Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Thorns of Reverie
Once Upon a Time in the Neverafter…
There was a balance, a fragile trembling thing, that held the world together. It was said this balance lived in the wings of two great birds, each born of the same tale but destined to never meet. The Golden Goose and the Black Gander. One brought only light, the other brought only shadow.
The Goose was the harbinger of plenty, her feathers gilded in sunlight, her every step a promise of prosperity. Where she flew, the land flourished. Stories thrived in her wake, their endings sweet as sugar, their beginnings bright as dawn. But the Goose’s reign could never last, for the world cannot hold endless joy forever. When her work was done, she would vanish into the unseen corners of existence, leaving the stage to her darker twin.
The Gander was no herald of joy, no creature of golden light. His feathers drank the darkness, his eyes gleamed cold and sharp as a blade. He arrived when the Goose was gone, his wings casting a shadow across the land. The Gander was both cruel and inevitable. He unmade what the Goose had built, tore down the tales she had lifted high, and left behind a world stripped bare, a reminder that all things, even stories, must come to an end.
This was the way of things, the rhythm upon which all tales were built. But then, as in all stories, something went terribly wrong.
The Goose vanished. Not as she had before, retreating with grace to make way for her counterpart, but in a way that left the world trembling. No one saw her go. No one knows where she is. All that remains is her absence, an empty space where hope once lived. And without the Goose, the Gander’s shadow grew deeper, darker, devouring everything in its path.
These are the Times of Shadow.
The world is not what it once was. Tales that were once familiar have warped, their characters unrecognizable, their endings swallowed by despair. The air reeks of rot and fear, the lands split by war and famine, and whispers of magic gone mad. Villains rule over kingdoms; heroes hide in the ruins. The stories are broken, and their remnants are cruel.
But the shadow is not still. It moves, it hungers, and it waits. Somewhere, deep within it's folds, the Gander watches, his cold eyes gleaming as he tears at the threads of the world.
No one knows if the Goose will return, or if the world is doomed to rot under the weight of its own despair. What they do know is that the stories are still being told, but now they are tales of blood, of ruin, of things that crawl and whisper in the dark.
Yes, it seems this is not a story of happy endings. This is a story of what happens when the light is extinguished and the shadow consumes all.
And so, with the Gander’s shadow stretching across the land, the tale begins, not in light, but in darkness. Not in hope, but in the cold promise of endings yet to come.
Rosamund Du Prix often found herself yearning for the days when the sun’s golden rays poured through the castle’s high windows, a warmth so tangible it felt like an embrace. Those memories lived in fragments now, distant and faint, but the comfort they brought was undeniable. Back then, the world seemed simpler, smaller-untouched by the weight of curses or the tangled webs of fate. She missed it, missed the innocence of a life that was hers alone, untainted by prophecy.
Her parents used to tell her, with pride in their voices, about the day of her birth. How the Kingdom of Reverie had erupted in celebration as though the heavens themselves had sent a gift to their land. Bells chimed from every spire, their jubilant echoes carrying across meadows and mountains. The people had gathered in the streets, cheering, weeping, lifting glasses to the skies. It was a day of joy that the bards sang of for years. Yet Rosamund often wondered, a cold weight settling in her chest, Would they have rejoiced so fiercely had they known what would come after?
The fairies shaped her destiny long before she could form her first thought. Their names were etched in stories and whispered in reverence throughout Reverie-Anma, Bella, Hilda, Meriel, and Nara. They were more than legends; they were protectors, wielders of ancient magic older than kingdoms. Rosamund had no memory of their arrival at her christening, but the tale had been told to her so many times that she could picture it as vividly as if she had been watching from above.
The great hall had been transformed into a vision of light and bloom, with crystal chandeliers shimmering like the stars and the air heavy with the scent of roses. Her cradle stood at the heart of it all, a delicate confection of gold and ivory, where she lay wrapped in silks and innocence. The fairies had come bearing their gifts, radiant and otherworldly in their presence.
Anma stepped forward first, her robes glittering as though spun from sunlight. With a gentle wave of her hand, she gifted Rosamund with radiance, a spirit so eternal and unparalleled that it would draw admiration wherever she went. Bella followed, graceful even in her steps, bestowing her blessing of elegance-so that every motion Rosamund made might inspire awe.
But the room’s light faltered before the others could speak. A shadow spilled across the gilded walls, chilling the air, and Bosartia appeared.
Rosamund had heard of her arrival described in hushed tones, as though speaking of it too loudly might summon her anew. Dark wings unfurled behind the uninvited fairy, their edges sharp as storm clouds breaking. Her very presence suffocated the joy that had filled the hall, replacing it with a deep, creeping dread.
In the story, her mother Leah clutched her close, shielding her as though she could block the woman’s gaze with the sheer force of maternal love. Her father, Anton, had stepped forward, his voice steady as his hand gripped the hilt of his sword. But defiance meant little against Bosartia, who stood before them, unyielding, her voice a cold edge of steel.
“I see that my presence was…unexpected. How quaint.”
Anton held his sword aloft, shaking in his hand. “What do you require of us, wicked beast?”
Bosartia laughed, a shrill, cutting sound which made several people clutch their ears in pain.
“Nothing now,” she cackled, “But I could have used an invitation. Now the child will suffer for it.”
“She will prick her finger on a spinning wheel and die on the night of her seventeenth birthday,” Bosartia declared, her words an unbreakable decree.
