Eyes blinked in the darkness. Dozens. Maybe more. Gold, silver, green—reflections of wild things, waiting things, hungry things.
Her boots sank in the mossy soil with each step, the earth too soft, as if it might open beneath her feet. The scent of decay clung to the wind, sweet and rotting, like overripe fruit left too long in a gilded bowl.
She had never set foot in the Forbidden Forest before. It wasn’t a place for queens and politics. This was ancient ground, older than any throne. She was a queen on the wrong board, surrounded by pieces she hadn’t placed in a game she hadn’t agreed to play. But she refused to be anyone's pawn.
“This is Snow’s plan? Have you two displaced princesses play nursemaids while she storms the castle gates?”
The two girls exchanged a glance. Not one of triumph. One of unease. Ariel looked like she was regretting everything. Aurora’s mouth was pressed into a thin, uncertain line.
“We didn’t bring you here to hold you,” Aurora said. “Snow's not out storming the castle. We brought you here to take her back with you. To take all of us back with you.”
Raveena blinked. Her mouth parted. No words came.
They turned, leading her toward a small, lopsided house tucked into a clearing. The forest wrapped around it like a protective spell, hush and shadow between the trees. Ivy curledalong the wood-planked windows. Smoke drifted from the chimney in a lazy ribbon.
The door creaked their arrival when Ariel opened it, the worn hinges groaning like an old sentinel roused from sleep. Inside, the cottage was dim but warm, the hearth alive with amber light. Seven chairs, each slightly different in height and carving, ringed the long wooden table. Behind them, seven axes hung on pegs by the door, blades clean but well-used, their handles worn smooth by familiar hands.
Woven rugs softened the stone floors. Jars of herbs lined the shelves beside tin cups and sturdy plates. A set of embroidered curtains—clumsily stitched but clearly an effort at beauty—framed the back window. There was a kettle steaming over the fire. Tucked into the corners were signs of domestic care: a basket of mended socks, a pile of polished stones arranged like decoration, and the lingering scent of lavender and cedar.
A woman had been here. Or at least, a woman’s touch.
"The domesticity of it all makes my stomach hurt," Aurora said under her breath.
Raveena’s gaze lingered on a chipped ceramic bowl full of ripe berries, then moved to the set of hooks by the door, each holding a different colored cloak. Order, despite the wildness outside. Safety, despite the blades.
Snow White paced across the wooden floor, her raven black hair tangled, her gown wrinkled. She turned as the door opened and froze. Her eyes met Raveena’s—and flared with betrayal.
“You… you brought her here? I can't believe the two of you betrayed me after all I've done for you.”
"Exactly what have you done for us, Snow?" Aurora spread her hands around the small cabin. "We came seeking refuge in a castle, and you bring us to a cramped cottage."
"It's not cramped. There's plenty of room and all the wide open space of the forest."
Ariel and Aurora shared another look. Ariel's fingers began to move in rapid fire. Aurora watched those hands and spoke as though she were translating. "We're royalty, not ruffians. Our idea of roughing it is a manor house, not a hovel."
Ariel's hands stopped, but Aurora wasn't done. She turned to Snow with words of her own. "And to top that off, you're in an active war with a queen. We told you we're done fighting. We just want our happy ending to begin."
"Excuse me, ladies." Raveena cleared her throat and held up one finger as though making a point of order. “You’ll forgive me, but I’m having trouble keeping up. I thought you were running a coup.”
Snow turned her back, raking trembling fingers through her hair. "This would have all been over if that stupid huntsman had just killed you."
Raveena blinked. "I beg your pardon, darling?"
Huntsman? She couldn't mean Graham. Graham would never put a blade to her…
"You didn't really think I was going to let the fact that you murdered my father slide. Did you, Stepmother, dear?"
This again. Raveena sighed. She supposed she should come clean about what really happened the night that the king drew his last breath. But Snow wasn't done. In fact, she was just getting started.
"My father was a good man." Snow raised her hands as she spoke, and magic unfurled from her fingertips.
At the window, the trees groaned, their limbs clawing against the panes like impatient fists. A dark shape moved through the underbrush—a hulking figure on all fours, its breath fogging the glass. Above, the chimney shrieked with the sound of birds wheeling and crying. From within the cracks and hollows of the rundown cottage walls came the frantic skittering of claws.
Mice. Dozens of them. They poured out from the floorboards, from between loose stones and beneath the hearth, charging toward her like a wave of fur and teeth.
Raveena lifted her hands and dropped the temperature with a single breath. The air crackled. Ice spiraled from her fingertips, painting the ground in a curling frost. It crystallized along the beams and windows. With a vicious gust, she swept her arms upward.
The mice screamed. Tiny, high-pitched cries as they were lifted in a spinning vortex of snow and sent hurtling up the chimney in a flurry of soot and ash.
