much about these tales—each visit peeling back the glittering illusion and showing you what hides beneath. But in truth, you feel no wiser. You’re fumbling in the dark, like a child lost in the labyrinth streets. Every answer you find only breeds more questions.

Your gaze drifts toward the mattress, and a memory tugs faintly at your thoughts. Last night, in your dreams… you saw Aurelio—or at least, you think you did. He told you he was the real Aurelio, not a fragment your mind conjured.

Although... isn’t that exactly what a dream would say to make itself believable?

Even so… it felt too real. The air, his voice, the warmth of his hand—it all felt solid, like now. Back in his tale, you had convinced yourself it was all just a dream. But the way everything feels so detailed, so vividly alive, makes you doubt your own reasoning.

You press your palms against your temples, wincing as your head throbs. This is not going anywhere... you're merely going in circles.

Knock! Knock!

Two soft, deliberate taps sound from the door—each one spaced perfectly, as if rehearsed.

“His Majesty requests your presence,” a voice announces from the hallway, polite but firm. “He will not entertain any excuses, Your Highness.”

You exhale sharply, a mix of irritation and resignation leaving your chest. So much for thinking... The sun outside the window dips lower, painting streaks of orange and gold across the sky. You’re running out of time—and still, you have no plan.

You’ll just have to improvise when the moment comes. Hopefully, Cindereli will be at the ballroom tonight. If he isn’t… well, that’s a problem for later.

“Alright…” you murmur, standing and smoothing the wrinkles from your clothes. When you open the door, a butler stands waiting—his posture crisp and his face expressionless.

He bows slightly. “Please follow me, Your Highness.”

Without another word, he turns down the corridor, his steps measured and quiet. You follow, trailing behind him through the endless, echoing halls of the palace—each room grander and more unnecessary than the last.

What do royalties even do with such a big space? To show off their wealth? Isn't the crown in their head, the name they harbor, and how they're literally ruling an entire kingdom showcase their riches and power?

You don’t even realize you’ve arrived until you nearly bump into the butler’s back. You stop short, startled, just as a voice calls your name from inside the room.

“[Name]!”

The sound is sharp, almost rehearsed—too eager to be genuine. The butler opens the door wider, and there stands King Frederick, his rotund figure framed by the afternoon light spilling through the window. His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Why, you’ve been avoiding me, haven’t you?” he says with a light chuckle, but there’s malice hidden beneath the warmth of his tone.

"..."

“Well,” he continues with forced cheer, clapping his hands together, “I’m certain you’ve heard of it, but I’ve arranged a ball in your honor!” He steps out from behind his desk, his voice booming with false excitement. “It will be the most grand, magnificent! There will be many fine young men who may… interest you.”

"..."

His expression shifts, the pretense slipping away like a mask melting in the sun. He walks closer until the scent of his cologne hits you. He takes your hands in his own, his grip surprisingly tight for someone his age.

“Please, my daughter,” he says, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “People are beginning to talk. They whisper things—unkind things. I’m only trying to protect you from their cruel words.”

You let out a quiet breath. “If you say so…”

The truth is, you wouldn’t mind if your reputation were ruined. In fact, part of you would prefer it. If the nobility began to look down on you, if you were no longer the perfect royal daughter, maybe Lady Tremaine would lose interest in targeting Cindereli.

If your image shattered, she might see no value in him being associated with you. Her focus would shift to salvaging her own family’s reputation instead. It would make everything so much easier.

King Frederick’s fingers tighten suddenly around yours, his face darkening. “Why are you doing this?” he growls. “It’s deliberate, isn’t it? What has gotten into you? What curse has turned you this way?” He releases your hands roughly that it kind of hurts. “Did I fail you somehow? Is this because of your mother’s passing?”

Your eyes lower. Even here, your 'mother' is gone.

“No,” you answer quietly, “sometimes people are just… like this. You can’t force them to become what you want them to be.” He turns, startled, and you meet his eyes. “I have a life of my own, just as you do. A parent’s purpose is to guide, not to mold.”

His expression falters, the lines on his face deepening as he looks down at the polished marble floor. Silence stretches between you.

“You didn’t.. fail me,” you continue, your tone soft but firm. “I get it, this is how you and all the other royalties were raised through generations. There’s no book on how to be a parent, after all. But, you have to adjust—to branch out because everyone eventually will. I may not want to marry now but you can't say for certain in the future, all you can do is let me be.”

But you know at the end of the day, words are useless against many centuries of practice and molding. That's why arranged marriages are very common and pretty much a custom between those with power.

The irony also doesn’t escape you. Cindereli is trapped by those who force him to obey, to live as a servant in his own home, while you or more accurately, Prince Charming is shackled by a different kind of control—a royal father’s expectations.

Everyone here is trapped in someone else’s design. At least Cindereli managed to break free.

King Frederick exhales through his nose. “Go back to your quarters, [Name]. The next time I see you, you will be prepared for the ball.” His tone is cold, flat and leaves no room for argument.

You stand there for a long moment, staring at him as if searching for something human in his face, but there’s nothing left. Finally, you turn away.

The door closes with a soft click. You lean against it, the weight of exhaustion sinking into your shoulders as a sigh slips from your lips.

The butler stands just outside, waiting patiently. His eyes flick toward you, a flicker of concern beneath his calm exterior.

“Are you faring well, Your Highness?” he asks gently.

You manage a faint nod. “...Yeah.”

He hums quietly, though the look in his eyes betrays disbelief. “Very well. I shall inform the maids to assist you in preparing for the ball.”

You nod again, your thoughts scattered and heavy. His words barely register. Your mind feels too full, like it’s spilling over and all tangling together until you can barely breathe.

Maybe you're thinking too much... maybe you should just enjoy the moments for this is what you wished for, right?

...

However, you just can't help but question, you cannot ignore it like how you can't ignore their horrid fate. You just don't want anyone to suffer anymore especially if you can in some way help them. You want to be... that person you didn't have in your life—in your nurmerous lives.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

You hardly feel the maids’ touch as they move around you—pinning, brushing, dusting powder across your face. Their hands glide through your hair, weaving and twisting strands into something intricate and elegant.

All the while, you sit there unmoving, staring blankly at your reflection, your mind is far away.

Maybe… you should ruin your own reputation. If you were to make a scandal of yourself, if you were to fall out of grace, perhaps no one would pressure you to marry Cindereli.

He wouldn’t have to bear the weight of a crown or the endless scrutiny that comes with royalty. You could free him—free both of you.

Ooor... you could just ignore him altogether then again, could you truly stay away from him? Especially when you now he'll come back in that wretched house?

“Your Highness?” a soft voice calls, breaking through your thoughts.

“Huh?”

“Is it to your liking?” the maid asks, her tone careful but hopeful.

You turn your gaze back toward the mirror—and this time, you really look.

The person staring back at you feels like a stranger. Her skin glows with a soft sheen, her lips are tinted perfectly, and her hair glitters under the faint light with jeweled pins and threads of gold.

The sight almost startles you. You reach up, fingertips brushing your own cheek as if to make sure the reflection is real. You hardly ever see yourself this way, though you did once before you just really haven't looked carefully like now.

“O-Of course!” you say quickly, forcing a small, bright smile. “You’ve all done wonderfully.”

The maids beam with pride, their faces lighting up with genuine delight.

“I’m glad you like it, Your Highness!” one says, clasping her hands together.

“Ah, I’m certain every pair of eyes will be on you tonight!” another chimes, her voice almost singing with excitement. The others nod in eager agreement, their laughter gentle and warm.

You let out a soft chuckle, though it sounds slightly strained even to your own ears.

“Come now, Your Highness,” says the eldest maid, her tone firm and kind. “The ball will begin any moment now. We mustn’t let you be late!” She steps beside you and gestures for you to rise. “There’ll be much to do tonight—I heard the list of attendees is quite long.”

You sigh internally as you stand, smoothing the skirt of your gown. Of course, that scene—where the prince greets every maiden, declining them with a polite bow. Now you have to play that role... unfortunately.

You glance toward the mirror one last time, meeting the eyes of your reflection.

“Right,” you murmur under your breath.

And as you follow the maids out, you can’t help but wonder how long the line of suitors really is… and whether you’ll end up yawning halfway through like the prince did.

.

.

.

“Prince Frederic Jean de la Fontaine!” the announcer bellows, his voice booming across the grand hall for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.

You sit tall, your expression composed—but inside, you are exhausted. You’ve been greeting and declining suitors for so long that you’ve lost count.

Each new name sounds grander than the last, yet they all blur together in your mind like the dull hum of the orchestra playing in the background.

“Your Highness.”

A man dressed in a crisp teal suit approaches with a dignified bow. Prince Frederic... same one name as the king's. If you were truly choosing a fiancé tonight, you certainly wouldn’t pick someone whose name might confuse half the kingdom.

Also, it just doesn't sound and feel right.

You smile politely, give a shallow bow of your own, and gently dismiss him. He straightens, his expression unbothered—in fact he looks pleased—and turns toward the crowd as another name is announced.

“Monsieur Augustin DuBois, son of General Pierre DuBois!”

Your gaze drifts toward the entrance as a man walks down the staircase with graceful ease. His attire, a mix of soft violet and rose, complements his gentle features.

His diamond-shaped eyes glimmer under the candlelight, and there’s a certain youthful charm about him—too soft and lovely, almost out of place among the hardened nobles.

He bows elegantly. “Your Highness.”

You return the gesture, declining him as well. The smile on his lips falters for a moment, replaced by a flicker of disappointment, but he quickly regains his composure and retreats to join the others.

You suppress a sigh and lift your gaze toward the upper balcony, where King Frederick sits beside the Grand Duke. The two men seem to be in deep conversation—well, more like the King grumbling and the Duke nodding nervously.

You can tell even from here that the old man’s irritation is directed entirely at you.

“Monsieur Leonard Marcel de la Tour, son of Colonel and Madame de la Tour!”

Your attention drifts back to the line as another gentleman steps forward, dressed in shades of pale green that bring out the sharpness of his dark hair.

His bow is elegant as most of them are and voice smooth when he greets you—but once again, you incline your head, offer a polite refusal, and send him on his way.

You almost pity them. Almost.

Your legs ache beneath the heavy gown, not to mention your feet that had been screaming since this started, and your body feel stiff from repeating the same motion over and over. At least their names are entertaining. They keep your mind from drifting too far.

Then the announcer’s voice rings again and for the first time... it sounds familiar.

“Monsieurs Dresden and Anastasius Tremaine, sons of Lady Tremaine!”

Hm?

Your head snaps up immediately, your fatigue momentarily forgotten. Down the staircase comes a pair of men, stumbling awkwardly over their own feet yet somehow managing to look smug about it.

So that's thier names.

“Your Highness,” they say in near-perfect unison.

Their combined voices are grating—discordant enough to make you wince inwardly. They're trying to hard to sound polite but it's just not their voice, perhaps if they speak for themselves it'll actually sound nice.

You straighten slightly, a flicker of anticipation sparking in your chest because if they’re here…

Then he will be also.

And just as you predict... beyond the two Tremaines, framed by the glittering arch of the palace entrance, a bright blue figure stands out like a new born star in a sea of dying snd fading ones. He glows so different from the stiff men in their brocades that every eye in the hall drifts toward him the way a compass finds north.

Anastasius’ voice tries for charm but lands thin. “Your Highness?” he coos, tilting his head.

You stopped a groan. You can’t very well stroll across the marble and start a private conversation with him. King Frederick’s gaze is lock on you. Plus, the longer you linger here standing and not dismissing the brothers like you the rest, the more attention is drawn. 

You need a diversion—something small but chaotic enough to slice attention away from the three of you.

So... as soon as an idea spark in your mind, you instantly went with it.

Lifting a finger and feeling the familiar warmth of your magic coil at your command. In a heartbeat you spin a tiny illusion: a sleek, insolent cat in Lucifer’s exact image, born at the polished shoes of a noblewoman who is busy adjusting her pearls.

Her reaction is immediate. Her eyes flash open wide; she jerks back as if the cat leaps at her throat.

“Get that thing away from me!” she screeches, flinging an arm around her husband like a shield or... just some random unfortunate man.

She kicks uselessly at the air as other guests gasp and several butlers spring into motion, swatting and stumbling over one another in an attempt to scare away the illusion that's just taunting them.

If only you could also mimick sounds then it'll be a lot more better than some complete glowing figure of a cat scratching and doing whatever. You're lucky no body's questioning it... yet—perhaps they're brushing it off as some very white cat that the light's bouncing off its fur.

At least it was enough and that's all you care about really.

Perfume and music swirl together; a chorus of outraged squeals and foot steps. At the top, King Frederick and the Gran Duke's attention yanked from you and glued to the commotion instead.

Just wonderful.

You hitch your skirts and move. Even if your lower body felt numb from all that standing in shoes you're not used to, you managed to push through. Is this what felt like when Cinderella was running away when midnight chimed it?

It's really not surprising she lost her shoe but what is questionable is how she managed to go down those flight of stairs without missing a single step or slipping at least once.

The corridor opens to the stairwell and then to the gardens—your lungs fill with the cool night air like a blessing. For a moment you allow yourself to laugh, low and breathy, at the audacity of it. You feel ridiculous, giddy, and terrified all at once.

You reach the soft grass of the garden and stop, hand over heart, looking behind only to seen nothing.

You let the illusion dissolve, the warmth fading away from your fingertips. For a beat you stand in the moonlit and quietly ponder if someone saw it vanish into thin air. That wouldn't be ideal... and probably you suddenly disappearing wouldn't be also.

Bitting the inside of your cheeks, this probably was a terrible and impulsive plan—wow you're speaking like this is the first time you've caused such ruckus. It's like you haven't made a lot more horrible things.

But hey, it was fun... if you won't think about the consequences of your actions that is.

The cool night air drapes around you like silk, brushing softly against your arms as the faint melody from the grand hall lingers in the distance. The panic from earlier has dulled into muffled chatter—though you know better than to think they’ve forgotten you.

Somewhere, guards are likely sweeping the corridors, pretending nothing is amiss while trying not to cause a scene over the princess’ quiet disappearance.

You exhale, taking in the scent of the garden—the roses, the dew, and the faint sweetness that clings to the wind—when a familiar voice slices through the calm.

“[Name]?”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Your heart leaps to your throat as you whirl around. There, illuminated by the moonlight, stands a figure that could have stepped straight from a dream—his white tailcoat glimmers faintly with silver dust, every stitch kissed by starlight.

“E-Eli?!” you stammer before you can stop yourself.

The name slips out too quickly, and panic instantly surges through your veins. You shouldn’t have called him that—you’re supposed to pretend you don’t know him!

Hold on... Did he just adress you by your name, only?

He laughs softly, clearly amused by your shock. “What? Did you think I believed you were just some commoner who happens to share the same name as the king’s daughter?”

You blink, your mind scrambling for an explanation. “I… I-I mean, people could’ve! It’s not that strange, is it? It could be an honor or something...”

His laughter deepens, a warm, genuine sound that pulls a reluctant smile from you. “Really? You don’t know?” He tilts his head, eyes glinting with playful mischief. “Your parents ordered that no child in the kingdom may be named after you.”

Your jaw slackens. “What? That’s ridiculous! But—why?” Is this tale playing with you right now? Why would should a law about something so mundane needs to be implemented?

He lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. “How should I know? Maybe they just think you’re too special. They waited a long time for you, after all.”

“So… y-you knew the whole time?” You stare at him, mouth parting as embarrassment prickles at your ears.

He nods, trying—and failing—to hide his grin.

You groan softly, burying your face in your hands. “H-How about Lathia?! She didn’t even question it!”

“Perhaps she figured out what you were doing and decided to play along. It’s not exactly a surprise to anyone if you disguise yourself as a commoner." He chuckles. "You’re known for… doing unpredictable things—not that I mean that as an insult!” he quickly adds, raising both hands defensively.

You sigh heavily, rubbing at your cheek to cool the heat there. Great. How very fantastic and funny... And here you thought you were clever, but you’ve just been outplayed.

“A-Anyway…” you cough, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. “I’m glad you found the time to come to the ball.”

The way his smile falters—barely there but still  still noticeable—tugs something in your chest. He looks away, steps down from the marble platform, and wanders toward a bush of vivid blossoms.

He runs his gloved fingers over the petals and you can’t help but remember the wounds hidden under the cloth, the thought only pulling a little harder as your stomach twist in uncomfortable ways.

“I didn’t expect it either,” he says softly, turning to look at you again. The moonlight reflects in his blue eyes like water, making them glow like the stars and moon behind him. “But life has a strange way of surprising us.”

You nod slowly, unsure if you can trust your voice. He takes a small step toward you, then another, until the space between you narrows and he’s holding out a hand.

“[Name]… would you mind if we danced?” he asks, his voice light but trembling faintly around the edges. “I-I don’t know how, but I thought… maybe we could at least share one dance tonight.”

You snort, shaking your head.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you say, slipping your hand into his. His palm is warm, the glove smooth beneath your fingers. “I don’t know how to dance either. But…”

A memory tugs faintly at your mine. “Someone once told me,” you murmur, “that all you really have to do is sway to the right.” You guide his hand gently to the side. “then to the left...” You whisper, moving your joined hands that way.

“And finally... a little twirl.” You spin lightly beneath his raised hand, the hem of your gown brushing the grass.

[So This Is Love - Instrumental "Neverland Orchestra"]

Cindereli’s smile softens into something bright and boyish as a quiet chuckle escapes him. His hand hovers hesitantly near your waist—close enough but never quite touching.

You can see the restraint in his eyes, the respect he gives without a word. It’s oddly comforting, how careful he is with your space. Which you're quite happy about for you're still not quite used being all touchy with other people, especially sensitive places.

While you place your hand on his shoulder. The music from the grand hall drifts faintly through the open doors—a soft, distant opera that becomes your rhythm. The two of you begin to move, awkward and uncertain at first, your steps clunky and mismatched.

But neither of you seem to mind. If anything, you both begin to laugh at the ungraceful swaying, your voices mixing with the rustling of leaves.

Before long, the slow dance becomes something freer—something more like play. You’re not dancing anymore; you and he spinning wildy and hopping about the garden.

Then your heel catches on something and the next moment, gravity wins.

“EeeAAAH!” you squeal as your arms flail uselessly, the prickly sensation of leaves and petals filling your skin as you tumble backward into a bush of flowers.

“[Name]!” Cindereli gasps, stumbling forward and nearly tripping himself as he tries to catch you. He’s too late, of course. “A-Are you alright?”

He drops to one knee beside you, panic flooding his voice, his gloved hands hovering anxiously over you, ready to pull you up until you stop him with a single raised finger.

“Hehehe… HAHAHA!” Laughter bursts out of you, uncontrollable and bright, echoing through the quiet garden.

You even kick at the air, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from how hard you’re laughing. Cindereli blinks, utterly dumbfounded by your sudden joyfuless.

You sigh, breathless, sinking deeper into the crushed flowers as you look up at the stars. “I’m fine, Eli—no need to worry,” you say between chuckles. Glancing down, you eye the demons strapped to your feet with a grimace. “I should really get rid of those… they’re killing me.”

He follows your gaze. “Are you certain? You might step on a twig—” His tone turns gentle, almost shy. “I could give you my shoes instead.”

Your eyes widen. His shoes! You hadn’t even noticed them properly until now.

“U-Uh…” you murmur, sitting up as he tilts his foot slightly.

The shoes glimmer faintly beneath the moonlight, as if carved from pure crystal. The tips shine a cool, ocean blue that fades into a silvery translucence near the edges. They sparkle like stars scattered on the grass.

“I don’t mind,” he says softly, smiling. “I think.. they might suit you too.”

You quickly shake your head, cheeks warming. “N-No, you keep them! I’d rather risk a few twigs. Besides,” your voice softens as your gaze lingers on the shoes, “they fit you better anyway.”

He hums at that, a small, thoughtful sound. “If you say so,” he replies. “Then at least let me help you with yours.”

Before you can protest, he’s already at your feet, undoing the straps with careful precision. When he finally slips the shoes off, your toes meet the cool night air, and relief rushes through you.

Though... even if you declined him you might still need it—it's not like you can lean down to unstrap it yourself with these garments on you.

“Thank you, Eli,” you say with a small smile as he stands and extends a gloved hand toward you. You take it, pushing up to your feet—but as you do, you feel his hand flinch. A faint hiss slips past his lips.

Your heart sinks. “Sorry,” as you steady yourself.

He waves it off quickly, though you catch the brief shadow that flickers over his features. When you glance at the heels he’s still holding, you tell him, “You can just leave those here.”

He looks at you, then the bush, then back again before shrugging and placing them beside the crushed flowers.

You wince slightly at the sight. “Eer… I don’t think the gardener’s going to be happy about that.”

“Tsk.. tsk... it’s your mess, [Name]. You should take responsibility for it!” He crosses his arms, pretending to look stern even shaking his head just to lean on it.

You laugh, brushing off your dress. “Ha! He’d be more upset if I tried to.. ‘fix’ it.” That earns another laugh from him. “Anyway,” you say, glancing deeper into the moonlit garden, “we should explore a bit. It’s beautiful here.”

He grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I was about to say that,” he replies, offering his arm this time. “Well then, what are we waiting for?”

You take it without second thought, and together, you step into the starlit paths.

“Why do you decide to visit town anyway, [Name]? More so while hiding your identity?” Cindereli finally breaks the silence, his tone light but curious.

His gloved hands brush gently over the rose bushes as you both walk, his movements calm and careful.

“Well…” You pause, your mind scrambling for a reason that fits the image of a royal. “I thought there’d be no harm in seeing the kingdom beyond the palace walls—and for the latter… mostly because I don’t want the king to find me wandering about alone. Nor do I want to draw too much attention.”

"Good thing you didn’t go announcin' your name. That would’ve ruined everything.” His lips curve into a teasing grin. “But I suppose you don’t need to since you already look like a perfect mirror of the princess herself.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts.

“Whatever,” you huff, folding your arms with a faint glare before looking away.

Your gaze drifts toward a white bridge nearby, its railings carved with intricate patterns of vines and roses. This place really screams of fairytale—like when you entered the Moors, only that place is unmatched when it comes to beauty.

Cindereli notices your wandering eyes and gestures toward the bridge, his voice softening. “Come on. It’s prettier from there.”

The two of you walk together, your steps quiet against the gravel path. The distant music of the ball still hums faintly from inside the palace, a muffled rhythm beneath the night air.

“Aren’t you worried about being missed back there?” he asks after a moment, glancing at you.

You shrug. “Hmm… not really. They’re probably panicking right now, but they won’t dare make it known. The king and the Grand Duke will make sure no chaos breaks out during the ball.”

You exhale a long sigh, already dreading what comes next. “Though I can already foresee the ocean of scolding I’ll get once they find me.”

Your tone shifts into quiet exasperation, and for a brief second, your mind drifts back to a memory—your actual parents scolding you, it was horrible! Especially if it was your mother standing before you...

He seems to notice the slight change in your expression, his teasing smile fading into something gentler.

“Then.. that meant they care about you a lot,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You could only hum, looking down at the moonlight rippling over the river beneath the bridge, pretending to study the reflection that stares back at you.

The gentle night breeze brushing against your skin. The gardens stretch out before you, bathed in the pale shimmer of moonlight. Beneath the bridge, the river flows softly—its surface catching the reflections of stars until it looks like liquid light itself.

For a moment, the world feels still, the two of you suspended in quiet wonder.

You forget everything else—plans and worries. You simply stand there, lost in the serenity of it all much like him.

Cindereli rests his elbows on the railing, his bright blue eyes glimmering like fragments of the very sky above. His soft breath forms faint clouds in the cold air and he can't help but smile at the moment.

Neither of you notice the time slipping away. Neither of you remember the magic that holds his disguise together—until the first toll of midnight rings faintly through the air.

You flinch, the sound pulling you sharply from the trance. By the third ring, your eyes are wide, your pulse quickening.

“[Name]?” Cindereli calls softly beside you, his voice gentle yet curious. He hasn’t noticed the sound for what it means. “Somethin’ wrong?”

You quickly shake your head, trying to calm your racing heart.

“No… n-nothing. Something just came to mind, that’s all.” You clear your throat, keeping your gaze fixed on the rippling water below.

He hums in response, though his attention begins to drift. Then, the next bell tolls—and you catch it. A faint shimmer glows at the corner of your vision.

Your head snaps toward him, eyes widening. The light around his clothes begins to swirl—sparkles breaking apart and falling away like dust. The once radiant white tailcoat turns dull, melting into the soft pink of worn fabric.

The silver shimmer fades from his waist and cuffs, and before your eyes, the ball’s splendor is stripped away until what remains is a tattered outfit that looks painfully familiar.

Your stomach twists. You remember how his stepbrothers had torn those very clothes, ones that belonged to his late mother... or in this case, father.

“I-I…” He stares down at himself, a faint pink flush rising to his cheeks. The shoes though didn't changed one bit. “I didn’t even notice the time…” he murmurs under his breath, running a half-bandaged hand through his short blond curls.

“Eli?” you whisper, taking a cautious step closer.

He instinctively steps back, startled.

“Sorry! Y-You must be… so confused.” His laugh comes out awkward, almost self-conscious, and his hand drifts to the back of his neck. His blush deepens, and he avoids your gaze. “I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but it’s… i-it’s all magic. I—” He stops, sighs heavily, his voice trembling. “So much happened earlier… I haven’t even processed it yet.”

He looks down at the ground, his shoulders sinking a little. “Please don’t think I’m crazy…” he whispers, so softly it almost gets lost in the sound of the river.

You blink once, then twice, before a quiet chuckle escapes your lips. “You said I’ve done… ambitious things before, right?” you tease gently. “So I've seen a lot of things and magic existing.. isn’t really new to me.”

That earns a faint lift of his head, confusion flickering in his eyes.

“It’s alright if you can’t explain it,” you continue softly, your tone kind. “I get it. Sometimes it's.. hard to put into words, especially when you barely understand it yourself. So just take your time or... don't tell me at all.”

Your gaze drifts down to his hands, to the undone bandages and raw skin beneath. The wounds look red and angry where the wrappings fail to cover them—like even that the brother torn apart.

He notices your gaze drop to his hands. His fingers twitch, and he instinctively hides it hand behind him, shame flickering in his eyes.

“No—” he starts quickly, shaking his head, his voice trembling with something raw. “I… I want to tell you. I want to tell you everything.” Each word grows louder, as though he’s fighting to get them out before courage fails him.

“I don’t understand why,” his tone softening, breaking apart like glass under pressure. “But with you… I just feel so comfortable. I feel like I can be myself.” He leans back against the railing, gripping it so tightly his knuckles pale beneath the wrapping.

He looks up at the stars as though they could somehow give him strength.

“What I told you before when we first met,” he begins quietly, “it was sugar-coated.” His lips twist in a humorless smile. “It’s far worse than I made it sound.”

Your chest tightens, the image of his wounded hands flashing vividly in your mind.

“Sometimes,” he says after a long pause, "I doubt I’ll ever get away. Even if I did, they’d might just drag me back and all my efforts waisted for a fleeting freedom.” So even he has thought of it...

The sound that leaves him after is almost a laugh, but it’s hollow. “I’m an adult, but I don’t feel like one. I have a life, but it’s not me writing the story.”

He finally turns to face you again, eyes glistening faintly in the moonlight. “But with you…” he breathes, “I am. You gave me hope. You… and Lathia.” He finally smiles without forcing it, the corners soft and his saphire pupils sparkling of joy.

“Maybe that’s why my fairy godmother helped me tonight. I never believed magic was real nor do I understand how she came to me, but maybe it's that little hope in me that called her.”

His gaze drifts downward to his hands again, and you see the tears starting to gather at the corners of his eyes.

His voice grows quiet when he speaks again, “I still have so much I want to say… but I just can’t right now.”

You hesitate, unsure if you should speak—but the sight of him trembling softly urges you forward.

“Again,” you say gently, “I’m not forcing you to. Just take your time, Eli...”

You step closer and pat his shoulder lightly. He sniffles, lowering his head as his eyes close, the tension in his body easing ever so slightly under your touch.

You should be using this moment to plan something practical—some way to help him that won’t tangle him in royal affairs. Yet you have nothing... but your heart is pushing you to say something, like it has an idea while your mind doesn't.

“I could give you the funds for your home.”

“H-Huh?" His head snaps up, eyes wide and glassy. "You… will?”

You blink, momentarily realizing what you’ve just promised—but you force a grin anyway. Did you really just say that?

“Of course! It’s not like they need all that gold and silver lying around. Besides,” you add with a playful tilt of your head, “I’d be using it for a good cause, no?”

He stares for a heartbeat longer, as if he can’t believe it—then suddenly, his arms are around you.

Before you can react, you’re lifted off your feet, spun around in dizzying circles under the silver light of the moon.

“Thank you! Thank you, [Name]!” he laughs through the tears, voice breaking with joy and relief all at once.

Is this what the princesses felt when they were spun around? It certanily is dizzying—and fun, like you're a child again—but maybe that's partly because he is spinning you quite fast. By the time he finaly sets you down, your balance wavers.

“I… I don’t know why you’re so kind to me,” he says breathlessly, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand, “or how I could ever repay you—”

“Stop.” You raise your hands quickly, smiling despite the lump in your throat. “No repaying this time. I mean it, Eli. You’re kind too, you know? And people with good souls like you…” Your smile softens, but there’s a tremor beneath it. “Don’t deserve a fate like this.”

"But do you deserve one like this? To feel like this and meet people like him?"

The thought echoes through your mind like a whisper from a monster somewhere in the dark. Your smile falters for just a moment—but you manage to push it away, forcing warmth back into your expression.

It's not the time for thoughts like these...

Cindereli smiles, his lips trembling faintly as he reaches out and takes your hands in his. His palms are warm despite the night breeze, his grip tight—as though he’s afraid you might disappear.

“I’m forever in your debt, [Name]…” he whispers, his voice oh so soft and fragile, it squeezes your chest until your breath catches.

Before you can say anything, a voice calls from deeper in the gardens. “

Princess [Name]? Your Highness?” It’s unfamiliar—slightly high-pitched for a man, you thinjk it is from a man.

You quickly pull your hands away, your gaze darting toward the direction of the voice. A tall, thin-framed man emerges from the path, dressed in a pale grayish-blue coat with a bold crimson sash.

It's the Grand Duke! Your stomach instantly drops at the recognition. He's looking for you and may mistaken Cindereli as your 'kidnapper' or whatever especially with the clothes he has.

“You must go, Eli! Before he sees you!” you whisper hurriedly.

“R-Right,” Cindereli stammers, his expression tightening. “I also just remembered—I have something to check… at the front gates.” He trails off as he notices the Grand Duke drawing closer, panic flickering in his blue eyes.

Without another word, he turns and runs, vanishing into the shadowed hedges.

You take a steadying breath and step toward the Grand Duke, schooling your expression into something close to calm.

“Princess [Name]!” the man gasps the moment he spots you. He rushes forward, his gloved hands gripping your shoulders as if confirming you’re real. “Your Highness, we were worried sick! Where have you gone? Are you hurt? W-What happened?” His voice trembles with genuine concern.

You force a small smile, though your pulse still races.

“I'm fine—I was just… frightened by the commotion earlier. I ran out here for a bit of air.” The lie tastes awkward on your tongue, and you’re almost certain your tone gives it away.

Still, the Grand Duke exhales a deep sigh of relief, though he eyes you with mild suspicion. “And the shoes by the ruined bush?” he asks pointedly.

“I… stumbled on the heels,” you answer, keeping your voice steady. “So I took them off and left them there.”

He pauses, his brow furrowing, but after a moment he just shakes his head with a weary groan.

“Young lady, you’re going to hear an earful about this later! Come, Your Highness, his Majesty has been searching everywhere for you!” He places a firm hand on your back, guiding you forward as you stumble slightly.

You glance over your shoulder, toward the direction Cindereli disappeared. He said he was heading back to the front gates—probably to find his friends, the ones who turned back into animals once the magic ended.

A sudden realization hits you like a wave of dread. He'll most likely go back to the manor and he does not need or deserve to spend another second in the hellish place. You've seen it front of how much pain that caused him

If he returns to the manor before you get there, Lady Tremaine or the brothers may do something to him again. You curse softly under your breath. No, you can’t let that happen. You’ve seen enough of his wounds and his quiet endurance. He doesn’t deserve to go back to that place.

You grit your teeth, silently hoping this conversation will be brief. But if it isn’t, you’re prepared to run from this. You don’t know exactly how you’ll stop him, all you can hope is your heart has another ace somewhere there.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

You trail behind the Grand Duke, trying your best to appear patient—but he's just walking way too slow for your liking. Especially when he had found the 'missing princess', shouldn't he practically running and dragging you back to King Frederick.

He rambles about...something, your mind doesn't really process any of it you just nod absently, pretending to listen, but your mind is already elsewhere.

You glance over your shoulder toward the shadowy path he disappeared into. Then eyes dart to the Grand Duke. He’s still muttering to himself. Perfect.

You don't have all the time in the world.

So with a flick of your hand, feeling warmth rise through your fingertips. A flash of light bursts from the bushes ahead—bright enough to draw his attention.

“W-What was that?” he stammers, jumping back a step. He coughs into his glove, trying to recover his dignity. “Ahem, excuse me, Princess—” He turns to look at you but finds only empty air. “Princess [Name]?!”

Panic floods his face, draining the color from it. “Oh dear heavens—she’s gone again?!" If he doesn't find her, the king will certainly have his head displayed for all to see his failure!

He cannot afford that to happen!

.

.

.

You’re already far from him, breath coming fast as you race across the garden paths. Your gown snags on low branches and catches bits of grass, but you keep running, ignoring the prick of twigs on your foot.

Even if you don't know the layout of the palace, luck guides your feet. It was a bit reckless to run on a random direction then again, you're been doing brash things haven't you?

You reach the gates without being seen. Outside, you can see a faint orange blob on the cobbled floor. You swiftly assumed it's what left of Cindereli's carriage. Although, where is the man himself?

You scan the area, eyes searching for a flash of pink fabric or a glimmer of glass shoe.

Not a moment long, you see him. He’s hidden near the gate wall, crouched behind the stone arch where the guards can’t see. The faint glow of his shoes catches your eye first.

You began to treck back down toward him and you nearly slip multiple times—you like rolling around grass at time but you don't love rolling down a steep.

When your gaze meets his, his face lights up.

“You actually came,” he says, jogging toward you. He extends a hand to help you down the uneven path, smiling in disbelief. “I thought the lecture would take hours.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Hmm… well, I haven’t exactly gotten to the lecture part.”

He raises an eyebrow, curious. “What do you mean?”

“I ran,” you admit, with a smirk that you can’t quite hold back.

His eyes widen. “You ran? From the Grand Duke?” He claps a hand over his mouth, scandalized at your words. “Your father’s really going to be enraged! Why did you—why push to see me again?”

“Because…” you inhale deeply, steadying yourself. “I can’t let you go back there.”

He blinks, uncertain. His expression softens, though there’s still confusion in it.

“Then… what do you plan to do? You don’t have to go this far, you know. The money you offered is already more than enough.”

You shake your head. “You said it yourself—you don’t know if they’ll leave you alone, even if you had your own place.” Your voice trails off, the words tangling somewhere in your throat. “So I…” You don’t finish, because you still don’t know what comes next.

Silence settles between you. The night air feels colder now, the sound of crickets sharp in your ears. Then, hesitantly, he breaks it.

“W-What if I stayed in the palace—” The words slip out before he can stop them, and his hand flies to his mouth in horror.

But your eyes widen with sudden realization.

“You could!” you say, excitement bubbling in your chest. You wanted to say his animal companions could join but you remember he hasn't told you about them.

His smile falters, uncertainty shadowing his features. You can tell he doesn’t believe it’s possible, and honestly, you’re not sure either.

Where could he stay without being noticed—without King Frederick, the servants, or anyone else reporting him? Nadine may help you, but there's still way too many eyes and ears in the palace.

Plus, are you really about to risk her in your own foolhardiness?

You sigh, scratching the back of your neck as your mind races. You don’t have much time before the Grand Duke or some other guard finds you again.

Whatever plan you come up with, it has to be quick. Because if you don’t get back soon, this night might spiral into actual chaos.

The palace is mostly empty now, isn’t it? Most of the butlers are surely still inside the ballroom, tending to guests. Only a few guards and perhaps some maids remain in the quieter corridors. That thought sparks something—a flicker of an idea.

The guest rooms! They’re far enough from the main hall, quiet and rarely checked during the night. But no—still too risky. A maid could wander in to tidy up or someone may just randomly come inside of i out of a whim.

You press a hand to your temple, sighing. The weight of it all feels like it’s pressing into your skull. There’s nowhere safe—nowhere but… your room.

Your head jerks up at the thought. Your room!

But that means sharing your bed for the night. You freeze, a faint warmth creeping to your face. You’ve shared a bed—more accurately, beds—with Winter Weiss before so this isn't a first but still... At least these time the bed can actually fit two people than one and a half.

You glance toward Cindereli, who watches you quietly, confusion flickering in those bright blue eyes.

The idea feels too odd but… in your room, no one can simply barge in. Maids wouldn’t enter without permission, right? Even if it meant they'll tidy up the room. You sigh, if only you knew how royalties and all of it work.

Still, even if you manage that—then what? After tonight, what happens? His stepmother and stepsiblings will realize he’s gone. They’ll come looking. Maybe even cause a scene... What would you do then?

In fact, would they actually care that much if he's gone? Surely some way even if it isn't of the best intents. Perhaps you've been thinking a little too much about everything, ooor you're on the dot.

You groan softly, dragging your hands down your face before running your fingers through your hair, tugging a little in frustration.

“[Name]…?” Cindereli’s voice is gentle. He reaches out a hand but stops midway when he notices you’re lost in thought again.

You exhale and finally lower your hands. Enough. You’ll figure it out later. You can’t solve everything now, and the exhaustion creeping into your limbs isn’t helping. One step at a time. You need to rest.

“I’ve got it,” you finally say, meeting his eyes. “You can stay in my room for the night. I’ll show you the way, but I’ll have to leave you there for a bit. I need to check in with Ki—my father.” You catch yourself quickly, forcing a small smile to cover the slip.

Cindereli blinks, stunned. You can see the faintest blush bloom across his cheeks, the way he rubs the back of his neck as if to hide it. His eyes flicker away, though there’s a softness there—a quiet gratitude he can’t quite voice.

“Are you sure that’s all right?” he asks, hesitant. “If my stepmother finds out I ran off, she’ll…W-What then?” He trails off, his voice turning small, unsure.

You sigh, your hands tightening around the folds of your skirt. “That… I still don’t know. But I do know I can’t let my father find you. That’s not an option.”

You cross your arms, thinking again, ready to spiral down another round of what-ifs—but Cindereli stops you before you can. He steps closer and places a careful hand on your shoulder, his touch warm despite the night’s chill.

“Then let’s think about it tomorrow morning,” he says softly. “I might have an idea or two, but for now, we should get you back before anyone notices you’re gone.”

You look at him for a moment—his face faintly flushed, his expression calm yet uncertain—and something in your chest eases. You nod slowly.

“Right… sorry,” you murmur, stepping past him, the hem of your gown whispering against the grass.

He follows a few paces behind, his glass shoes catching the moonlight like fragments of stars as the two of you head back toward the palace proper.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

It’s surprisingly easier to sneak through the palace especially farther away from the ballroom—as you expected. The music and chatter echo faintly from somewhere distant, their sounds swallowed by the empty marble corridors.

You’ve almost been caught twice already, and both times, Cindereli’s quick reflexes saved you. Each time he pulls you back out of view.

But now, as you turn a corner you think leads toward your chambers, your luck finally snaps.

King Frederick is there.

The sight of him freezes you instantly. His bulky figure stands beneath the golden glow of the corridor lights, his eyes widening the second they meet yours. Then his face twists—red and very furious.

“[NAAAAAME]!!!”

Your stomach plummets. His booming voice ricochets off the walls, rattling through the silence like thunder. He stomps toward you, every heavy step a countdown to doom.

You whip your head around to Cindereli, who is still safely hidden behind the wall. His eyes widen at the sudden tension in the air.

“Eli,” you hiss under your breath. “Look for Nadine—she looks almost like me. Tell her I said to show you to my room!”

“What are you muttering about?!” King Frederick snarls, his face now only a few feet away.

You give Cindereli one last, urgent look.

“Go!” you mouth, and thankfully, he obeys. He nods once before disappearing down the corridor, his glass shoes clinking on the polished floor and you fear slightly it might shatter any time.

You turn back just as the king reaches you.

“YOU!” His finger jabs toward your chest, and the sound of his voice makes your bones quake.

He smells faintly of wine and rich food, and his thick white mustache twitches with every angry word. You straighten instinctively. You’ve faced worse, you remind yourself—but even so, being yelled at by your supposed father is… uncomfortable, to say the least.

.

.

.

Meanwhile, Cindereli hurries through the twisting halls, his breath uneven. The palace feels like a maze—each corridor blending into the next with its gilded frames and long velvet curtains.

He keeps glancing around corners, careful not to run into anyone, though his nerves make his pace quick and clumsy.

He's supposed to find this Nadine, you trust her so... perhaps he should trust her as well. He just wishes you could've told him where she could be.

...The kitchen perhaps? Servants often gather there right? Especially with a ball and all the feasing. Maybe that's where she'd be.

He finally slows when he’s far enough from where you and the king—he can only ponder what trouble you've gotten into to. The quiet stretches around him again. The palace felt like he was swallowing him whole.

He sighs, running a hand through his messy blond hair. “If only there was a map,” he mutters under his breath, glancing at the endless rows of doors ahead.

Unfortunately, it looks like it’s going to be a long walk.

.

.

.

FI... NA... LLY...

The air smells faintly of roasted meat and melted wax, drifting from the kitchen nearby. Cindereli presses his palm against the cold wall, his fingers curling tight as he peers around the corner.

The kitchen comes into view—bright, bustling, and filled with the sound of clattering dishes and chatter. Servants hurry to and fro, their aprons fluttering like startled birds. He scan the crowd until they land on a young woman who nearly makes him double take.

She looks almost exactly like you.

The resemblance is so uncanny that for a moment, he wonders if she's your secret sister of sort. If this isn’t the Nadine that you spoke of, he doesn't know who else it'll be.

He doesn’t have to call out to her. Their eyes meet for an instant and he quickly gestures for her to come over, only exposing his hand. She stiffens, glancing nervously around, torn between duty and instinct.

As she went to speak with the her fellow maids, he dove back on the safety of the wall. Not daring to lookg back even if he heard a stern voice interrupts the air, harsh and gravelly with age.

“Well, get to it quick! We’ve much to do for the supper!”

The kitchen bursts into motion again, footsteps shuffling over the stone floor. Nadine moves swiftly, pretending to fetch something by the door before slipping out beside him.

“Did… did Princess [Name] send you?” she asks in a whisper, her eyes sweeping over his tattered clothes.

Cindereli scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Y-Yeah. How did you know?”

She gives a small, uncertain smile and shrugs.

“I don’t know. Just a feeling, I suppose. The princess always does things differently.” She pauses, voice softening. “I heard she was… missing?” In her eyes though, she isn't that worried like she knew you really aren't missing.

“She isn’t,” he answers shortly. “She ran. Told me to find you—to show me to her room.”

Nadine’s brows lift slightly, but she doesn’t question it. “I see… may I know where Her Highness is now?” Her fingers twist in her apron, nervous yet somehow composed.

“Bein' scolded by her father,” he mutters under his breath, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

The corners of Nadine’s mouth twitch into a giggle.

“That sounds about right.” She gestures for him to follow. “Then we shan’t waste time, sir. I’m needed back in the kitchen soon.”

He nods gratefully and steps into stride beside her, keeping his head low and an eye out for anyone who may spot them.

After a moment, Nadine glances at his clothes again. “Do you need something to wear? I might have a spare uniform or something plain.”

He hesitates, then nods. “If you have any—anything will do. Thank you.” He smiles back, keeping his tone respectful.

She hums in response, her voice barely audible over their footsteps. “You’re just like her,” she murmurs to herself, oblivious he can slightly hear her, “No wonder..…”

The rest of her words fade into scarcely into a whisper. Cindereli doesn’t pry—he simply follows her through the dim corridors toward your room.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

You drag your body down the long corridor, every step heavier than the last. The ache in your feet travels up your legs, and your back feels stiff from standing for what feels like hours.

King Frederick’s scolding still rings in your ears, his booming voice echoing like thunder long after you’ve left his sight. You have no idea how long you stood there, trying to stay polite, nodding through his endless rant—but it felt like forever.

The ball must be nearly over by now...

The only thing keeping you upright is one thought: Cindereli. You hope he’s already in your room, waiting. You pray he and Nadine hasn’t been caught wandering around the palace. If he’s there, you have to make sure the servants don’t see him.

Unfortunately, there are too many of them. They walk just behind you, keeping a respectful distance but never too far. You know you can't shrug them off so easily or ran away so easily like you did with the Grand Duke. Besides, you have no reason to... so it doesn't matter.

When the corridor ahead begins to look familiar—somehow, since everything looked the same—you recognize the hallway that leads to your room. The sight gives you a burst of energy.

“Um—” you start quickly, forcing a polite tone as you turn to the servants, “it’s alright now, you can leave me here.” You offer a small smile, already speeding up toward your door.

One of them, a middle-aged butler with sharp posture, bows slightly but shakes his head.

“Sorry, Princess [Name], but under His Majesty’s request, we must stand guard outside your chambers... to ensure you do not remake the same escapade.”

You nearly groan, but instead, you tighten your smile.

“Oh, that’s perfectly fine with me,” you reply sweetly. The words taste forced on your tongue, but it’s enough.

You reach the door and push it open just wide enough for your body to slip through. The moment you step inside, you close it behind you with a quiet click, leaning against the wood for a second to breathe.

The air in your room feels still—peaceful, almost sacred after that long, dreadful lecture. And you see him.

Cindereli sits at the edge of your bed, the soft glow of the candles brushing against his face. His clothes from earlier is replaced by a pale blue night suit. At his feet, his glass shoes rest neatly on the floor, gleaming faintly like twin shards of stars.

Relief crashes through you all at once. Your chest loosens, a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding escapes you in a quiet sigh and the tension in your shoulders melts away in an instant.

“Well, you certainly took your time.” His voice carries a soft laugh, light and teasing, though the exhaustion in his tone mirrors your own.

You let out a long, weary sigh as you step further into the room.

“I’m exhausted,” you mumble, your words dragging slightly as you move toward your dresser. “I’m just glad nobody found you and Nadine.”

Your fingers trace the intricate carvings along the wooden surface, following the delicate patterns until they reach the handle of the drawer.

Then, your mind flickers to something else—the book.

It’s still wrapped carefully in cloth, tucked away between layers of dresses. You remember hiding it to keep its faint glow from catching anyone’s attention.

Is it glowing now?

Technically, the story should be done—although, when midnight hit, Cindereli didn't ran away and so all that hunt for the glass shoe's owner also didn't happen. Still, technically in some way, you got there.

You pull the drawer open, the hinges groaning quietly, and sift through the fabrics until your fingers brush against something rectangular—soft but solid. Carefully, you draw it out and unwrap the cloth.

The sight makes your heart sink.

It’s just an ordinary book... Unease curls in your stomach, heavy and strange. Why isn’t it glowing? Does that mean...

“Um... [Name]?” Cindereli’s voice startles you slightly. You turn to see him still sitting on the bed, looking awkwardly toward the floor. “Should I—uh—should I go outside if you’re about to change?”

“Uh—” You almost drop the book in surprise before hastily rewrapping it in the cloth. “No, don’t. There are people right outside the door besides, you still may get caught.”

He nods quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I-I see... Then I’ll just keep my back at you, aight? You can tell me when you’re done.” His voice trembles slightly at the edges and though you catch it, you decide not to tease him for it.

“...I appreciate it,” you reply softly.

You turn toward the mirror and look at your reflection. Your once-elegant gown is a ruin of wrinkles, dirt, and stray twigs tangled in the fabric. The skirts drag heavily against your legs, and the absence of your shoes leaves your feet sore and cold.

You sigh again, staring at the elaborate laces, buttons, and ribbons that seem almost impossible to untie alone. Your shoulders slump as the realization sinks in.

You’ll have to manage it by yourself.

After all... this won’t be the last time you’ll find yourself trapped in a dress like this—unfortunately.

When you finally manage to wrestle the gown off your body, your arms ache from all the tugging and twisting. You clumsily fold it, though it’s more of a messy attempt than anything neat.

The puffed skirt spilling from your hands no matter how many times you try to flatten it. Eventually, you give up and drop it in front of the cabinet with a huff.

“Aaaugh…” You groan as you flop face-first onto the bed, the mattress dipping and bouncing beneath your weight.

The sensation feels heavenly against your sore muscles. Beside you, Cindereli still sits quietly at the edge of the bed, his back turned to you, shoulders rising and falling in a slow rhythm.

“Should I blow out the candles?” he asks after a moment, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yes, please... you won’t be peeling me off this bed otherwise,” you mumble into the pillow, your voice muffled by the fabric.

You hear him move—the faint creak of the floorboards, the soft puff of breath as he leans toward the nearest candle. One by one, the flames die, and shadows begin to swallow the room.

But just as peace starts to settle over you, your mind decides to betray you, as it always does when you finally try to rest.

Dreaming...

Your stomach knots at the thought. You roll ontop your side, watching Cindereli’s silhouette against the fading light. The memory of last night flickers behind your eyes—the Queen’s cruel voice and her mocking smile. The way she spoke to you like she knew every weakness buried in your heart.

You shiver at the thought. You don’t want to see her again.

And then another face flashes in your memory. Aurelio... who was claiming to be the real one and not you're mind had made—somehow.

You never had time to think about it—today was spent making a plan that's still not done and polished.

The room grows darker until you can barely make out his shape. There’s a faint dip beside you, the bed sinking slightly under his weight as he lies down.

You don’t move away as you normally would for exhaustion pulls you down too quickly for hesitation.

“Good night, Eli…” you whisper, your voice already half-drowned in drowsiness.

“Good night, [Name],” he murmurs back. “Tomorrow… we’ll think of what we can do.”

You hum softly, a tired little sound of agreement, before your eyelids flutter shut. The last thing you see is the faint outline of his profile before the darkness takes everything away.

.

.

.

The world feels impossibly light at first, like you’re drifting in a sea of feathers. There’s no sound—no sensation of air, no weight on your limbs—just the faint sweetness filling your mouth.

Apple pie?

Are you dreaming of eating? Make sense, after all, you didn’t get to eat supper. But as you chew, you frown. It doesn’t taste like Lathia’s pie at all—you'd know even if you only ate it once.

You swallow slowly, confusion beginning to clear your fogged mind. Something doesn’t feel right.

The moment you force your eyes open, you’re met not with the familiar darkness of your room, but with soft lamplight and wooden walls.

The faint scent of pine and the sight of seven mismatched chairs tell you instantly where you are—the dwarves’ cottage...?

Your heart stutters.

And there, sitting across from you, is someone you never thought you’d see again.

“I see you’re finally awake!”

Characters & Info
✦ Twisted Tales [Extra]

Other Stories
✦ Divine Voice | Yandere.WHB x M.Reader
✦ My Dearest | Yandere.Alastor x M.Reader
✦ Solunar | Mythical.Yanderes x F.Reader

Chapter Text

꒰ა ACT IV: CHAPTER 4 ໒꒱

⋇⊰Unexpected Visitor⊱⋇

❥・CW:  Slight blood & gore

❥・A/N: Since this chapter may be a little too confusing for it changes POV and time frames quite a lot, I decided to indicate what's happening.

❥・Word Count: 8.1k

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

Winter Weiss’s cheerful voice cuts through the silence as he sets the spoon down on the table. His smile gleams brighter than the light flickering above you.

He pulls away the spoon from your mouth, placing it back on the plate with an unfamiliar looking pie—maybe it's not even a pie—with just one piece off.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the small table and his chin in his palms, studying you like he’s trying to memorize your every feature.

“It’s been soooo long, hasn’t it, [Name]?”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

This has to be a dream, you tell yourself. You’re just dreaming of another prince again... for some reason.

He tilts his head slightly, a teasing glint flickering in his walnut-colored eyes.

“Cat got your tongue?” he says with a soft laugh that echoes gently in the small cottage.

He lifts a hand, reaching across the table toward your face. The moment his fingertips brushing against your cheek, something in you reacts before your mind can process it.

Without thinking, you slap his hand away. The sound is small but sharp in the quiet room.

He instantly freezes. His bright expression falters and surprise flashing across his face before it fades into something sadder.

His gaze drops for just a second, lashes shadowing his rosy cheeks. When he looks back up, his smile is still there—but it’s weaker now and most likely forced.

“Right,” he murmurs softly, folding his hands back onto the table. “You still don’t understand, do you?”

You're about to answer that but he immedietly interjects.

“Here’s the short of it,” he begins, his voice smooth but earnest. “I’m talking to you through our dreams.”

You blink at him, your brows furrowing deeply. That doesn’t make sense... at all.

Winter Weiss continues, still resting his elbows on the table as though he’s explaining something simple and harmless.

“I don’t understand it that much either,” he admits with a shrug. “Just that if you dream about someone long enough… you can talk to them personally.”

He says it so casually, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but you can’t bring yourself to believe him. You stare, lips parting slightly, waiting for him to laugh and say he’s joking. However, he doesn’t.

“Still,” you finally manage to speak, shaking your head, “that’s not possible.”

Because it isn’t. It can’t be. You've been saying to this to yourself. So. Many. Times.

He’s not real—he’s just a character in a story. You read about him—her in fact—lived through his tale, and left.

You can’t possibly be here with him now. You can’t possibly be talking to him.

The cottage suddenly feels smaller, suffocating even. You push back your chair, its legs scraping harshly against the wooden floor, and stand up.

“What do you mean by that—hey! Where are you going?” Winter Weiss rises so quickly that the chair nearly topples behind him.

His voice trembles slightly with urgency, but you ignore it, moving toward the door.

Your hand pushes the small latch, and the door creaks open with a sound that shouldn’t echo—but it does.

You expect the forest.

Instead, there’s… nothing.

The familiar greenery beyond the threshold ripples once, then dissolves into a thick, white haze that swallows everything whole. It’s like staring into a void made of fog, soft yet endless.

“What…” you whisper, stepping closer. The ground beneath your bare feet feels strange. “What is this place?”

Winter Weiss’s footsteps rush up behind you, but before he can answer, something pulls at your consciousness.

You turn your head to the right.

And that’s when you see her...

A woman laying on the grass a few steps away, her skin a muted olive shade beneath streaks of dried crimson. Her long, wavy brown hair hangs limply down her back, tangled and soaked.

The colors of her clothes are hard to make out, stained too dark with blood to tell what they once were.

Your breath catches when your gaze drifts lower—there are open wounds scattered across her body, too many to count, each one hollow like someone poked her with something... big.

Her grayish-blue eyes stare ahead, glassy and lifeless, but fixed directly on you.

Is that... is that Prince Florian's female counterpart?! It certainly fits the description but—wha... who even did that to her? Why? Did... did he.....

Your stomach twists and hands trembling as you take a step back.

“[Name]!” Winter Weiss’s voice rings out from behind you.

You hear him stumble as he pushes the door wider, and when his eyes follow your gaze, his breath catches sharply.

“I…” He stops himself, the words faltering on his tongue. His face pales, expression tightening with guilt and unease. “I didn’t know she’d be in…”

He trails off, voice fading into the whiteness, leaving you standing there.

Your breath catches in your throat as you finally tear your gaze away from the lifeless woman lying before you. The sight clings to your vision like a sting you can’t blink away.

“What do you mean by that?” you demand, your voice trembling yet sharp. Your eyes snap toward Winter Weiss, narrowing as suspicion coils in your gut. “Did you do that?”

You step back from him instinctively, your bare feet brushing against the strange, hazy ground.

“W-What?” He stammers, a nervous chuckle breaking from his lips. “No, of course not—” He suddenly stops.

His expression flickers and before you can read it, his eyelids fall shut.

Then everything starts to change.

The white void bends and twists, colors melting together like water on a painted surface. The body begins to dissolve into dust, fading piece by piece until there’s nothing left. The scene snaps back into focus, and you find yourself standing once again inside the dwarves’ cottage.

“H–How are you doing that?” you whisper, voice unsteady.

You're truly starting to think it is real even back when you dreamt of Aurelio.

Winter Weiss finally opens his eyes, and a faint gleam flashes in them—something you can't quite put into words but you're certain it's malicous.

“You know, [Name]…” His tone changes, lower now, quieter although sharper. “You keep asking questions—and I already answered you once. But you haven't even given me anything!”

He smiles then, but it’s strained, brittle. That smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Wouldn't it be fair if you… at least answer me this,” he murmurs, taking a step toward you. “Where are you?”

Each step he takes forward forces pyou backward. The wooden floor creaks softly beneath your bare feet. He moves like a predator would, cornering you like you're his prey.

“That’s all I want,” he continues, voice tightening. “I don’t even care how you vanished… or how she replaced you. I don’t care why only a few remember you.” His fingers twitch slightly, and he clasps his hands together as if in prayer.

His smile curls wider, trembling at the edges. “I just want to know where you are... that's all! It's not too much to ask, right?"

For a hearltbeat, he looks almost like a desperate child—pleading, fragile—but you can feel the tension rippling beneath that fragile surface.

“I’m not answering any of your questions,” you bite out, the words shaking, “until you tell me what happened to her.”

His smile falters. His eyes flicker, and for a second, it looks like he might roll them—but instead, he simply presses his lips tighter, the corners twitching unnaturally as he forces that same smile back in place.

“She’s not important!" his tone lilting with a strained sort of laughter. “She’s just a figment of my mind! We are in it, after all!” He giggles—a soft but forced breathy sound that makes your stomach twist.

You don’t believe him. Not even for a moment.

“I need to wake up…” you murmur under your breath but you wished you didn't said it at all.

The shift in his tone is instant. His voice drops, thick with pain and anger. “You’re leaving me again?”

Before you can move, he closes the distance between you in one stride. His hands slam down on your shoulders, pinning you against the wall. The impact rattles through you, and your breath escapes in a startled gasp.

“Hey—”

“[Name], please…” His voice cracks, raw and broken. His grip tightens, nails digging through the thin fabric of your nightshirt until you feel the sting beneath. “You promised! You promised to STAY WITH ME!!”

He shakes you once, then again, his words falling apart as tears gather in his eyes.

“I’m so… lost,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m so confused. I don’t know what’s happening anymore—or what’s happened—but I just… I just want to be with you!!"

His voice breaks completely now, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks. His forehead drops against your shoulder as his body trembles.

You want to push Winter Weiss away, to demand answers from him, but your body refuses to move. Even if you can, his grip is iron—his trembling hands clutching at you as if letting go would shatter him completely.

Instead, you grab his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic. Even though every nerve in your body screams for him to release you, you can tell by the wild look in his eyes that he won’t.

“Let.. go of me!” you hiss, your voice sharp with panic.

“NOOO!!”

The word tears from his throat like a wounded animal’s cry. His voice echoes painfully through the small cottage, bouncing off the walls as his face contorts in anguish. His eyes are now red and glassy, and his expression twists between anger and heartbreak.

“I can’t…” he chokes out, his voice cracking into a desperate whimper. “If you’re not going to tell me where you are, then please—at least tell me why! Why are you pushing me away?!”

His knees give out beneath him, and he collapses at your feet, his arms wrapping tightly around your legs as if trying to anchor himself to you.

“Did I… did I do something wrong? Do you…” his breath hitches, “…do you hate me? A-Are you scared of what I... I did?”

You look down at him, words caught in your throat. He’s shaking so violently and you can see the veins standing out on his temples while his pale skin blotched with red from all the crying.

You don’t hate him really... then that sight of the female body's girl comes rushing back to your head. If Winter Weiss had a play on that then you you might just think differently.

“You have the dwa—”

“They’re not the same!” he shouts hoarsely, the sound tearing from his chest. “They won’t understand me like you do! They…” His voice drops into something small, trembling, broken. His forehead rests against your leg. “…They aren’t you.”

The words make your heart ache but you know you need to leave. You have to wake up. Whatever this is, dream or not, it’s spiraling too far.

You try to steady your breathing, pressing your back against the wall.

“I need to focus,” you tell yourself silently. “I need to wake up.” But how can you focus when he’s right there, crying at your feet as if his world is falling apart?

His sobs fill the small room, mixing with his trembling mutters—half-coherent words drowned beneath his ragged breathing.

You close your eyes tighter, forcing yourself to think of the last time this happened—with Aurelio. You’d woken up before. You can do it again.

Then, you feel it. A pull. Faint, almost imperceptible—but it’s there, tugging softly somewhere deep inside you, like a thread being drawn taut.

Winter Weiss feels it too.

His head snaps up instantly, his tear-streaked face twisting into pure panic. In an instant, he's on his feet.

“No… no!” His voice shakes as he grabs your face suddenly, his hands pressing against your cheeks so hard that pain blossoms under his fingers.

You cry out, trying to pry him off, your nails digging into his hand but his nails are too. You almost thought he's about to crush your skull. What should you do? If you die in a dream, will you never wake up?

You can use your magic—wait can you? You haven't tried yet. Perhaps you can pull him away so you have just enough space to focus.

“You can’t wake up yet, [Name]!” Desperation cracking through every word. “You can’t!!”

You struggle—kicking at his stomach, pushing at his arms—but he doesn’t move. His grip is unrelenting, his pupils wide and wild, like an animal who'd been starved for years. The pull inside you grows stronger—it's dragging you out of him, back to your body.

His expression shifts suddenly, his breath ragged, his eyes glinting with something dangerous. Then, he smiles.

It’s not the same soft smile you remember—it’s too wide and hollow. His thumb brushes against your cheek, then trails down to your chin in a mockingly tender gesture.

“I’ll find you,” he whispers, voice trembling between affection and madness. “Don’t worry, [Name]... I'll come for you.”

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“[Name]!!”

You jolt awake, the sound of your name cutting through the darkness. You gasp for breath, your heart pounding so violently it hurts. Moonlight flickers across the room, and the first thing you see is Cindereli—kneeling above you, his face filled with worry.

“Are you alright?” he asks hurriedly, his voice gentle but urgent. He moves off of you, giving you space, his bright ocean eyes darting over your face.

You wipe a shaking hand across your damp forehead, feeling the cold sweat clinging to your skin. Your breathing is uneven, and your chest still feels tight—like the nightmare is clawing at you from the inside.

“I…” you start, your voice unsteady. You push yourself upright, your elbows sinking into the mattress for support. “I-I don’t know.”

You stare down at your covered legs, trying to steady your breathing.

“I just… had a nightmare,” you murmur finally.

It’s the only explanation you can give—because how could you possibly tell him the truth. Cindereli frowns softly but nods, believing you.

“Do you need some water?” he asks softly. “I could get it for you.”

You shake your head almost immediately. “You can’t,” you whisper. “There are people outside the door, remamber?” You pause, pressing your palms together in thought. “Besides… I don’t need it.”

He blinks, hesitates, then nods slowly.

“Is there anything you might need?”

You let out a quiet breath, trying to steady the tremor in your voice, “I just need… a little time to collect myself. Don’t worry about it.”

You glance at him and try to smile, but it falters before it even reaches your eyes. His lips press into a thin line, his brows furrowing deeply.

“If you say so…” he murmurs, the words laced with reluctant acceptance.

You can tell he wants to help you in some way. However, you've always done well with just yourself. If you ever need anyone, you'll say... maybe.

He finally leans back into the mattress, shifting quietly, while you remain sitting upright. The silence that fills the room is almost unbearable. The only sound you hear is your own heartbeat and the faint rustle of sheets as Cindereli exhales and tries to fall back asleep.

But your thoughts keep replaying his words.

“I’ll come for you.”

You hiss as you curl your fingers into your palms until your nails dig into your skin. None of this makes sense. One factor tha's beel always repeating is.. they're not real people, they're all just but charcters in a story your mother heard from one her ventures.

Unless... they're not? No.. there must be something else.

What if, because all this tales are in one book, somehow they're interconnected? So, yes, they're not real though somehow they can travel through the stories within the pages much like you can while they cannot go outside of it.

...

Does the make sense? Probably not but it's the most logical thing you can think of with how hazy your mind is currently.

The real question you cannot think of any sort of answer is, how do they remember you? What does happen when you leave their tale? Does it... continue the story just without you? Yet that...

You glance back at Cindereli, his chest rising and falling gently as he finally drifts off. He looks so peaceful—so unaware of the weight sitting in your chest and the swirling thoughts in your mind. You envy him in that matter.

You should sleep too but your body refuses. Every time you close your eyes, you see Winter Weiss’s wild eyes staring at you.

How could you possibly ever sleep now?

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Winter Weiss jolts awake, breath catching in his throat as his eyes snap open. For a few seconds, he just sits there—frozen, before all the emotions comes rushing back to him.

You're gone... again.

His head bows forward, and his dark hair falls over his eyes as his trembling fingers clutch the edge of the tiny bed beneath him. His heart feels heavy, pounding painfully in his ribs, while the ghost of your voice still lingers in his mind.

“[Name]…” he breathes, the word barely audible, but it carries all the ache he can’t express.

Tears sting at the corners of his eyes, and he quickly wipes them away with the back of his hand, though the effort is useless. The bedsheet beneath his fingers wrinkles as he grips it harder, knuckles turning white. If he pulls any tighter, he might rip it apart.

He shuts his eyes and takes a shaky breath, trying to steady himself. At least… at least the book worked. He saw you. He spoke to you. That means it’s possible... That means he can reach you again.

He drags a pale hand through his ebony hair, pushing it back from his flushed face.

“Next time…” he whispers hoarsely, voice trembling with determination. “I’ll make sure I see you in the flesh.”

He exhales, long and heavy, staring at his trembling hands before curling them into fists. The thought alone keeps his heart alive. His eyes then locked on the small wooden cabinet near the wall.

Upon it rests the book—the very same one that had changed everything. He’s glad it came to him and told him about the book… Without the creature’s guidance, he might have never see you again.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

[Flashback I: Part I]

Earlier, the morning had been brighter that day, though not in a way that brought comfort.

Winter Weiss groaned softly as the sunlight hit his face, the sharp sting of it pulling him out of uneasy sleep. His head throbbed painfully, and his hand rose to his temple, trying to massage away the ache.

A faint groan escapes his throat as he sat up, his body heavy and stiff as if he had been asleep for days.

“What… happened?” he murmured, voice hoarse.

His brows knitted together as he glanced to his side—half expecting to see someone there. But the beds were empty. In fact, the room felt too empty when he swore someone was here with him.

He blinked several times, trying to shake the daze clouding his thoughts, and then stand with another quiet groan. The smell of something cooked lingered faintly in the air. Someone was in the kitchen, perhaps they were the same one he was looking for.

When he finally made his way down the creaky staircase, the sound of light humming greeted him. A woman sat on one of the tiny chairs around the dining table. For a moment, he didn't recognize her. However...

“Floria?” he called out with uncertainly. For some reason his heart knew who she was—or at least her name.

Her eyes immediately brighten, and a radiant smile spread across her face.

“Winter Weiss! You’re awake at last!” she exclaimed, her voice airy and sweet. “I tried to wake you earlier, but you wouldn’t budge.”

Before he can react, she rusheed toward him with open arms, but he instinctively took a step back. Her expression faltered, though only briefly before she smooth it away with another smile.

“Where are the dwarves?” he asked, looking around the small room, although it was not really them who he was looking for... nor she.

“Oh, them?” Her tone tightened ever so slightly, but she hid it with a light laugh. “They left early—off to the mines again. You know how they are!”

She clapped her hands together with a sudden brightness. “But never mind them! Breakfast is ready, and you’ll need your strength for the ride ahead.”

His brows knitted deeper. “Ride?”

“Of course,” she replied, tilting her head to the side, curls bouncing with the motion. “We’re returning to my kingdom, remember? You said you wanted to see it. It’s lovely this time of year!”

He blinked, his confusion growing thicker. “I… said that?”

“Yes,” she answered smoothly, her smile sharpened at the edges. “You insisted.”

He trief to recall, but the memories in his head were tangled—some clear while others hazy. Slowly, through the mess, one certain memory surfaced…

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['False' Memory I: START]

“That seems so lovely!” Winter Weiss said, his voice soft with awe after Floria finished describing her home.

“It is, isn’t it?” she replied with a tinkling laugh. “Would you like to see it?”

He smiled, a little hesitant. “It would be an honor but…” His gaze drifted toward the window, to the forest outside. “I kind of like it here.”

“You don’t have to stay,” she teased. “But perhaps if you see it, you’ll want to.” Her smirk was playful, but her eyes gleam with something he didn't catch.

He hesitated, shoulders drooping slightly. “I’m… not sure,” he murmured.

['False' Memory I: END]

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[Flashback I: Part II]

“I did say it looked lovely,” he admited slowly, his tone cool now, “but I never said I wanted to go.” His eyes narrowed, voice hardening as realization began to bloom. “Why are you twisting my words, Floria?”

He turned toward the small kitchen, frustration threading through his voice—but then his breath caught on his throat.

On the wooden counter sat a small basket. Inside, a pile of apples glowed in the sunlight—red as blood. He made his way toward the basket filled of that crimson fruit.

“I’m not twisting your words, Winter Weiss!” Floria insisted. She stepped closer, the hem of her pale dress brushing the floor as she followed him. “That’s what you said. Perhaps you’ve simply forgotten it?”

Her words were coated in honey, but there was a thin layer of something else beneath—something controlling, something that didn't sit right with him. Something that now he was beginning to notice.

Winter Weiss didn't look at her. His jaw tightened, and he kept his voice calm, though his mind churned.

“Maybe I’ve forgotten some things,” he admited softly, “but I’m certain that isn’t one of them.”

He reached for one of the apples resting in the basket, its glossy red surface catching the morning light like polished glass. He turned it in his hand, the skin gleaming against his pale fingers.

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Floria’s tone brightened, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “It’s not poisoned.” Her laugh is light but he didn't mirror it.

The word poisoned strikes him like a shard of glass. His body stiffened, and his gaze flickered sharply toward her. Her joke—if it was one—didn't resonated with him. What does she mean about this being not poisoned?

A sharp, splitting ache pierced his temples, and before he realized it, memories began to flood his mind.

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['False' Memory II: START]

“I’ll share a secret with you,” the old woman crooned. She stepped closer, eyes glinting beneath the shadow of her hood. “This... is no ordinary apple.” She pointed one skeletal finger on the vermilion fruit in her hand.

Winter Weiss tilted his head, and she smiled. "It's a magic wishing apple!

“A wishing apple?” he echoed. "I haven't heard of such a thing."

“Indeed it is, young boy. It's a peculiar thing only few could find. For my gratitude... it's all yours." He blinked in awe, wonder painted clearly on his face. "So go on—make a wish.”

Without a hint of hesitation, the boy accepted the apple. His fingers brush the cool, smooth surface as he lowered his gaze to it.

If this was true, if magic truly existed in this world and in this little succulent fruit… then he already knew what to wish for.

“I wish…” he thought to himself, “to see her again.”

A girl flasheed across his mind, the same one he met back on Kingdom Tabor. He didn't even know her name. But something in him knew she was the one.

The apple touched his lips, and he bit down.

At first, it tasted like any other—sweet and juciy—but then came the bitterness, crawling up his throat like veins. The old woman’s grin widened as his body began to falter.

The darkeness began to swallow the world around him, and before he could cry out to anyone who may hear his voice, his body slipped and fell onto the hard ground. The apple rolling off his hand...

['False' Memory II: END]

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[Flashback I: Part III]

Winter Weiss gasped softly as the image fades. His chest feels tight, his breathing shallow. That memory... why didn't he remembered it immediately... why does he—

“Mind if we switch?”

His breath hitched, and his fingers tightened around the apple.

“I’ve always liked sweeter apples.”

It felt as though someone had driven a blade into his chest. His heart lurched, and his grip faltered. The apple slipped from his hand and hit the wooden floor with a dull thud, rolling across the boards before coming to a stop.

"Winter Weiss...?"