The silence that followed was suffocating, but then another voice rose to meet the dark proclamation-a voice as clear as sunlight breaking through storm clouds. It was Nara, her wings translucent and fragile as spun glass, her orange robes shimmering in the dimmed hall. “She will not die,” Nara said, her words laced with quiet power. “The curse will instead be altered-she will sleep, until awakened by true love’s kiss.”
Rosamund had always pictured the moment vividly: the light and dark clashing, sparks flying like fire and stars as the room filled with the shimmering finality of Nara’s blessing. Then the fairies vanished, as abruptly as they had come, leaving behind fear, awe, and a prophecy that had defined every step of Rosamund’s life.
And so it was. Rosamund, and the realms, lives ever changed because a cruel fairy felt so slighted at not being invited to a party.
Even now, the story lingered in her mind, replaying in fragments whenever her thoughts wandered. She couldn’t escape it, nor the shadow it cast over her every moment. It was as much a part of her as her name, as inescapable as the curse itself.
As Rosamund grew, it became clear to everyone in the Kingdom of Reverie that she was far from the portrait of a traditional princess. Her hair, a cascade of vivid ginger-gold reminiscent of a blazing sunset, was never styled into the tidy buns or intricate braids befitting her station. Instead, it flowed wild and untamed, often tangled from her endless escapes from the patient, long-suffering handmaidens assigned to brush it. Their exasperation only seemed to amuse her, and she’d grin mischievously as she darted away, leaving ribbons and combs scattered in her wake. The only thing about her that seemed undeniably royal were her sky-blue eyes, as clear and bright as a summer morning-eyes that could command a room when they weren’t gleaming with the mischief of a child shirking her lessons.
Her parents did everything in their power to protect her, driven by both love and fear. Every spinning wheel in the kingdom was burned in great pyres that turned the skies black with soot, their ashes scattered to ensure no trace of their existence remained. Every spindle and loom was removed, no matter how far or hidden, until the craft of spinning itself became little more than a whispered memory among the people of Reverie. Their vigilance shaped Rosamund’s childhood, wrapping her in a cocoon of rules and watchful eyes that sometimes felt like a cage.
To her parents, their measures were acts of devotion. To Rosamund, they were suffocating.
From the very beginning, she resisted the role they tried to mold her into. The perfect, obedient princess they dreamed of was a fantasy she had no interest in fulfilling. Where they expected grace, she offered wild laughter and scraped knees. Where they demanded composure, she gave them rolled eyes and exasperated sighs.
Courtly lessons were her greatest torment. Every day she was forced to sit straight-backed in chairs too stiff and delicate for comfort, while governesses droned on about etiquette and propriety. Rosamund’s restlessness was almost palpable, her hands fidgeting in her lap as she counted the minutes until her release. The proper way to hold a teacup? The art of curtsying with precision? These seemed utterly pointless to her, especially when the trill of birdsong just outside the window was a siren call to freedom.
She would glance longingly at the sunlit gardens beyond the glass, where the air was fresh and alive with the scent of blooming flowers. Out there, skirts didn’t trip her ankles, and she didn’t have to think about how to please anyone. Out there, she could simply be . It wasn’t that she didn’t love her parents or understand their fears-it was that she couldn’t bear to live her life wrapped in rules, her every breath dictated by caution.
More than once, she had escaped the lessons entirely, bursting out of the stifling confines of the castle to chase the wind through meadows or climb trees until her fingers were raw. Those moments of freedom were brief but exhilarating, and though the reprimands that followed were inevitable, they always felt worth it.
For all their efforts, her parents couldn’t tame her spirit. Even as a child, Rosamund knew she was more than the fragile figure they seemed to see-a doll to be protected and displayed. She was fire and thorn, and no amount of caution could keep her contained.
It was Master Humbart, the royal huntsman, who first dared to nurture Rosamund’s untamed spirit. She was twelve when he noticed her lingering by the edge of the training grounds, her eyes following the archers with a mixture of longing and determination. Humbart, grizzled and gruff, wasn’t the sort to meddle in royal affairs, but something about Rosamund’s fiery curiosity must have tugged at him. Perhaps it was the way she reminded him of himself in his younger days-unwilling to be confined by anyone’s expectations.
“Come here, then,” he’d said one afternoon, tossing his cloak aside and gesturing to a bow leaning against the rack. Rosamund froze at first, her pulse quickening with disbelief, but when she realized he was serious, she sprinted toward him without hesitation.
That first lesson was a revelation. Humbart showed her how to hold the bow, guiding her hands with surprising patience. He taught her how to notch an arrow, his gruff instructions softened by the subtle encouragement in his tone. “Keep your shoulders straight. Pull back, steady now. No need to rush.”
When she released the first arrow, it flew wildly off course, burying itself harmlessly in a patch of dirt far from the target. Her arms trembled from the strain, her fingers sore from the unforgiving string, but her grin was unmistakable. The raw thrill of it-the bowstring’s tension, the snap of release, the power in her hands-ignited something within her.
Her arms ached for days afterward, but the ache felt like a medal of honor, a quiet rebellion etched into her muscles.
“You’ve got a fire in you,” Humbart remarked during one of their lessons, his weathered face breaking into a rare smile. He scratched at his salt-and-pepper beard as if pondering his own words. “Best not let it burn you out.”
Rosamund treasured those lessons, slipping away whenever she could to meet Humbart at the far edge of the royal woods. She practiced tirelessly, her determination making up for her lack of finesse. Her bruised fingers and sore muscles were badges she wore with pride, though she hid them carefully from her mother. Queen Leah would never have allowed it-her daughter, heir to the throne, learning something so unladylike as archery? It was unthinkable.
But for Rosamund, the bow wasn’t just a weapon. It was freedom. Every pull of the string, every arrow that found its mark, felt like a piece of herself breaking free from the gilded cage her life had become. It was something that belonged solely to her, unbound by rules or expectations.
And yet, like all her freedoms, it didn’t last.
Her secret lessons came to an abrupt end one evening when Leah discovered her in the courtyard, still clutching the bow. The queen’s face, pale with disbelief, tightened into a mask of disapproval so fierce that Rosamund felt her defiance falter for the first time. That night, Humbart was summoned to the throne room, and though Rosamund wasn’t privy to their conversation, she knew it ended with her bow being taken away and the lessons forbidden.
She had cried that night-not from punishment or regret, but from the loss of something that had felt like hers, something that had made her feel alive.
Though her time with Humbart was short, it left a mark deeper than any lesson in etiquette ever could. The feel of a bowstring against her fingers, the weight of an arrow, the sound of it slicing through the air-those memories stayed with her. They were embers of defiance, smoldering quietly within her, waiting for the moment they might catch fire again.
When Rosamund was fourteen, Master Humbart departed the Kingdom of Reverie to journey north to Snowhold. His farewell was brief, as was his way-a gruff nod, a muttered promise to return one day, and then he was gone. The castle felt colder in his absence, and Rosamund found herself restless, yearning for the lessons that had given her a fleeting taste of freedom.
The new royal huntsman arrived shortly thereafter: a man named Eric. Where Humbart had been rugged and no-nonsense, Eric was polished to the point of sterility. His fine features and carefully coiffed dark hair gave him the air of a man more suited to courtly banquets than the wild woods. Still, Rosamund, ever the optimist, approached him with her usual enthusiasm the morning after his introduction to the royal court.
“Would you be willing to continue my lessons, ser?” she asked, her sky-blue eyes bright with hope. “Master Humbart had been teaching me the ways of archery and horseback in secret.” She smiled as though they were already allies in some grand conspiracy. To her, it seemed a perfectly reasonable request.
But the moment the words left her mouth, she knew she had misjudged him. Eric’s reaction was swift and cutting. His sharp, incredulous gaze made her cheeks burn, and she shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. He didn’t even bother to disguise his disdain, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.
“This is highly inappropriate for a princess,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension. “Your Highness would do better to focus on pursuits more befitting her station.”
The words stung, though Rosamund refused to let it show. Instead, she straightened her back, chin held high as if to prove she was unfazed, though a pang of humiliation tightened her throat. She should have known better-Eric was nothing like Humbart, and she had miscalculated in trusting him.
Her mother, Queen Leah, wasted no time adding her own disappointment to the moment. “Rosamund,” Leah said with that delicate, infuriating air of composed chastisement. “Such behavior is unbecoming. You are a princess, not a soldier.” Leah’s hands rested gracefully in her lap, fingers soft and uncalloused-a stark contrast to Rosamund’s own, which still bore faint marks from her secret lessons. The queen’s disapproval was a blade wielded with precision, slicing through Rosamund’s resolve with practiced ease.
Her father, King Anton, chimed in with a low, steady reprimand about decorum and propriety, his disappointment as heavy as it was predictable. They weren’t angry-true anger from them was rare. Instead, it was the weight of their disappointment, so carefully layered with concern, that made the evening unbearable.
Rosamund said little as they lectured her, offering the same muted replies over and over. “I’m sorry, Mother.” “Of course, Father.” Her voice was flat, her eyes fixed on the rich rug beneath the dining table. She knew there would be no real punishment beyond extra etiquette lessons or some equally tiresome chore meant to remind her of her “proper” place. But their words lingered, each one twisting like a thorn in her side.
As the fire in the hearth crackled behind them, Rosamund felt her anger simmering beneath the surface. Not anger at Eric, nor even at her parents-it was anger at herself, at the foolish hope that she could carve out a space for herself in their world without consequence. Humbart’s absence left an ache that no one else in the castle seemed willing to fill, and now even the thought of continuing what he’d started felt impossibly distant.
When the lectures ended and she was finally excused, Rosamund walked to her chambers with a heavy step. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, staring at her reflection in the ornate mirror across the room. For all the beauty gifted to her by Anma, she felt trapped by it-trapped by the expectations tied to her every move, her every breath.
She ran her hands over the faint calluses on her palms, a lingering reminder of the freedom she’d once felt. At least they can’t take the memory of it from me, she thought, though the bitterness of the thought brought little comfort.
That night, Rosamund resolved to be more cautious, to guard her secrets more fiercely. If she was to have any part of herself that was truly hers, she would have to fight for it alone.
By the time Rosamund turned sixteen, the shadow of the curse loomed over every moment of her life. In just a year, she would turn seventeen-the age when her fate, dictated by Bosartia’s curse, was supposed to unfold. She would prick her finger on a spinning wheel, fall into an enchanted sleep, and wait for true love’s kiss to awaken her. The story had been repeated to her so often that it had become as inescapable as the air she breathed.
Her parents had done everything in their power to shield her from that fate. They had stripped the kingdom of spinning wheels, banned the use of spindles, and outlawed weaving entirely. Even the word spindle was whispered with trepidation within the castle walls. Despite their efforts, Rosamund couldn’t shake the knowledge that her entire life had been hurtling toward this one, inevitable moment. It wasn’t a matter of if -it was a matter of when .
Her mother, Queen Leah, often tried to comfort her. Leah would brush her hair, humming soft lullabies, or sit with her by the fire, holding her close as if proximity alone could banish Rosamund’s fears. One afternoon, Rosamund broke down entirely, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder as sobs wracked her slender frame.
Leah stroked her hair and whispered soothing words. “We’ve done everything to ensure you’ll never see a spinning wheel in your long, long life, sweetling,” she murmured. Her tone was warm and reassuring, but there was an undercurrent of desperation beneath the practiced calm. “But even if it were to come to pass, would it truly be so terrible? You’d be saved by your true love. A dashing prince, handsome and noble, who would sweep you off your feet. Don’t you want that?”
Rosamund pulled back, her tear-streaked face crumpling in disbelief. At that moment, she wanted nothing less. She didn’t want to be saved. She didn’t want to sleep. And the idea of someone-a stranger-kissing her while she lay helpless was almost unbearable. But she said nothing, merely nodding and letting her mother continue her hollow reassurances.
That night, the fire inside Rosamund blazed brighter than ever. For weeks, she had felt like a bird beating its wings against the gilded bars of her cage, but now she needed to act. If her fate was already written, if she truly had no say in her future, then at the very least, she could claim her present
The tower room was cold and still, the thick stone walls absorbing every sound except the muffled cries of the wind outside. For years, Rosamund had felt like a ghost within these walls, a shadow of the vibrant girl she once had been. Each day had passed in monotonous succession, a prisoner of her royal blood and the endless expectations it carried. But tonight, all of that would change.
With the map she had painstakingly sketched from memory tucked into her sleeve, Rosamund moved with practiced ease. She had spent weeks observing the castle’s rhythms-the shifting patterns of the guards, the moments when the corridors were empty, the paths less traveled by the servants. Tonight was the culmination of countless stolen glances and hours spent tracing her escape route by moonlight.
Her plain cloak did little to shield her from the biting chill of the night as she slipped through the castle gates. She kept her head low, her hood shadowing the fiery curls that could give her away in an instant. Each step beyond the walls felt like a rebellion, each breath of cool air a victory. By the time she crossed the open field separating the castle from the village below, her heart was pounding-not with fear, but with exhilaration. For the first time in years, she was free.
The village slept under the stars, its narrow streets quiet save for the faint creak of wooden shutters in the wind. Shadows danced along the cobblestones as Rosamund kept to the edges, her steps quick and purposeful. She had no clear destination in mind, only the desperate desire to see something-anything-beyond the gilded cage she had called home.
That was when she saw the forge.
Nestled at the edge of the village, the blacksmith’s shop was a humble structure, its thatched roof sagging slightly under the weight of time. The glow of dying embers spilled through the open doorway, flickering faintly like a heartbeat in the dark. Rosamund might have passed by it if not for the sudden clatter of tools breaking the silence. She froze, her pulse quickening as she peered inside.
A young man was bent over a workbench, carefully organizing a scattered array of hammers, tongs, and other implements of his trade. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing arms corded with muscle and scarred from years of hard labor. His movements were deliberate, almost reverent, as if each tool held a story he respected too much to disturb. The firelight played across his features, highlighting the curve of his jaw and the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.
She didn’t mean to linger, but something about the scene held her captive. It wasn’t just his appearance-though she could not deny he was striking-but the way he carried himself: steady, unhurried, and deeply grounded in a way that felt foreign to her world of courtly intrigue and constant pretense.
“You know,” he said suddenly, without looking up, “it’s a bit rude to spy on someone at this hour.”
Rosamund startled, her cheeks flushing despite the cold night. She considered fleeing, but there was something disarming about his tone-warm and teasing rather than accusatory. Gathering her courage, she stepped into the light.
“I wasn’t spying,” she said, straightening her back. “I was… observing.”
The blacksmith straightened, turning to face her fully. His dark eyes glinted with quiet amusement as he crossed his arms. “Observing, huh? Well, I suppose that’s more polite. Still, not many wander out this late without a reason. Lost?”
“Not lost,” she replied firmly. “Just… exploring.”
He studied her for a moment, his gaze lingering on her cloak and the way she kept the hood low over her face. Then, with a shrug, he stepped aside and gestured to the forge. “Well, if you’re exploring, might as well come in. Not much to see out there but shadows.”
She hesitated, torn between the instinct to retreat and the unexpected pull of his easy confidence. Finally, she stepped inside, the warmth of the forge wrapping around her like an embrace. The air smelled of metal and ash, a sharp contrast to the perfumed halls of the castle.
“What’s your name?” he asked, returning to his work.
“Ros…” she faltered, catching herself before she revealed too much. “Rose,” she amended. It was close enough to the truth, and yet safely removed.
“Eamon,” he said, offering a small smile. “Welcome to my forge, Rose.”
In the days that followed, Rosamund found herself drawn back to the forge again and again. The freedom of sneaking through the village, of choosing her own path, was intoxicating, but it was Eamon who truly made her return. He never pried into her life or questioned her sudden appearances, instead meeting her with an easy smile and a quiet companionship that soothed her restless spirit.
They shared long conversations as he worked, his hands shaping metal into tools and weapons while she leaned against the doorway, watching the sparks dance in the air. He spoke of simple dreams-a larger forge, a life of his own making-and listened with unguarded interest as she hesitantly shared pieces of herself. With Eamon, she didn’t have to be perfect or poised; she could simply be .
Over time, their friendship deepened into something more. She felt it in the way his hand would linger on hers as he passed her a mug of tea, or the way his voice softened when he said her name. She caught herself memorizing the curve of his smile, the warmth of his laughter, and the steady cadence of his voice.
For the first time in her life, Rosamund allowed herself to imagine a future unbound by duty-a future where she could choose her own happiness.
But such dreams could never last.
When her parents discovered her secret, the betrayal in their eyes cut deeper than she could have imagined. They dismissed her protests, silencing her with cold, unyielding logic.
“Your duty is to this kingdom,” her father declared, though not without sympathy. “Not to your whims.”
They removed Eamon from the city, and went as far as to send him away from the entire kingdom, off all the way to Apogee. Her parents did so under the guise of sending him to an apprenticeship, but there was no mistaking what was happening.
The clang of the portcullis slammed shut behind Eamon, the sound reverberating through the courtyard like the toll of a bell. Rosamund stood rooted to the spot, her hand outstretched and her voice hoarse from calling his name. He had turned once, just once, his eyes meeting hers with a mixture of longing and resignation. Then the guards pulled him forward, and he was gone, swallowed by the hills and the golden haze of the setting sun.
For a fleeting moment, Rosamund imagined herself chasing after him, screaming until they let her pass, clawing her way through whatever barriers they placed between them. But she stayed frozen, her feet like lead, her heart cracking under the weight of knowing that this was the last time she would see him.
The castle gates groaned shut behind her, and the world seemed to shrink. No matter where she turned, the walls loomed, cold and unyielding, a prison disguised as a home. She clenched her jaw, willing herself to keep walking, to hold her head high and pretend that her heart hadn’t just been ripped from her chest. The courtiers peeking from their windows would not see her falter.
Days passed, then weeks, the silence of the village forge a constant reminder of his absence. No longer did the rhythmic clang of hammer against metal drift up from the fields. Instead, there was an aching stillness, punctuated only by the whispers of servants and the occasional chatter of birds. Rosamund found herself drawn again and again to the castle’s outer walls, her eyes fixed on the hills where he had disappeared. Every time, the horizon mocked her with its emptiness.
The loss hollowed her. Her once-burning fire of defiance flickered and faded, dimmed by the relentless tide of duty. What was the point of rebellion if every step she took away from her crown was met with chains stronger than the last? Eamon had been her hope, her reminder that there was a world beyond these walls, beyond her title. Without him, she felt adrift, unmoored, her dreams sinking beneath the waves of inevitability.
One night, unable to sleep, Rosamund stood by the window of her chambers, her reflection faint in the glass. The firelight from her hearth cast flickering shadows across her face, making her look older, worn. Her hands rested against the cold stone ledge as she gazed out over the darkened hills, her thoughts as heavy as the crown she had yet to wear.
"If the curse is coming," she murmured to the night, her voice raw, "then let it come. Let me sleep. Let the prince find me." Her lips trembled as she spoke, but she forced herself to continue. "What else is there left to fight for?"
The morning of Rosamund’s seventeenth birthday dawned crisp and bright, but the castle felt heavier than ever. Her parents had decided to throw a ball, perhaps in denial of what was happening. Excitement buzzed through its halls, muted by the undercurrent of trepidation that no one dared voice aloud. The grand ballroom was being decorated with garlands of gold and crimson, and servants scurried to ensure that every detail of the celebration was perfect. Yet Rosamund couldn’t bear to stay inside.
She spent the early hours in the garden, the only place that still felt like hers. The air was sharp with the scent of dew, the sky a piercing blue that seemed impossibly vast. Rosamund stood under the sprawling willow tree, letting the sun’s light dance over her skin as she traced its patterns through the leaves. She tried to memorize the sky, the way it stretched endlessly above her. There was a strange weight in her chest today, a heaviness that refused to lift no matter how deeply she breathed.
It was ridiculous, she told herself. There wasn’t a single spinning wheel in the entire kingdom. Her parents had burned every last one years ago. Fabrics were imported now from Greenleigh, at great expense, just to ensure no spindle ever crossed the borders of Reverie. She was safe. She had to be safe.
So why do I feel like the sky itself is holding its breath?
The weight in her chest refused to ease as the morning slipped into afternoon. Restless, Rosamund wandered back into the castle. She avoided the bustling halls where preparations for the evening were in full swing. Instead, she let her feet carry her through quieter corridors, places where the echoes of footsteps softened into nothingness. She wasn’t sure how far she’d gone or how long she’d been walking when she realized she was somewhere unfamiliar.
The hall was dim and silent, the air thick with disuse. A door stood slightly ajar at its end, and Rosamund hesitated before pushing it open.
The room beyond felt like stepping into a memory she didn’t know she had. Dark red drapes hung heavy over tall windows, their edges frayed with time. The faint scent of dust and decay lingered in the air. And there, in the room’s center, stood a spinning wheel.
Rosamund froze, her breath catching in her throat. It was impossible-she knew that. There was no spinning wheel left in Reverie. And yet, there it was, gleaming and whole, as though it had been waiting for her all along.
Her heart pounded in her chest, her pulse a wild drumbeat that filled her ears. She should have turned and run. She knew that. But something held her rooted to the spot. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was… something else. A pull, deep and unyielding, that whispered in the back of her mind.
Come closer.
Her feet moved before she could stop them, carrying her toward the spinning wheel in slow, measured steps. Her hands trembled, but still, they reached out. She didn’t understand why. It was as though her body no longer belonged to her, as though some invisible thread had taken hold and guided her forward.
