To Hell And Back | A Granevere Story

Volume 1: Chapter One

In the sprawling, ornate castle of the prestigious House of Baroque, nine-year-old Guinevere wove through the grand halls like a flash of wildfire. She sprinted from one corridor to the next, her boundless energy fueled by a single mission: finding her next target. A guard, a servant, an unsuspecting noble—it didn't matter. Anyone could fall victim to her mischievous whims.

With her fiery red hair trailing behind her, the tiny troublemaker skidded to a halt. Peering intently with sharp green eyes from behind a massive, potted tropical plant, she locked onto her next victim.

An elderly maid in her late sixties ambled down the hallway, humming a cheerful tune. She was blissfully unaware of the tripwire trap Guinevere had painstakingly set.

The maid drew nearer. Guinevere smirked, tensing her muscles to spring into action and witness her masterpiece. But just as the trap was about to be sprung, the old woman stopped short, muttering in frustration.

"Oh, dear me! I forgot my bonnet. Now I have to walk back and climb those hundred stairs again. Ugh!" Groaning, the maid turned on her heel and trudged away.

Little Guinevere's expression darkened in utter defeat. She crossed her arms tightly, her lips forming a profound pout. "I'll get you next time," she muttered to the empty hallway.

"Guinevere!"

A sharp gasp escaped the girl's lips, her heart skipping a beat. Mummy! panic seized her. I need to hide, now!

A tall, slender woman rounded the far corner. Radiating an effortless, elegant grace that only seemed to sharpen with age, Lady Baroque scanned the halls. Her piercing eyes were already searching for the unmistakable flash of her daughter's crimson hair.

Guinevere darted from behind the foliage, desperate to make a break for the opposite wing. But karma is a swift mistress. She crashed headfirst into the exact person she was trying to avoid.

Her mother, ever composed and unyielding, caught the girl by the wrist before she could mount a second escape attempt.

"Guinevere, dear," her mother sighed, her voice a mix of maternal frustration and deep weariness. "Won't you ever listen?" