One
Hilda
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?”
I stand in front of the magic mirror in my private chambers, wrapped in a silk robe, alone as always. It’s late. The castle is quiet. Just me and this fucking mirror, like it’s been for years.
The glass ripples, glows, and that smooth voice answers: “Snow White is the fairest in the land, my queen.”
My stomach drops.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Just stand there staring at my own reflection, still beautiful, still powerful, still everything I’ve worked so hard to maintain, and it’s not enough.
It’s never enough.
“She’s a child,” I say, my voice cold and flat.
“She is seventeen, my queen. A woman grown. And her beautysurpasses yours.”
The rage hits first. Hot and vicious, making my hands shake. I want to put my fist through the glass, shatter this piece of shit that’s supposed to serve me, supposed to tell me what I want to hear.
But underneath the rage is something worse.
Loneliness. Crushing, suffocating loneliness.
I’m so fucking tired of being alone.
I married the king because it was my duty. Because my family needed the alliance. Because I was beautiful and he was powerful, and that’s how these things work. I didn’t love him. He didn’t love me. We were… practical.
And then he died, leaving me with his daughter and a kingdom and this God-damned mirror that’s been my only companion for years.
It told me I was the fairest. Told me that mattered. That beauty equals worth, that control equals safety, that I needed to eliminate any threats to my position.
And I believed it.
“Snow White must be dealt with,” the mirror says, as if reading my thoughts. “She threatens everything you’ve built.”
Yes. She does.
I straighten my spine, pull my cold queen mask back into place. This is simple. I’ve had people removed before. Threats eliminated. This is just another problem to solve.
“Send word,” I say. “I want the huntsman. The legendary one. Callum.”
“An excellent choice, my queen.”
I turn away from the mirror, moving to my wardrobe. If I’m giving orders, I need to look the part. Not vulnerable in my robe. Not soft or weak.
I dress in a rich gown, simple but elegant, showing my curves. My skin is dark and smooth, contrasting beautifully with the fabric. I’m fucking gorgeous. Everyone says so.
Everyone except the mirror now; a bitter voice whispers in my head.
I shove it down.
By the time I make my way to the throne room, word has been sent. The huntsman will arrive within the hour.
Good. This will be handled quickly. Then everything will go back to normal.
I settle onto my throne, arranging my skirts. The picture of regal power. Cold. Controlled. Untouchable.