Her fingers hovered over the spindle, and for a single, fleeting moment, she fought against the pull. The air seemed to hum around her, taut with expectation.
But then her hand moved, as if compelled by something far beyond her will.
The spindle pricked her finger.
A sharp pain lanced through her, and Rosamund gasped, clutching her hand as blood bloomed from the tiny wound. The room spun around her, the dark drapes and gleaming wheel dissolving into shadow. She stumbled back, but her legs gave out beneath her.
As her vision blurred, Rosamund felt the world slipping away. The hum in the air became a low, melodic thrumming, like a lullaby played just out of reach. Her body grew heavy, her thoughts sluggish, until finally, there was nothing but darkness.
And in that darkness, the last thing she felt was the pull-gentle now, almost tender-as it wrapped around her like a cradle.
When Rosamund awoke, the air was heavy, suffocating with the scent of damp earth and decay, but also strangely sweet on the wind, like woodsmoke and or a dying hearth. The odd smell was gone as soon as it came, replaced with the overwhelming scent of rot and wet vegetation.
Her body felt alien, as though it did not belong to her-or rather as if something had invaded it, taken root in the hollows of her chest. She tried to inhale, but her breath snagged, caught on something jagged and wrong. She wheezed in desperation, but the air wouldn't come. Panic surged as she clawed at her throat, the sensation of something moving inside her making her gag.
Her trembling fingers brushed her mouth, but instead of smooth flesh, she felt thorns-sharp, unyielding, protruding just beneath the surface. A choked, gurgling sound escaped her lips as the realization hit her. Something was inside her. Growing. Maybe thriving.
Her vision blurred with tears as she dug at her airway, fingernails slicing into tender skin. She coughed violently, and blood filled her mouth and nostrils. A vine, twisted and barbed, slithered out of her throat like a serpent escaping a pit. She yanked at it with all her strength, ignoring the searing pain as the thorns tore her flesh. It resisted, coiling deeper, anchoring itself in her chest, but she pulled harder, her desperation drowning out the agony.
With a wet, tearing sound, the vine came free. A strangled scream tore from her lips as blood spattered the ground, mixing with the dark, writhing plant. It sat twitching on the ground.
Rosamund gasped for air, but the reprieve was short-lived. Her body convulsed as more vines shifted within her, writhing like a nest of vipers. She could feel them coiled around her ribs, tangling in her gut, pulsing with an unnatural life of their own.
"No... no..." she rasped, her voice raw and trembling. Her hands moved to her mouth again, trembling but determined. She shoved her fingers past her lips, gagging as she grasped another vine and yanked. Each pull was a new horror, her throat raw, her lips split and bleeding. The thorns tore at her fingers, leaving them slick with blood, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.
When the final vine tore free, Rosamund collapsed onto the cold stone floor, trembling and gasping as she coughed and vomited blood all over her dress. Her breath came in ragged, shallow gulps, her body wracked with exhaustion and pain. But as her vision cleared, the true horror of her surroundings unfolded.
The chamber was unrecognizable. Once a sunlit room adorned with silks and flowers, it was now a tomb of twisted vines and creeping shadows. The walls were thick with briars, their dark tendrils pulsing faintly, as if alive. The air was thick, suffocating, every breath carrying the stench of rot and mildew. And then she saw them-the bodies.
At first, they were indistinct shapes, tangled amidst the briars. But as her eyes adjusted, the details sharpened. Corpses, their regal finery still clinging to decayed flesh, hung suspended in the thorny embrace of the vines. A prince in golden armor, his face contorted in a silent scream, impaled through the chest by a massive thorn. Another, his crown knocked askew, his hands still clutching at the vines that had strangled him. Skeletal remains, flesh long since devoured by time, clung to the walls like macabre ornaments. The smell of decay was overwhelming, and Rosamund gagged, turning her head away.
She staggered to her feet, her legs weak and trembling, the enormity of it all pressing down on her like a crushing weight. She moved closer to the window, needing to escape, to see the world outside and prove that this nightmare was not all that was left.
As she climbed toward the window, the vines seemed to sense her intention. They writhed and lashed out, coiling around her ankles, her wrists, her waist. They pulled at her, dragging her back toward the heart of the room, toward the endless, whispering briars. The voices filled her mind, a chorus of soft, insidious murmurs.
We kept you safe. Stay. Sleep.
“No,” she croaked, her voice shaking but resolute. She scrambled at the floor with bloodied hands, her defiance fueling her movements. “I won’t stay.” Even as the Briars pulled her back, her eyes and hands desperately searched for something to help her.
That's when she saw it, a glass shard laying on the ground. Her hand reached for it without thinking, closing around it and using it to slash the nearest vine. It cut clean through.
She swung it again wildly, cutting more vines like butter as she forced herself forward through the mass of vines, using the glass shard like a machete through the brush even as it cut into her hand.
Each step back toward the window was a battle. The briars lashed at her, their thorns tearing into her skin, leaving trails of blood on the cold stone. She could see the outside now, the faint gray light of a world she hadn’t seen in... how long? How many years? Decades?
Finally, she reached the window and forced herself through, her body screaming in protest. The jagged edges of the frame tore at her clothes and skin as she scrambled down the exterior wall, the vines pursuing her with a relentless hunger. Her hands slipped on the blood-slick stones, but she held on, her will to escape stronger than the pain.
When she hit the ground, she collapsed, gasping for air, her limbs trembling. But as she looked up, her horror only deepened.
The tower loomed above her, its once-pristine walls now a grotesque monument to decay. Briars crawled up its surface, thick and knotted, and within them, more bodies were tangled-more princes who had come to save her, their deaths woven into the grotesque tapestry of thorns. Some were little more than skeletons, their bones picked clean by time. Others were in various stages of decay, their faces frozen in expressions of agony and despair. The crowns they had worn lay scattered at the base of the tower, tarnished and forgotten.
Rosamund’s breath hitched. Her chest tightened with the weight of their sacrifice, their futility. How long had she been asleep, that so many had come and failed? How many lives had been lost to this cursed prison? To her?
She looked at the glass thing in her hand, breathless. Now that she could get a second to look at it, she saw it for what it was. It was a glass heel, from a shoe. Though no shoe she had ever seen. The material was clear as water and hard as stone. It seemed to have snapped off in a wicked edge, leaving a sharp blade behind.
The vines shifted above her, the briars creaking and whispering like an ominous warning. They hadn’t finished with her yet.
Rosamund pushed herself up, her bloodied hands slapping onto the overgrown cobblestones, her legs trembling beneath her. She could feel the weight of the world pressing down on her chest. The kingdom she had once known was lost, and the people she had loved were gone.
She felt herself move, stumbling away from the tower, her breath coming in ragged gasps. What was left for her? The briars had kept her asleep for so long, and now they seemed to linger in the air, their whispers following her as she walked.
Even as Rosamund trudged forward, her bare feet trembling and bloody, the world around her felt eerily still. The air hung heavy, laden with the metallic tang of something wrong, something violated. Reverie was no longer the kingdom of wonder and dreams she had heard about in stories. It had become a husk of its former self, drained of color and hope.
She saw them, first through hazy vision and then through sharp panic.
There were Snowhold banners dotting the landscape. White flags with black snowflakes hung limply in the cool breeze, a sharp contrast to the vibrant tapestries that once adorned the cottages and towers of Reverie. They weren’t just banners-they were markers of domination. They hung from the chimneys of quaint homes and draped over castle walls like ghostly shrouds. Each one seemed to whisper the same chilling truth: Reverie had fallen.
Why are Snowhold’s banners here? What has happened to the kingdom? Her mind churned, but her body refused to stop.
The stillness pressed against her, suffocating in its intensity. Even the wildlife, which should have been bustling in the early twilight, was silent. She could feel nothing. No chirping crickets, no rustling leaves-just the faint shaking of her labored breaths and the desperate crunch of her feet against the gravel.
She hadn’t made it far when the sound hit her: heavy, unrelenting footsteps. They pounded in rhythm, sharp and deliberate, tearing through the fragile quiet like a blade. Rosamund’s heart leapt to her throat, and she twisted her head, her gaze wild as she scanned the horizon.
Before she could fully register the danger, a commanding voice boomed, cutting through her thoughts like a razor.
“Halt!”
The single word froze her in place. Her legs wavered, and before she could muster the strength to run, she crumpled to her knees, her body giving out beneath the weight of exhaustion and fear.
From the corner of her vision, dark shapes emerged, growing larger with every second. Soldiers. Snowhold soldiers, clad in their imposing black-and-silver armor, their cloaks trailing behind them like shadows come to life. Their faces were hard, devoid of empathy, their eyes scanning her with an unnerving mixture of suspicion and indifference.
In the last second before they reached her, her fist closed around the glass heel still clutched in her palm and wrapped it around the folds of her dress, making sure its jagged edges caught on the fabric so it wouldn't fall out.
She tried to push herself up, but rough hands gripped her arms, wrenching them behind her back. Pain shot through her shoulders, and she gasped, her breath shallow and uneven.
“Who are you?” one of the soldiers barked, his voice a sharp edge cutting through the stale air.
Rosamund didn’t answer. She clenched her jaw, her lips trembling but refusing to part. What could she possibly say that would make any difference? To them, she was no one.
“She’s not one of ours,” another soldier muttered, his tone cold and dismissive, as though she were an object to be cataloged and discarded.
“Doesn’t matter,” the first one snapped. “Throw her in the dungeons. The captain will decide what to do with her.”
Her protests, weak and silent, never made it past her lips. The soldiers dragged her forward with no regard for her stumbling steps. She caught fleeting glimpses of her surroundings as they hauled her along: the crumbling walls of a once-proud kingdom, now stained with soot and blood; banners that hung like death sentences; the castle itself, looming ahead like the mouth of a beast.
Her heart clenched as they pulled her inside, the cold stone walls swallowing her in their oppressive grip. These halls had once been a haven, a place of light and music. Now they echoed only with the clamor of boots and the weight of defeat.
She kept her head down, tears stinging her eyes as the soldiers marched her deeper into the castle. She couldn’t look at the castle, couldn’t bear to see the memories it carried. Each step felt heavier than the last, until they descended into the bowels of the castle.
The air grew colder and thicker, the scent of mildew and decay wrapping around her like a shroud. Torches flickered weakly along the damp stone walls, their dim light casting cruel shadows that danced mockingly in her peripheral vision.
The soldiers stopped at a cell-a narrow, grim space that reeked of despair. Without hesitation, they shoved her forward. She stumbled, her knees hitting the cold, slick floor with a dull thud. The iron bars slammed shut behind her with a sound so final it seemed to reverberate in her chest.
Rosamund lay there for a moment, trembling against the stone. Her body ached, her head swam, but it was the crushing weight of helplessness that left her paralyzed. She had lost everything-her home, her kingdom, her family was nowhere to be seen. The tears welled back up, hot and bitter, and she couldn’t force them away.
