Chapter Text
The room is dimly lit by flickering candlelight, casting long, ominous shadows across the stone walls. The air feels heavy and oppressive, as though the room itself holds its breath in the presence of its mistress. The Queen- called Beldam behind her back by just about everyone in the kingdom- draped in a flowing black gown adorned with gleaming silver embroidery, stands before her ornate mirror. Its golden frame is intricately carved with twisting shapes resembling sharp claws and eyes.
Her pale fingers, tipped with sharp red nails, trail along the mirror’s edge as she gazes at her reflection. Her black eyes rake over her Queenly attire, her eyes narrow, her lips curling into a sly, expectant smile.
“Magic mirror on the wall,” she intones, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “Who is the fairest of them all?”
The mirror’s surface begins to swirl, like ink dissolving in water, until a ghostly, otherworldly face materializes in the glass. Its features are pale and gaunt, with a faint sickly green tint. The spirit's hollow eyes meet her gaze. The spirit’s voice is deep and hollow, reverberating through the room.
“Famed is thy beauty, Majesty.”
Beldam smirks, tilting her head as though the answer were obvious. But the spirit continues, its tone shifting to one of quiet intrigue.
“But hold, a dear servant I see.”
Beldam stiffens, her smirk faltering.
“Rags cannot hide his gentle grace. Alas, he is more fair than thee.”
The words cut through the air like a dagger. Beldam’s smile vanishes entirely, replaced by a look of cold fury. Her sharp nails dig into the mirror’s frame as she leans closer.
“Who dares outshine me?” she hisses. “Show me this… servant.”
The spirit’s face dissolves into a swirling cloud of smoke, which clears to reveal an image of the old vine-covered well. Standing beside it is Wyborne, his tattered clothes and calloused hands a stark contrast to his regal lineage. The afternoon sun bathes him in warm light, making his dark curls appear a golden brown and his gentle olive-green eyes appear even brighter. His gentle smile is serene as he collects water in a wooden bucket, his movements calm and deliberate.
Several doves perch on the stone well, their pure white feathers a stark contrast to the dark gray of the castle. One hops closer to Wyborne, cooing softly. He beams and gently strokes its chin with a calloused but careful hand. The bird leans into his touch, cooing in delight.
The former Prince hums a sweet, melodic tune as he works, his voice light and soothing. The doves seem enchanted, chirping melodiously in harmony with him. For a moment, the bleakness of the kingdom fades, and the scene feels like something out of a dream.
A figure sneaks up behind Wyborne, laughter bubbling mischievously as two strong arms wrap around him, lifting him off the ground. Surprised, Wyborne lets out a yelp that quickly turns into laughter as his second older brother, DeShawn, tickles him on the sides. Meanwhile, Michael, the eldest of the three, chuckles and leans against his broom.
Beldam’s eyes burn with rage as she watches the scene. Her grip tightens on the mirror’s frame until it creaks under the pressure.
“Wyborne,” she spits, her voice dripping with disdain. “That insufferable boy. He dares to outshine me?”
The mirror’s surface ripples, the image fading back into the smoky haze.
“What would you have me do, Majesty?” the spirit asks, its tone impassive yet knowing.
Beldam straightens, her expression hardening into one of cold determination. She turns away from the mirror, her gown sweeping behind her like a dark shadow.
“I will not tolerate such insolence. He will not live to surpass me. Tomorrow, I shall see to it myself that his fate is sealed.”
Her sharp laughter echoes through the chamber as she exits, the candles flickering violently in her wake. The mirror’s surface goes dark, but the ghostly face lingers faintly in the glass, its expression unreadable.