Chapter Text
Meeting Bruce Wayne - Hildur Guðnadóttir ‧ 2019
The Enchanted Forest was one of the most powerful and vast kingdoms this land had ever known. Its expanse stretched from the icy mountains in the north to the sun-drenched valleys in the south. Within its borders lay dozens of small kingdoms, hundreds of villages and towns, ancient castles, dense forests, and forgotten temples. It was a realm known to all — and everyone knew the name of its ruler: Regina.
Majestic, austere, and prosperous, the Enchanted Forest was carved out of legend.
And she was a legend.
From childhood, Regina knew what she was being groomed for. Her life had never been her own — it was meticulously planned and constructed. She had no childhood like others did. Games, fairy tales, and joy were replaced by lessons in power, obedience, and strategy. Her mother had told her, “You were born to rule. You were born to be queen.”
And so she became one.
A queen. Frighteningly beautiful — and merciless.
She ruled her kingdom with cold, precise grace, like the conductor of a dark symphony. No advisor dared challenge her. Even a poorly timed glance could cost a head. The people whispered in the dark, behind tightly shuttered windows:
“The Evil Queen…”
The name had taken root deep within. It became a mask — but not a lie.
And yet, despite the fear, despite the cold power wielded with an iron fist, the Enchanted Forest flourished. Its cities grew, its lands yielded bountiful harvests, its borders stood secure, and its army was strong and disciplined. No kingdom could rival its might. In the war that had raged for years, it was Regina who led the charge — pushing the rebels deeper into the woods and mountains.
Still, there were always those who hoped. Those who waited.
They were waiting for Snow White.
The girl who had once fled. The one who had once been beloved by all. The one Regina had once… trusted. And the one she now hated.
Snow White… Oh, she knew how to act in public. Innocent, pure, radiant like the sun on a spring morning. But with every passing year, with every step, Snow White became what she truly was — selfish and vain. Once, in her youth, Regina had saved her — and that had been her downfall. Snow White had played a pivotal role in her life. She had stolen everything. Her love. Her future. Her happiness.
Now, Snow White was a queen in exile. Waging war. Hiding behind the backs of mercenaries. Believing in light and salvation.
Foolish. Blind.
Regina didn’t believe in light or mercy. Only in power.
And she wanted revenge.
She didn’t just want to win the war — she wanted her heart.
How many times had she tried to claim it? How many times had she sent her people — spies, assassins, hunters?
But all in vain.
And now — again. One of her most loyal servants, Graham, a hunter with a wolf’s face and a soul long since sold for survival, was to return victorious.
With Snow White’s heart in his box.
The throne room was wrapped in cold silence. Dark stone walls, flickering torches casting long, restless shadows, and roses wilting in tall vases, as if death itself had brushed them.
Upon a throne carved from black obsidian, she sat.
Regina.
She wore a raven-black gown, heavy and rich with embroidery, with a high collar rising like bone from her spine. Her hair was bound into a crown of sharp pins — thorns upon thorns. Her gloved hands rested still, as though the world was a chessboard and she was waiting for her next move.
There was no patience in her eyes.
Only anticipation.
The doors burst open.
Through the echoing gloom of the throne room, the hunter’s steps rang off the stone. He approached slowly, each footfall heavy, like steps toward judgment. Regina remained motionless on her dais — a statue of wrath — but her eyes gleamed.
In Graham’s hands was the box.
He knelt, head bowed, as a hunter should before his queen. Arms outstretched, he offered the box. His fingers trembled — barely — but Regina noticed.
She did not comment.
Not yet.
Snow White’s heart. Finally.
Regina rose — smooth, graceful, like a serpent poised to strike. The train of her dress flowed behind her like an ink-black river. Each step she took thickened the air with tension.
She wrapped slender fingers around the box. The lid opened of its own accord.
Inside, a heart lay. Warm. Beating.
Her lips curved into a smile. The sweetness of revenge bloomed in her chest, intoxicating as aged wine. Her fingers trembled with anticipation. Here it was — the heart of her enemy. Her triumph.
Then — the joy vanished. Replaced first by confusion.
Then disgust.
She looked again. Closer.
This heart was… not human. Not hers. Not Snow White’s.
A beast’s heart. Not a princess’s.
Fury erupted in her eyes.
She hurled the box aside.
“It’s… not Snow White,” she whispered, her voice building to a furious roar.
“How dare you deceive me? Did you think I wouldn’t know? That I wouldn’t recognize it?”
The hunter remained still, head low, as if submission might save him. But he knew who she was. The woman who did not ask — or grant — mercy.