The cell was suffocatingly dark, the faint glow of the torches outside doing little to pierce the gloom. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, taking in the grimy walls and the scattered straw that did nothing to mask the stone's chill.
And she could still feel them. And hear them.
The briars.
They were there, lurking just beneath the surface of her skin, a constant presence. The sensation was faint at first, like an itch she couldn’t scratch, but it grew stronger with every breath, every heartbeat. She could feel the last remnants of them inching slowly, deliberately, like worms slithering through her veins.
Beneath her clothes, the feeling intensified, thorny vines coiling up her arms, her legs, her chest. The pressure was suffocating, and despairingly painful.
And she could hear them.
She thought she might be going crazy, but she could still hear it. Deep in the earth, they stirred. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the noise remained, vivid and consuming.
The briars were burrowing, clawing their way up from the soil, breaking through the earth in tangled, snarling masses. She could almost see them in her mind’s eye-gnarled roots pushing through stone and dirt, their jagged edges tearing apart anything in their path.
Please, she thought, though she didn’t know who she was pleading with. Please, just leave me alone.
Her fingers found the glass heel tucked against her hip, still cold, still sharp. She didn't know why she'd kept it. She pressed it into her palm anyway, and held on. It was oddly comforting.
Her eyes fluttered as exhaustion dragged her under, but just as sleep began to claim her, she felt something stir in the shadows.
At first, she thought it was just a trick of the dim light. But as her vision adjusted, she saw it-a creature hunched in the far corner of the cell.
Its skin was slick and green, its limbs spindly and webbed. Its eyes gleamed like hot coals in the dark.
A frog?
No. Not a frog.
A monster.
Rosamund’s breath hitched in her throat, her heart pounding in fear. She tried to move, to scream, but her body refused to cooperate. The creature’s eyes fixed on her, its gaze cold and hungry.
She didn’t know what it was, or what it wanted, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. She was trapped. And it was coming for her.
Bonus Scene: A Whispered Rebellion
The sun was low in the sky, casting the gardens of Reverie in hues of molten gold and deepening green. Rosamund, a rebellious fire barely contained within royal trappings, sat cross-legged on a patch of wildflowers, her golden-red hair spilling over her shoulders. In her hands, she held a half-finished wreath of daisies, though the effort to weave it seemed half-hearted. Her mind was elsewhere.
“Do you ever sit still?” Eamon’s voice startled her from her thoughts. He emerged from the hedgerows, the sunlight catching the lines of his face and the deep brown of his eyes. He was carrying a small bundle, wrapped in rough cloth. “Or is mischief always your default state?”
Rosamund grinned at him, unapologetic. “And here I thought you admired my mischief.”
“I admire your audacity,” Eamon replied, setting the bundle down on the grass. “But your restlessness might be the end of us both one day.”
She set the wreath aside, leaning back on her elbows. “You worry too much, Eamon. Life is meant to be lived, not caged behind endless lessons and rules. Don’t you agree?”
He crouched beside her, unwrapping the bundle to reveal a set of simple tools: a small knife, a coil of rope, and a plain wooden figurine. “I agree, but I also think that running headlong into trouble isn’t living. It’s just reckless.”
Rosamund plucked a daisy from the ground and twirled it between her fingers. “You sound just like my parents. ‘Rosamund, a princess must learn to curtsy properly. Rosamund, a lady doesn’t climb trees.’” Her voice mimicked her mother’s refined cadence, though it was tinged with bitterness.
Eamon chuckled, shaking his head. “I think it’s a little different when I say it. I’m not trying to clip your wings-just make sure you don’t fall out of the sky.”
Rosamund tilted her head, studying him. “That’s why I like you, Eamon. You don’t see me as fragile, like a doll to be locked away on a shelf.”
“No, you’re more like a storm in a bottle,” he said with a crooked smile. “And I’m the fool trying to keep the bottle from shattering.”
She laughed, a clear and bright sound that seemed to banish the lingering shadows of the day. “You’ve done a decent job so far.”
He sighed and sat down beside her, the grass crunching softly beneath him. “For now. But you know this won’t last, Rosamund. This freedom you steal in moments like this-it’s fleeting.”
The smile faded from her lips, replaced by a wistful expression. “I know. But sometimes I think… if I could run far enough, climb high enough, I might escape it all. The curse, the crown, the expectations.” She looked at him, her voice quieter now. “Do you think that’s foolish?”
Eamon hesitated, his gaze meeting hers. “No,” he said softly. “I think it’s brave. But running from your fate doesn’t mean you’re free of it.”
Rosamund leaned her head back, letting the last rays of sunlight warm her face. “Then maybe I’ll just keep running. As long as I can, until there’s nowhere left to go.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only with the rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets. Then Eamon reached for the wooden figurine, holding it out to her. “Here.”
She took it, her fingers brushing against his as she did. It was a little bird, carved with inexperienced but careful precision. “What’s this?”
“A reminder,” he said simply. “That even when you feel caged, you can still find ways to fly.”
Rosamund turned the figurine over in her hands, her eyes softening. “You made this?”
He nodded. “It’s not much, but-”
“It’s perfect,” she interrupted, her voice firm. “Thank you, Eamon.”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of violet and amber, Rosamund tucked the figurine into the folds of her gown, close to her heart. For all her defiance, all her wild dreams of freedom, she knew that Eamon’s steady presence was an anchor she wasn’t ready to lose.