[Flashback I: END...?]

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Early morning creeps in quietly, the moonlight still lingering faintly as dawn barely begins to rise. Cindereli lets out a low groan as he peels his eyes open. His vision blurs for a moment before settling on a figure seated by the desk.

“[Name]…?” he murmurs, pushing himself upright. He glances toward the window, noting the pale hint of sunlight at the horizon. “You’re up early.”

He’s used to early mornings—his family made sure of that.

“I should say the same to you,” you reply quietly.

Your voice is hoarse, rough from disuse, and the moment he hears it, understanding settles heavily in his chest. You haven’t slept since he woke you in the middle of the night.

“[Name]…” He sighs as he stands, walking toward you. “Didn’t I said you can tell me anything you needed?”

You’re sitting stiffly at the desk, a book open in front of you. You haven’t turned a page in a while. Your eyes simply trace the lines without meaning—your mind feels too exhausted to even process the words on the page.

“And I told you I didn’t need anything,” you answer groggily. “Besides, you were sleeping so peacefully. Didn’t want to ruin that.” A dry chuckle slips out, hollow and unconvincing.

After a pause, you add, “I’ve been checking now and then. There aren’t any guards outside anymore. I doubt they expect me to run off at such early hurs. So if you want, we can leave before they decide to send someone.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he stands behind you in silence, and you miss the deep scowl settling on his face.

“Eli…?” You glance back—and flinch. “Uh… I’ve never seen you be like that. Are you… angry?”

Your thoughts feel sluggish, muddled enough that you briefly wonder if you’re imagining it.

“Am I, [Name]?” He leans closer, close enough that it confirms he is upset.

“I… see.” You groan softly, snapping the book shut before rubbing at the bridge of your nose. “It’s not like lack of sleep will kill me.”

You push yourself to your feet and stretch your back with a tired sigh.

“I’m fairly certain it can,” he says flatly. He crosses his arms, disappointment clear in his posture. “I’m not just angry. I’m… disappointed.”

“So what,” you shoot back, snorting quietly, “you want me to wake you next time so we can be sleep-deprived together?” You shake your head. “We need at least one functioning brain, and this isn’t the first time.”

He exhales heavily, shoulders slumping. “You’re like a child...”

You raise a brow, mirroring the same frown still etched on his face. “Ouch but alright—are we going to stand here all morning, or are we leaving?”

He grumbles under his breath. “Fine. I’ll let it go this time.” He scratches the back of his neck. “And… don’t worry about my clothes. Nadine gave me another set during the night. You can... change first, if you'd like.”

“Actually,” you say after a moment, “you should go first. I don’t have anything that won’t draw attention.” And truthfully, the idea of changing in the same room again—you can only handle it once.

You’re not used to sharing space.

“Oh… I see.” He looks relieved. “Then I’ll see you after you find Nadine?”

You hum in response, and he nods before moving toward the door. When you crack it open, the hallway is empty—just as you expected at this early hour.

Barefoot and drained, you slip into the corridors without much care. Finding Nadine becomes your priority, though after checking the kitchens and nearby rooms, it’s clear she isn’t working yet.

That’s... fine.

Because you just stumble upon the laundry room instead, where freshly dried clothes are folded neatly. Aaand you've got another ace up your sleeve, and no it's not using the cloak or scaring these poor maids.

With a flick of your wrist, thin threads of light bloom into existence, refracting softly before darting toward a dress and snatching it swiftly.

If anyone sees it getting dragged away, you could only hope they chuck it off as the wind and don't chase it... which would be near impo—moving on, the frabric is safely in your hands.

It won't be your problem if they saw it, it's not like they know you did it anyway. All you have to do now is go back to your room unseen—in fact, you can even change before you arrive!

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

By the time you return to your room, both of you have already changed. The door creaks softly as you slip inside, and Cindereli’s head snaps up immediately.

“Just me,” you say quickly.

The tension in his shoulders eases at once. He exhales, then looks at you with a small, expectant smile.

“So,” you continue, pushing the door closed behind you, “shall we head out? There aren’t many people moving around the palace yet.” You cross the room and grab a few silver coins from your desk, the metal clinking quietly in your palm. “I was also thinking we should visit Lathia today.”

He lets out a short snort. “See? I told you you’d love it.”

You chuckle under your breath. “Can’t help it. Besides—she deserves it.”

He hums in agreement, his expression softening. And just like that, you’re gone.

After careful sneaking through the palace corridors—ducking behind pillars, freezing whenever footsteps echo too close, and nearly getting caught by guards more than once—you finally make it out and back into the heart of town.

The walk feels lighter somehow. You talk as you go, though most of the conversation comes from Cindereli. He wonders aloud about his family, about what they’ve been doing since last night, about whether things have changed at all. Each time, you steer the topic elsewhere.

For today isn’t about them. Today is about him. He’s finally—somewhat—free. The thought lasts right up until the problem appears directly in front of Lathia’s bakery.

“Wait…” Cindereli slows, leaning in and squinting. “Is that.. Anastasius?” You follow his gaze and... "It is! What is he doin' here??"

“Probably here to get someth—” you begin, but your words cut off when Cindereli suddenly grabs your arm and drags you forward. “Hey—are you sure this is a good idea?” you hiss.

“So what if it isn't?” he snaps back. “'Tis not like they can force me back into that house.”

“Well—” you try to argue, but fall silent as Anastasius turns, emerald eyes widening the moment they land on both of you.

“Cindereli!” he gasps.

You catch it—the way Cindereli’s mouth tightens and his expression darkens the instant his name leaves Anastasius’ lips.

“What are you—M-Mother—” Anastasius starts to shout, flailing his arms as he calls out for Lady Tremaine.

“Oh no you don’t!” Lathia’s voice cuts through the street like a blade. Before Anastasius can do so, she grabs him by the collar and yanks him straight into the bakery. “I am not letting you run crying back to that woman!”

You and Cindereli rush in after them just as Lathia slams the door shut and locks it, leaving the four of you alone inside.

Anastasius whirls around, fists clenched. “This—this is kidnapping!!” he shouts. “What are you even doing here?!” He jabs a finger at Cindereli. “Mother is furious! I had to do your work this morning! So why don’t you go back instead of lounging around in this—” His words die in his throat when his eyes meet Lathia’s.

She is glaring at him like she might actually throw him out the window.

Cindereli snorts, folding his arms. “And how does it feel to do all your precious little tasks so early in the morning?” Anastasius scowls, his gaze dropping despite himself.

“Yeah,” Cindereli adds lightly. “That’s what I thought.”

Anastasius straightens suddenly, forcing confidence into his posture. “You can’t keep me here forever! Mother will come looking—and when she finds out where I am, this place won’t be standing!” His hands tremble at his sides, betraying him completely.

That does it.

You can practically see the moment Lathia snaps—like a fuse burning down to nothing. Her face flushes, her teeth bare, and before anyone can blink, she lunges straight for Anastasius.

She would have wrapped her hands around his throat, snuffling his life without hesitation if Cindereli hadn’t jumped in and grabbed her from behind.

“Don’t you dare, you little—” she roars, thrashing violently in his hold. “You pribbled, ill-nurtured, good-for-nothing excuse for a man! I’ll wring you out right here, right now! Let. Me. Have him!”

Anastasius staggers back, clutching his chest in outrage. “What did you just call me?!” he shrieks. “Listen to yourself—announcing your crimes like some reeking, dizzy-eyed pig!”

That only pours more oil on the fire.

Cindereli struggles to keep Lathia back, his teeth clenched. “Both of you—stop it! One more word and I swear I’ll tie you both down!”

No one listens. Insults continue to fly, voices continously rising. The bakery fills with shouting until it’s impossible to tell who’s yelling at whom anymore.

“Aaaugh…” You drag your hands down your face. You do not have the energy for this.

But what can you do in this situation? ...Although you are royalty in this tale, aren’t you? You can do... something at least, right?

You straighten slightly. “…Stop.” Nothing happens. You clear your throat and raise your voice, sharper this time. “Stop... I command you.”

Silence crashes down instantly. Every head turns toward you.

Anastasius scoffs, opening his mouth. “And who are you supposed to—”

“I am Princess [Name].” Oh boy, the words feel so strange on your tounge. Will you ever get used to it? Nope. Still, you keep your chin lifted.

“And by my command,” you continue evenly, “you will be released.” You pause, eyes narrowing. “That is—only if you promise not to speak a word of this. Make a single sound about what happened here, and I will personally ensure your house does not remain standing.”

The effect is immediate. Color drains from Anastasius’ face so fast it’s almost impressive and a pathetic squeak escapes him.

“Huh,” Cindereli mutters under his breath, snorting. “You’ve never sounded more like a princess than just now.”

"And you'll never will."  It still doesn’t sit right—how a name... your name, carries this much weight here. It feels unreal... like you're in a—well, fairytale.

“Where did all that noise go, maggot?” Lathia snarls, nails digging into Cindereli’s arm as she glares at Anastasius.

He looks like a startled fawn now, eyes wide and glassy as he stares at you. “…I—of course, Your Highness,” he mumbles, bowing low.

Lathia scoffs. “Little louder. Didn’t hear ya!”

He flinches violently. All his earlier fury dissolves into pure fear. “I-I won’t say a word, Your Highness! I swear on my life!”

That’s enough for both Lathia and Cindereli so he loosens his grip. Lathia immediately shoves his arm away, grabs Anastasius by the collar, and drags him toward the door.

She unlocks it, hauls him outside, and throws him onto the street without a shred of mercy. "Eeek!"

“And don’t you ever step foot in my bakery again!”

The door slams shut behind him, her glare burning through the wood for good measure.

Finally, she exhales and slumps against the counter. When she looks at you now, all that fury softens into gratitude. “Thank you, Your—[Name]. I… how could I ever repay you?”

You hum thoughtfully. “Well… I’m not really fond of being repaid.” A small smile tugs at your lips. “But I have been craving one of your apple pies.”

Lathia’s mouth curls into a knowing smirk as she turns toward the kitchen.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

After the explosive argument finally burns itself out, the three of you settle into an uneasy calm, soothed by the warm comfort of apple pie. Plates sit scattered on the table, the crumbs evidence of stress-eating more than hunger.

Lathia, in particular, takes the hardest hit—she is already well into her second slice, chewing with the intensity of someone trying to drown out lingering anger.

As the tension eases, she begins to talk.

Her voice softens as she tells you how the bakery comes to be—how her father builds it from almost nothing, scraping together ingredients and hope with little more than stubborn passion.

She speaks of empty mornings, burned pastries, and aching hands, all worth it just to see the place stand. Continuing his dream is not just duty to her; it is love. She pours herself into every loaf and pie because she wants to see the townfolk smile and she also wants her father’s work to mean something.

Her words falter. Tears well in her eyes, and she presses her lips together, struggling to speak through them.

“I just… I don’t want it all to go to waste because of some whining fool,” she mutters, voice breaking. “I-I’m sorry for snappin’ like that earlier...”

Cindereli shifts closer and gently pats her back, his touch careful and reassuring. You reach for her hand, squeezing it softly.

“’Tis alright, Lathia,” he says warmly. “Anastasius can crawl under anyone’s skin. I don’t blame you for butchering him like that.” A crooked smile crosses his face. “Frankly, he deserves it.”

She huffs weakly, staring down at her now empty plate. “Heh… maybe. But I still don’t trust him,” she grumbles. “That bugger doesn’t know how to shut his mouth. I… I fear for my bakery.” She lets out a heavy sigh.

You smile gently and rub your thumb over the back of her hand. “He wouldn’t dare,” you say softly. “Did you see him earlier? I didn’t even expect him to respond. You scared the life out of him!” You’re not sure if that’s the best comfort, but you try anyway.

She snorts. “No—you did, princess.”

You shake your head. “You started it. I just nailed the coffin shut.” A short laugh slips between the two of you as she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I’m glad you’re both here…” she murmurs.

When some time has passed and once everyone has recollected themselves, you and Cindereli bid Lathia goodbye. Your plan is simple: explore the town—something he never truly gets to do.

Unbeknownst to him, it’s also your first time wandering these streets.

“Soooo,” you ask as the town opens up around you, bustling and alive, “where do you want to go?”

Cindereli’s eyes light up as he looks around, wonder bleeding into his voice. “I’ve got so many ideas!” he says brightly. Then he pauses, pointing into the distance. “Though… I’ve always wanted to visit the bell tower.”

You squint, barely catching sight of its peak. “Then what are we waiting for?” You hook your arm through his and tug him forward. Despite your lack of sleep, the food gives you flickers of energy.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” he asks, half-laughing.

“Of course not! We’ll get there somehow, right?” you shoot back over your shoulder.

“I guess—” He suddenly stiffens. “[Name], look out!!”

“Huh?”

Before you can react, you collide with someone, nearly tumbling over and Cindereli stops himself just in time.

“Ack!” You stumble back, rubbing your head. “I’m so sorry—”

Then when you look up, your heart drops straight into your stomach.

“[Name]…?” Winter Weiss gasps. His eyes shine as if he’s witnessed a miracle. “Oh my… oh my, it worked!” He grabs your shoulders, excitement radiating off him.

You freeze.

“No—no, no…” your breath shakes. “This can’t be…” Your mind scrambles for logic. Maybe you fell asleep back at the bakery and this is another dream. “This is a dream, right? You’re—you’re invading my head again, aren’t you?!”

“Oh, silly you!” He pinches your cheek—hard enough to sting and confirm it's not a dream. “I told you I’d come for you. And... here I am!” He laughs brightly, as if he never broke down the last time you saw him. As if he never begged on his knees.

The contrast is terrifying.

How much has he changed? Is he even the same Winter Weiss you once knew? Then again… after everything that’s happened to him, maybe this is exactly what you should expect.

“Get—get away from me!” You shove at his chest, his arms even his face, desperate to create distance. But his fingers dig painfully into your shoulder.

“Hey.” Cindereli steps closer, eyes a lot sharper than when Anastasius was insulting Lathia. “You should step back... you’re hurting her.”

Winter Weiss slowly turns toward him, smiling—but there’s nothing warm in it especially in those chocolate eyes of his. “And who are you?” he asks lightly. “Can’t you see? We’re having a reunion!”

Cindereli glances at you. You don’t need to speak for your eyes say enough. He steps forward and grips Winter Weiss by the arm, forcing him to release you.

“I think you’ve mistaken her for someone else, sir,” Cindereli warns.

Winter Weiss hisses as the grip tightens. “Mistaken? Oh, I assure you I am not.” He struggles, but Cindereli is stronger. “This is the [Name] I know... and the one I love.”

The scowl on Cindereli’s face deepens. “She may look like Princess [Name],” he says coldly, “but you know the law, don’t you?”

“What?” Winter Weiss frowns deeply, his brow kniting together. "That—hey!" His gaze then snaps at you as you began to step back from them.

Cindereli follows his gaze and tightens his grip even more.

“Let... go of me!” Winter Weiss thrashes in Cindereli’s grip, struggling like a mouse caught in a trap. No matter how hard he twists or jerks, he can’t break free. “[Name]—please! D-Don’t leave me again! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you off, but please—!”

You force yourself to turn away, even as his pleas grow louder and more broken.

“Don’t—PLEASE, [NAME]!!!” he screams. “I'LL DO ANYTHING JUST......”

His voice fades behind you as you break into a run.

You don’t even know where you’re going. Your feet just carry you forward, shoving past people, muttering apologies you don’t mean, heart pounding so hard it drowns out the noise of the town. All you know is that you need distance—distance from him.

How did he even get here? How or why can he even enter this tale at all???

Nothing makes sense. Your thoughts tangle and spiral, exhaustion sharpening your panic instead of dulling it. Maybe you’re thinking irrationally—your mind is not functioning completly—but all you want is to leave. To disappear completely.

And then the fear sinks deeper.

If Winter Weiss manages to force himself into this tale… what’s stopping him from doing it again? What’s stopping him from following you into the next one? And what about Cindereli? Can he, will he do the same??

You’ve already met Aurelio in your dreams, the same way Winter Weiss did. What if Aurelio starts appearing in tales he doesn’t belong in? What if they all do?!

Your foot catches on uneven stone. You collide with someone and go down hard, the cobblestone scarping any exposed skin.

“Argh!” you hiss, pain flaring.

“Hey, watch it, girl!” a man snaps, glaring down at you.

You don’t answer or utter an apology. You shove yourself up and keep running, lungs burning, vision blurring as the castle finally comes into view.

Sorry, Cindereli... Lathia... and Nadine.

You don’t want to leave them—you want to stay. You want to help Cindereli deal with his family properly, to see things through. But Winter Weiss being here feels wrong, maybe leaving will fix it... in some way.

You reach the castle gates faster than you expect, doubling over to catch your breath before slipping toward the same hidden entrance you and Cindereli use earlier.

This time, you don’t bother being careful.

You almost crash into someone again—honestly, what is it with you and running into people today?! But when you look up, relief washes through you.

“Your Highness!” Nadine gasps, worry creasing her brow. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“I’m sorry, Nadine,” you say breathlessly. “But I need to go.” You hesitate, then add softly, “And… thank you. For everything you’ve done—and risked—for me. Honestly, I wouldn't be able to do anything without you.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but you’re already moving again, leaving her behind as you dart through the corridors.

You skid around corners, nearly slipping on polished floors, until you finally reach your room. The moment the door shuts behind you, your legs give out and you collapse against your desk, gasping.

Dear God—you haven’t run like that in your entire life. Er... or lives? Either way, you ran like you never did before.

Forcing yourself upright, you turn toward the wardrobe where you hide your mother’s book—your escape. The doors creak softly as you open them, hands trembling as you dig through folded clothes until your fingers brush against something solid and rectangular, wrapped in cloth.

You pull it free and unwrap it. And as if the troubles aren't enough... this one tagged along.

Because the book still isn't glowing.

“How…?” You've been in this tale longer than the orginal version. You should be able to leave by now! So why isn’t it finished?

Your head starts to throb as you scramble for reason, for logic—anything to make sense of this mess when it hits you.

You and Cindereli never marry.... That is the ending of Cinderella—she and Prince Charming officially together.

So now how are you supposed to leave if the story isn't done?! Unless… unless you force it. The book is magic and so are you perhaps you can make it work. Magic doesn't obey logic, it bends and twists as it likes.

You clutch the book tighter. You're scraping the bottom here with bits of hope left in your heart. Drawing a slow, unsteady breath before opening the book.

Blank pages stare back at you—the one for Cinderella’s tale. Your throat tightens immediately, a stubborn lump forming no matter how many times you swallow.

“Okay… just.....” you murmur to yourself.

You press your palm against the pages, the same way you do. Nothing happens... as unfortunately expected. For a heartbeat, you seriously consider tearing the book apart—didn’t you already throw it once before? Perhaps you should do it again!

And then—

Warmth floods your veins.

Your brows knit together in confusion. You aren’t channeling your magic right now... Yet the sensation spreads anyway then the book began to glow like it did but... it's not the same—or you think it isn't.

You've never felt warmth whenever you touch this forsaken book. And it also isn't the familiar shimmer of your light... so what is this?

Before you can pull away, your fingers stiffen. Your hand warps, stretching unnaturally as the glow intensifies. Panic surges through you as your arm follows, twisting, blurring, being drawn in.

The pull becomes absolute.

Light swallows your vision as you’re dragged into the book for the fourth time, your body unraveling into brilliance and heat. But within the blinding light, your nose is flooded by the smell of... salt?

Characters & Info
✦ Twisted Tales [Extra]

Other Stories
✦ Divine Voice | Yandere.WHB x M.Reader
✦ My Dearest | Yandere.Alastor x M.Reader
✦ Solunar | Mythical.Yanderes x F.Reader

Chapter Text

꒰ა SPECIAL CHAPTER ໒꒱

⋇⊰Happily Ever After⊱⋇

❥・Word Count: 4.7k

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

What if... she had fought back?

What if... she had chosen the path that made her happy—one that promised freedom instead of duty?

What kind of life would have unfolded then?

But those questions belonged to a future not yet written. For now, the story began once upon a time, in lands ruled by two neighboring kingdoms who despised one another.

Their borders were marked not only by stone and soil, but by fear, hatred, and old wounds that refused to heal. It was said that only a great hero—or a terrible villain—could ever unite them.

Yet this tale was not about heroes or villains...

It was about a young girl named Leah.

She wandered into the Moors without a trace of fear, her boots brushing through tall grass and tangled roots without trouble as though the wild land welcomed her presence.

Her eyes shone with curiosity rather than caution, and her golden hair caught the light as she searched eagerly between the trees.

“Maleficeeent?” she called, her voice echoing softly through the thick foliage.

Each step she took stirred movement in her peripheral vision—small fae creatures peeking from behind leaves and branches, watching her with wary eyes.

Their hesitation tugged at Leah’s chest, leaving behind a faint sadness. She understood their fear, even if it hurt. Humans were rarely kind to their kind...

At least Maleficent was not afraid of her. Neither were the three tiny fairies who often lingered nearby.

“Maleficent! Where are you?!” Leah huffed, planting her hands firmly on her hips as she scanned the clearing. “I’m going to leave early if you don’t show yourself!” she threatened, though there was no real menace behind her words.

A familiar, dramatic whine rang out from behind the trees. “Oh, you killjoy!”

Leah turned just in time to see a horned fairy peeking out from behind a thick trunk, bright emerlad eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Maybe you’d find me faster if you weren’t standing there like a tree!” Maleficent teased.

She stepped out fully, hopping lightly from one stone to another, careful not to slip into the water below. Leah scowled at her, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her amusement.

“Well, you didn’t say we were playing!” Leah shot back. “That’s not fair...”

Maleficent only rolled her eyes, a laugh bubbling out of her chest. “Then hurry up! I have so much to show you!”

Before Leah could protest, Maleficent grabbed her hand and tugged her forward. Water splashed around their feet as they hurried along, their laughter echoing beneath towering trees.

They darted through the Moors together, Maleficent eagerly pointing out glowing flowers, strange creatures, and hidden paths, while Leah listened with wide-eyed wonder.

“Oooh—you have to see this, Leah!” Maleficent exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement as she dragged her friend up a small hill.

At the top stood a massive tree, its trunk thick and ancient, its branches stretching toward the sky like protective arms.

“What is it this time?” Leah asked, tilting her head as they came to a stop. Her gaze lifted slowly, awe creeping across her face as she took in the tree’s immense size.

Maleficent’s voice softened, losing its playful edge. She reached out and pressed her palm against the rough bark. “This… this is my home,” she said quietly. “My... Rowan tree.”

Leah hummed softly in acknowledgment, sensing the weight behind those words.

“I wish I could bring you to my home,” Leah murmured after a moment. “Meet my family.” Her voice faltered slightly. “But… I don’t think they’d be very happy if I brought a fairy back.”

She let out a small, awkward chuckle, though it carried no real joy. Then she hesitated before asking, “Where is your family, Maleficent?”

Maleficent stood with her back turned, but even without seeing her face, Leah noticed how her shoulders stiffened. Her head lowered, horns dipping forward, and the silence that followed spoke louder than any words.

“They… they were killed,” Maleficent said at last, her voice barely above a whisper.

She inhaled shakily before turning around to face Leah. “I wasn’t always the last of my kind,” she continued. “There were only a few of us, but still…” Her gaze dropped again, hesitating but nevertheless, continued, “Humans feared us for our power. So they hunted us.”

She walked toward the edge of the hill, staring out into the vast stretch of the Moors. Leah followed close behind, unsure of what to say.

“Maybe,” Maleficent added quietly, “there are still some out there somewhere. Just hiding… and afraid.”

Leah’s chest tightened. Guilt washed over her—she hadn’t meant to bring up such pain.

“I’m sorry for asking...” she said softly.

Maleficent snapped out of her somber thoughts almost instantly, her bright eyes widening in an instant.

“There’s no need to be sorry, Leah!” she said quickly, her voice suddenly lively again. “You were only curious!”

Before Leah could even react, Maleficent had thrown her arms around her, pulling her into a tight, enthusiastic hug.

When Maleficent finally pulled away, she didn’t let go completely. Instead, she grabbed Leah’s hand, her excitement bubbling over once more.

“I want to know about your family!” she exclaimed. “And the whoooole human world!” She tilted her head, horns dipping slightly as her curiosity shone through. The sadness from earlier had vanished entirely from her eyes. “What do you do out there? What do you eat? Do all humans look like you? I’ve never really seen much of your kind.”

Leah was completely bombarded by questions. She let out a soft laugh, amused and a little overwhelmed.

"As you've said many times,” she said warmly. Then her gaze drifted upward, eyes following the sun as it climbed higher into the sky.

Her smile faltered just a little. “But… I think I need to head back soon. My mother will start worrying if I’m not home by noon.”

Maleficent’s expression fell instantly. The excitement drained from her face, replaced by a small, aching frown.

“I’m sorry,” Leah added quickly, seeing the look on her friend’s face. “But I’ll come back tomorrow. I promise.” She squeezed Maleficent’s hand before pulling back slightly, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Just don’t hide again—or I really will leave next time.”

Maleficent blinked before letting out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “Alright, alright. Anything to stop you from whining...”

“Hey!!” Leah protested, bristling instantly. “You’re so mean, Maleficent!”

Her words dissolved into laughter as Maleficent teased her back, the two of them bickering lightheartedly as they made their way toward the stone wall that marked the boundary between the Moors and the land of men.

But nothing ever lasted forever...

When they reached the edge of moors, Leah stopped and look back with a final wave. Maleficent stood still, watching as the golden-haired girl walked away, her figure slowly growing smaller.

Sunlight caught in Leah’s hair, making it glow as if she carried a piece of the Moors with her back home.

A strange, heavy feeling settled in Maleficent’s chest. Loneliness crept back in and it confused her. The forest was full of friends, and life—and yet, without Leah, something felt missing...

“Oh, don’t look so gloomy, Maleficent,” Fauna said gently, fluttering closer and placing her tiny hands against the horned girl’s arm. “Leah will come back. She always does!”

“Yes, yes,” Flora added reassuringly, hovering beside them as sparkles drifted from her wings. “She has a kind heart... she won’t break her promise.”

Maleficent sighed deeply, her frown lingering. “I know… I just don’t understand why I feel like this,” she admitted. “I have you three... I have the Moors. I have so many friends! So why then?”

The three fairies exchanged glances, their expressions thoughtful.

“Don’t worry,” Merryweather said softly, patting Maleficent’s head. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

And understand she did.

As the years passed and Maleficent grew older—the feeling that once confused her slowly revealed its name. By the time she reached her twenth year, she finally understood what had been stirring in her heart all along.

Love.

She loved Leah.

Yet a quiet doubt lingered, gnawing at her thoughts. Did Leah feel the same...?

Unbeknownst to Maleficent, on the other side of the wall—within the land of men—Leah was facing troubles of her own...

.

.

.

You see, it was not only Maleficent who had been drawn to Leah’s wild spirit and gentle heart.

Another, wielding a very different kind of power, had also taken notice of her.

Prince Stefan of Ulstead.

To the townsfolk, Leah was spoken of in hushed admiration—as if she were something rare, a glimmer of gold hidden among common stones.

She was kind beyond expectation, fair in both face and soul, and carried herself with an ease that felt untouched by fear or greed. Word of her spread from whisper to whisper until, inevitably, it reached the ears of the prince himself.

A woman of such warmth and beauty, Stefan thought, would make a perfect queen. Her humble birth mattered little to him. In fact, it only made her more intriguing.

And so, one morning, he decided to see her for himself.

Leah awoke to the sound of voices drifting up from below—too many voices and lively for such an early hour. She groaned softly, rolling onto her side and burying her face into her pillow.

"What are they doing now?" she thought irritably. "Did they bring someone over again?"

Despite her strong dislike for mornings, curiosity tugged at her. With a sigh, she pushed herself out of bed and crept toward the door. She moved quietly down the stairs, careful with every step as the old wood threatened to betray her with each creak.

“Oh, we would be most honored, Your Highness!” her mother exclaimed, her voice practically glowing with excitement.

Leah froze.

Your Highness?

Her heart skipped, eyes widening as realization struck. The prince was here. But why?

“And where might your daughter be?” came an unfamiliar man’s voice. There was no mistaking it. That had to be Prince Stefan.

“Oh, she’s upstairs!” her mother replied cheerfully. “I’ll go fetch her at once for you.”

Leah barely had time to react before footsteps hurried toward her. She remained rooted in place, stunned, confusion swirling in her mind.

Her mother nearly collided with her, gasping in surprise before breaking into a delighted smile. “Oh! You’re already awake, sweetheart! Come, come—this is perfect.”

Before Leah could protest, her mother grabbed her arm and ushered her downstairs. And then Leah saw him.

Prince Stefan stood near the hearth, dressed finely, his posture straight and confident. When their eyes met, something lit up in his expression... that Leah didn't share.

“My love,” her mother announced eagerly, “Prince Stefan has asked for your hand in marriage!”

The words hit Leah like cold water.

She turned slowly to her mother, disbelief written plainly across her face. “And... you agreed?” she asked, her voice low and strained.