He raised his eyes. There was fear — yes. But also resolve. He rose — not in defiance, but with dignity. Like a man walking to the gallows.
“Snow White…” His voice quivered.
“She… I don’t think she deserves this. I… I couldn’t do it. Kill her. It’s…”
“You decided,” she breathed, incredulous. “You decided to betray me? To judge for yourself? To decide who lives and who dies?”
Graham dropped his gaze again, almost as if he couldn’t believe he’d dared say it aloud.
“It’s not your right!” Regina’s voice cracked like a whip. “Not yours!”
He tried to speak. To explain. To justify.
He never got the chance.
Regina stepped forward. One sharp movement of her hand — and Graham’s heart was in her palm.
It thudded — desperate, wild, as if it too pleaded for mercy.
She looked at him as an executioner looks upon the condemned.
“Betrayal,” she said, “is punished by death.”
The crunch.
Graham collapsed. Lifeless. His eyes still full of regret.
Regina stood over his body, breathing hard.
And then — as if the storm inside her could no longer be contained — she turned away. Her footsteps heavy. She reached the nearest table, seized its edge — and with a furious snarl, swept everything onto the floor. Shards, papers, crystal — all shattered like the last of her patience.
“Damn it! Enough!” she roared.
Snow White. That girl was too well-protected. Armies of dwarves. Squads of fairies. Even magic couldn’t pierce that shield.
All these fools clinging to light and hope.
Her own magic wasn’t enough — not against that.
She could kill Snow White — if she could get close.
But for that, she needed something else. Something more.
An idea.
The Evil Queen began to pace. Her thoughts raced like crows in a cage. Her fingers tugged at her sleeves. Her lips whispered names, options, curses.
And then — like a bolt of lightning — it struck.
A ball. Grand, lavish, seductive. She would invite every kingdom — allies, enemies, spies, assassins.
And among them… someone would be right.
Someone who could do what she could not.
Someone who would succeed where Graham failed.
Regina froze. The rage faded, replaced by cold calculation. She turned to the mirror, met her own reflection. Darkness stared back — but within it, clarity.
Her lips twisted into a dangerous smile.
“If I can’t get close to Snow White,” she said, “then I’ll send someone who can.”
The room fell into silence once again.
Dense. Oppressive.
“I need a new hunter…” she whispered. “And I’ll find one.”
***
Red Right Hand - Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds ‧ 1994
The sun was already leaning toward the west when a lone rider entered the town through the southern gate. Her horse — tall, sturdy, with a dusty mane — moved with confidence, just like its rider.
A young woman, about twenty-eight, with long blonde hair tied in a high ponytail. Even beneath the shadow of her hood, there was an air of elegance about her, a refinement not common among commoners. She didn’t belong on the dusty road, didn’t belong among the crowd. And yet, she was here.
She wore no dress, no jewelry. Only a dark brown leather hunter’s outfit and a travel cloak pulled over her head — everything meant to make her blend in. But even the modesty of her clothes couldn’t fully conceal who she was. People turned to look as she passed.
She avoided eye contact, simply riding through, observing the city — the streets, the buildings, the guards. Something was off.
People hurried by, hauling crates, hanging flags, decorating balconies. There was bustle, tension. But not fear — rather, a sense of preparation. Celebration, maybe.
Strange. Too many strangers, too many faces that held calculation instead of joy.
The rider frowned slightly. Experience told her: if something looked too festive, there was probably a trap hiding nearby.
She pulled the reins, stopping the horse in front of a tavern. The name had long since faded from the sign, but the noise inside and the smell of roasting meat promised decent fare. She dismounted and nodded to a boy who rushed up to take the horse. He grabbed the reins, but not before giving her a quick look up and down, as if trying to guess who she was. The huntress ignored it — it wasn’t the first time.
Inside, the tavern was loud: clattering dishes, shouting, laughter, the scent of wine and spices. It was crowded — people arguing, eating, already beginning to celebrate. She moved toward a table in the corner, placing herself in plain sight but not in the center of attention.
When a young girl in an apron approached, the rider gave a curt nod.
“Something hot. And wine.”
“Of course, right away,” the girl replied with hasty politeness, darting back to the kitchen.
The huntress scanned the room. Merchants, soldiers, wanderers, mercenaries. She recognized the mannerisms. War always attracted those who profited from death.
A few minutes later, the girl returned with a steaming bowl of soup and a filled goblet. The huntress gave a silent nod of thanks, but her eyes stayed on the girl.
“What’s going on around here?” she asked, calmly, almost lazily.
The girl flinched — whether from surprise or exhaustion — and answered quickly:
“A ball. Tonight. Her Majesty is holding a ball. Preparations have been going on for weeks. They say she’s looking for new allies. To strengthen the army.”
The huntress didn’t look away. The girl was clearly nervous. She tried to leave, but the huntress raised a hand, stopping her. She drew out a couple of coins and placed them on the table.
“Now let’s be serious.” Her voice dropped lower, but it rang with steel. “What’s really going on?”
The girl froze. Her eyes darted to the coins, then to the huntress. The rider moved her hand, not allowing her to take them.
“And no lies,” she added. “I have a nose for them. And trust me — right now, it’s wide awake.”
The girl pressed her lips together, dropped her gaze. Then, leaning in slightly, she whispered:
“I heard… I heard the Queen is looking for a hunter. A real one. A killer. Someone to kill Snow White. That’s why the ball — to gather the right people, to choose. The reward… they say it’s huge. A place at court. Fame. Money.”
The huntress said nothing. Just nodded. The pieces were falling into place.
“I see…” she murmured, thoughtfully, staring into her wine.
The girl reached again for the coins.
“I’m not lying,” she said, almost pleading.
“I know,” the huntress nodded and finally handed her the payment. “Thank you.”
The girl vanished almost at a run, and the huntress was left alone, eyes fixed on the dark red depths of her wine.
This could be interesting — too good a job to pass up.
***
Requiem in D Minor, K. 626: I. Introitus. - Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
The ball was flawless.
Crystal sparkled in the glow of a hundred candles, mirrors reflected the triumph of luxury, silk and gold flowed across marble floors, and the musicians played as if their lives depended on every note. Everything was perfect. Almost as perfect as her.
Regina sat upon her throne — the embodiment of majesty. Confident, untouchable, flawlessly beautiful. She wasn’t performing this role — she was it, like an ancient force, a queen impossible to ignore. Not one guest dared to meet her gaze for longer than they should. Even kings bowed their heads with a tremor in their eyes. Queens hid their envy behind smiles. Heralds lost their voices when their eyes lingered on hers too long. Too dark. Too clever. Too alive to be safe.
Gifts piled at her feet: magical amulets, rare poisons, promises of alliances, and thinly veiled threats. But she accepted them all with icy grace — as if she already knew that none of them were worthy of even glancing at her crown. Some offered flattering wishes, some whispered advice disguised as concern. Regina nodded, offered polite thanks, and did it all as a queen should — with a hint of indifference.
She kept everyone at the distance of a scepter’s length. Not a soul in the hall could claim they knew what she was thinking.
Beneath the layers of gold and frost pulsed a single thought — the next move.
She was thinking of a new weapon. A pawn. Someone who could destroy Snow White. That evening, she was watching, searching, choosing.
And she didn’t notice that she was being watched in return.
At the far end of the hall, nearly swallowed by shadow, stood a figure. A silhouette among the gold. A huntress in a foreign world. In a foreign castle.
Her gaze didn’t wander like the others’. It didn’t search for useful faces or whispered rumors. It was focused. Sharp as an arrow let loose without hesitation. It had only one target, one figure in its sights — the one who shone brighter than all the candles in the room.
The Queen.
The huntress couldn’t look away. She’d been warned. Told the Evil Queen was a monster. Cold, cruel, willing to crush anyone. She’d heard so much. Too much. Heard that the queen had no heart.
But no one — no one — had said she’d be like this…
Regina’s beauty wasn’t of this world — commanding, dangerous, mesmerizing. And the way she carried herself — the straight spine, the slight tilt of her head, a smile with more poison than sweetness. Everything about her pulled. As if darkness itself had taken the form of a woman and come to dance among the living. Not gentle, not kind. No. This was beauty that made the air tremble. Dangerous like fire above powder. It didn’t soothe — it struck. Every movement of hers was magic woven into motion.
And that was what drew the huntress most of all.
Red wine shimmered in her cup, but the woman no longer tasted it. Her heart beat faster. A smile played on her lips, like a thief who had broken into a treasure room and found not gold — but flame. A heat that could burn her to ash — and she wanted to step closer. To understand, to outwit, to deceive. She was willing to burn.
The huntress ran her tongue across her lips, thinking. She wasn’t just awestruck — a spark of something ignited within her. Desire. Curiosity. Hunger.
You’re not what I expected, she thought, and the corners of her mouth curved into a sly smile. She finished her wine and set the cup down on the nearest table, a plan already forming in her mind.
The hunt had only just begun.