Her mother blinked, clearly not expecting resistance. “Why, of course! Your father and I both did.”

Leah’s jaw tightened. She glanced at her father, who stood beside the prince, his silence only confirming it.

“Leah…” Stefan spoke gently, a hopeful smile forming on his lips.

She didn’t return it. How could she? She barely knew the man standing before her—and worse, her heart already belonged to someone else...

“Why do you look so troubled, child?” her father asked, folding his hands together.

Leah stepped back, pulling free from her mother’s grip. Her chest felt tight, emotions clashing violently within her.

“Leah?” her mother whispered sharply, concern now edged with displeasure as she now just noticed her dauther's clear dissatisfaction. “What’s wrong? You should be happy.”

Her mother clasped her hand again, this time with a firmer grip, fingers digging into her skin as if trying to anchor her in place. “Think carefully,” she urged in a low voice. “You would be leaving this life behind, my dear.”

Leah glanced sideways at her, but she said nothing.

It was... true. A life beside the prince would free her from the hardships of common living.

No more bending beneath the sun in fields of corn and wheat. No more worrying whether winter would be cruel or kind, whether bread would stretch far enough for the week.

She would be surrounded by silks and gold, waited on by servants, never again forced to work herself to exhaustion just to survive.

As Queen of Ulstead, she would stand second only to the king himself. And while a crown did not grant absolute power, her voice would still carry weight—enough to shape laws, sway councils, and change lives.

It was everything her parents had ever dreamed of for her.

But the question lingered heavily in her chest. Did she want it?

No.

She did not.

She knew such a marriage would make life easier and they've waiting for her to find the one man. She knew it would please her parents beyond measure.

But ease was not the same as happiness—and no matter how much they wished it, they did not get to decide the course of her life.

When the silence stretched too long, Leah finally spoke.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

She looked away from her mother, then lifted her gaze to her father before turning to Prince Stefan. Her voice steadied as resolve settled into her bones. “But I refuse.”

The room erupted.

“You what?!” her mother cried, aghast. “Leah! Have you lost your mind?”

“No,” Leah replied firmly, pulling her arm free once more. “But this is my life—and I decide who I marry, and when.”

“But my—”

Her mother tried to protest, but Leah cut her off without hesitation. “If you cannot respect that,” she continued, her voice trembling just slightly, “then it would be best if I leave. I am twenty-three, Mother. I am no longer a child you can command.”

“Leah, wait,” Prince Stefan said quickly, stepping forward. His voice softened, almost pleading. “I know this must come as a shock. But I swear to you—I will make you the happiest woman in all of Ulstead.”

He clasped his hands together, earnest and hopeful. Leah saw the same hope reflected in her parents’ eyes.

However, she felt nothing but suffocation.

“I’m truly sorry,” she whispered. “But I’m leaving.”

“To where?!” her mother shouted as Leah turned away. “Leah!”

She didn’t answer. Leah pushed past them all—even past the prince—and rushed outside.

“Leah!” Stefan called after her. When he reached the threshold and saw her fleeing, his expression hardened. He turned sharply to the guards. “What are you standing around for? Go after her! Bind her if you must—just bring her back!”

The thunder of hooves followed soon after. She knew they'd be a lot faster than her but she also knew the streets better than any rider ever could.

She darted through narrow alleys and tight corridors where horses struggled to pass, forcing the guards to detour again and again. Her lungs burned, but she didn’t slow—not even when fear clawed at her ribs.

The front gates were impossible. By now, they would surely be watching for a blonde woman trying to flee the kingdom. Yet there was another way.

The old sewer gate beneath the castle walls.

It was foul and forgotten, rarely used—and long weakened by time. Years ago, she had discovered she could force it open with enough effort. It was a terrible, disguting route but she had endured far worse.

After all, she had ventured the Moors and the mischief of a certain horned fairy.

She loathed every step that took her closer to the  swere gate, the stench thickening with each breath, but hesitation would cost her everything. Without allowing herself time to think, she descended into the shallow, rushing filth. Cold water soaked the part of her dress almost instantly.

Grimacing, she braced her hands against the rotting iron bars. With a strained grunt, she shoved with all her remaining strength. The gate resisted for a heartbeat—then gave way with a groan, swinging open just enough.

“EEE—” Leah stumbled forward, nearly plunging face-first into the murky water.

She caught herself at the last second, heart pounding violently as she steadied her footing. Breathless, she leaned against the stone wall and wiped the sweat from her brow with her sleeve.

She glanced back. Just the faint chatter oe people and nothing else of worth to be worried.

Once outside the walls, she forced herself onward, even as her dress clung heavily slowing her down. Still she pushed through it anyway.

She had endured worse in the Moors—mud flung by laughing fae, cold lakes, scraped knees and bruises earned through reckless freedom.

And yet, fear gnawed at her.

Every few steps, she glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting mounted soldiers racing toward her. If they found her now, there would be nowhere left to run.

The open fields would betray her in an instant. Even if she ran for the corn field, they'd see her in a heartbeat.

But she ran anyway.

She ran until her lungs burned and her legs screamed in protest, until the world narrowed to nothing but breath and pain. And she did not stop until the jagged silhouette of the Moors finally rose before her.

At the very edge—where the lands of men ended and fae began—her strength abandoned her.

Leah collapsed onto the grass, chest heaving violently. She had risen before dawn, eaten nothing, and pushed her body far beyond its limits. She tried to force herself upright, but her arms trembled uselessly, as though the strength had been drained from her bones.

Her vision then began to blur together. Black spots crept along the edges of her sight, spreading wider and wider. The world grew distant, weightless—before it disappeared entirely.

.

.

.

A soft murmur reached her ears as consciousness slowly returned. A voice floated indistinctly around her. She couldn’t tell if they were meant for her or someone else entirely, or if they were even real at all.

When Leah finally managed to open her eyes, sunlight pierced her vision.

“Uaagh…” she groaned, lifting a hand to shield her face as a dull ache throbbed behind her eyes.

“Leah…?” came a familiar voice, thick with relief. “I’m glad you’re finally awake.”

Her brow furrowed. She lowered her hand slightly.

“…Mal?”

Her gaze focused, and there she was—lookingg down at her, eyes flooded with concern. Leah shifted, only then realizing she was resting against the fairy’s lap.

Her throat tightened, and she pushed herself upright with effort.

“What happened?” Maleficent asked gently. “The Spriggans found you collapsed near the border.”

Leah exhaled shakily, running a hand through her tangled golden hair. She looked straight into those jade-tinted eyes she knew so well.

“Well.. this morning…” she said slowly. “The prince of Ulstead came to my home.”

Maleficent tilted her head. “Prince Stefan?” she asked. “But... why?”

Leah looked elsewhere as her jaw tightened. “He wanted me… to be his queen.” A sharp, audible gasp escaped from the lady beside her. “He asked my parents,” Leah continued quietly. “They agreed, of course. And well…”

She stopped, seemingly unable to continue it herself as she looked back at the events earlier.

“I take it with ou being here... you didn't want to.” Instead, the fairy finished it for her.

Leah let out a sharp breath, irritation flashing across her face as her brows drew together.

“Exactly! I mean—everything happened so suddenly,” she muttered, her voice rough with lingering anger and disbelief.

Maleficent hesitated beside her, the usual brightness in her expression dimming. Her voice slowed, softened, as her clawed fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, gripping it as though grounding herself.

“But… if it hadn’t been sudden.... then would you have agreed?” she asked quietly.

Leah turned to look at her.

The sight made her pause. Maleficent’s sharp features were drawn tight, her green eyes carefully guarded yet unmistakably anxious. There was a vulnerability there that Leah rarely saw, and it tugged at her heart. A small chuckle escaped her lips.

“No,” Leah said firmly. “Never. I really can’t imagine myself as a queen!” She pressed a hand to her chest before her gaze softened. “Besides… someone already stole my heart.”

Maleficent slightly tilted her head. The tension in her face eased but still very much present.

“Hmm?” she murmured. “...Is that so?” Her tone grew shy despite her sharp appearance. “If I may ask… who was it?”

There were moments when Maleficent, for all her intimidating presence, became almost endearingly awkward and often times, Leah found those rare opportunitis adorable—his was one of them.

Leah hummed thoughtfully. “Why don’t you come closer?”

Maleficent hesitated, then leaned in just a little. Leah mirrored the movement, her smile widening ever so slightly—but instead of whispering into the fairy's knife like ears, she closed the distance entirely.

Maleficent’s eyes widened as Leah’s lips met hers in a soft, careful kiss.

The world seemed to stop for Maleficent, her mind struggling to catch up with what her heart was feeling. She had never expected this—never allowed herself to hope for it.

She had prepared herself for rejection, for watching Leah choose someone else, for burying her own feelings deep where they could not hurt as much.

And yet—

Was this what they spoke of in stories? That true love’s kiss she had always doubted was real?

Too soon, Leah pulled back, her lips curved into a gentle, satisfied smile, leaving Maleficent utterly speechless.

“W-What was that for, Leah…?” The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her voice wavered, betraying her need to hear the answer—to make this moment real.

Leah laughed softly, warm and genuine. “You,” she said plainly. “Mal, you stole my heart.” She tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “Honestly, I was just waiting for you to finally say something...”

Maleficent blinked.

“…What?” Her brows knit together in confusion.

Leah raised an eyebrow, giving her a knowing look. “It was obvious,” she said with a smirk. “And those three little ladies of yours certainly didn’t keep quiet about it!”

Maleficent’s cheeks flushed hot as realization dawned. She let out a low growl, glaring toward the forest. “I see… those little rascals.....”

Leah only laughed again, leaning over and resting her head against Maleficent’s shoulder, her voice turning teasingly soft. “Oh, don’t be like that, Mal.”

Maleficent glanced down at her, her expression easing. After a moment, she spoke more seriously.

“So… what happens now?” she asked. “With your family.”

Leah sighed, her earlier tension returning briefly before fading away.

“Don’t worry about them, I’ll stay here. With you—and the fae folk.” Her voice grew certain. “I’ve always felt like I belonged here more than anywhere else.”

Maleficent smiled, warmth blooming across her sharp features. “I wouldn’t argue with that.”

Tentatively, she slipped an arm around Leah’s waist, holding her close as they sat together beneath the Rowan tree. Above them, carved into the bark where time could not easily erase it, were two simple markings:

"M & L"

Maleficent and Leah. Until the end of time itself.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Two years had passed since Leah fled from Kingdom Ulstead.

She had done everything in her power to keep her distance from the place that once tried to cage her life into a crown she never wanted. And yet, no matter how far she ran, there were moments—nights like this—when Ulstead still demanded her presence.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The sky was dark, though the streets were not yet completely silent. Leah moved through the familiar paths with practiced caution, her hood drawn low. She had only meant to retrieve something urgent.

She would have passed through unnoticed, as she always did.

“I-I’m so sorry…” When a whisper from a woman stopped her cold.

Leah turned toward the sound, brows knitting. She rarely allowed herself to be distracted here; voices were common even at this hour. But there was something in that woman’s tone that tugged sharply at her chest.

She moved closer, steps slow and careful. The sound of quiet sobbing reached her just as hurried footsteps echoed down the stone path.

A woman rushed past her, tears streaking down her face, one hand clamped over her mouth as if to keep herself from breaking apart entirely. Leah watched her disappear into the dark, confusion and unease settling in her gut.

After a moment, Leah followed the direction the woman had come from.

It did not take long before she saw it—a basket resting beside a doorstep. Vibrant crimson roses peeked out from within, their petals stark against the night.

Her curiosity gave way to dread as she approached. Leah’s breath caught when she looked inside.

A... baby.

The infant was swaddled in white cloth, impossibly small and utterly defenseless. Leah dropped to her knees without thinking, her heart tightening painfully.

“Oh… you poor thing,” she whispered.

She imagined the woman’s tears, the apology in her voice. This was not cruelty—it was desperation. Whatever her circumstances, the mother had clearly not wanted this

...

She could leave the basket where it was. Trust that whoever lived here would take the child in and care for him properly. But doubt gnawed at her.

How can she leave if the people living in this home could possibly not be the best for the baby? Especially when she knew she, as long as the rest of the Moors—and even Maleficent if she was convincing enough—would offer something much more.

...

No.

Leah shook her head, resolve hardening. She glanced around, then carefully lifted the basket, roses and all, and continued with her errand before making her way back to the Moors.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

“I thought you said you were only going to buy something,” Maleficent said slowly, eyes flicking down to Leah’s arms. “And you return with a… baby?”

Leah winced under the look but held the child closer. “Oh, come on, Mal,” she protested. “Do you really think I could just leave him there?”

Maleficent sighed, rubbing her temples. “The woman left it for a reason,” she argued. “Perhaps that thing was meant for someone she trusted where she could still watch it grow."

Leah’s grip tightened protectively. “This thing,” she snapped, “is a boy.”

Maleficent scowled at the correction.

“And besides,” Leah continued, faltering slightly, “I-I..." In all honesty, she didn’t have time to think about all that.

She just kind of... took him without much of a second thought. But if it were the home of a friend, why would the woman not just knocked?

She looked down at the infant, her voice growing fierce with emotion. “Look at him, Mal! Could you really leave him out in the cold like that? He could’ve died looong before anyone opened the door!!”

She thrust the baby forward just enough to emphasize her point. Maleficent recoiled instinctively, staring at the child as if he were a curse.

“…I suppose,” she muttered reluctantly, “it does have your hair.”

“Him,” she corrected again.

Maleficent rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt, which only made Leah let out a frustrated groan.

“Oh, come on,” Leah pleaded, rocking the baby slightly. “Pleeease, he’s already here, so—”

Maleficent’s scowl deepened, sharp emerald eyes narrowing as she stared at the small bundle in Leah’s arms. Then she released a long, dramatic sigh.

“Fine,” she muttered, clearly surrendering more out of exhaustion than agreement. She glanced away before adding, “So… what do you plan on naming that—”

Maleficent paused, then corrected herself through gritted teeth. “…child.”

Leah’s expression softened instantly, smug satisfaction flickering across her features.

“Hmph... Thank you.” She looked back down at the infant, adjusting her hold as she studied his tiny face. The baby was calm now, golden hair catching the light faintly as he slept.

“I was thinking something inspired by roses,” Leah continued thoughtfully. “Since… well, he came with them.”

She fell quiet, clearly searching for the right name, thumb brushing gently over the edge of the blanket. Despite herself, Maleficent watched—the way Leah cradled the boy, the unguarded tenderness in her posture.

She didn’t like the child but... it was she who first spoke.

“…Well then, how about—Aurelio?”

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✦ Twisted Tales [Extra]

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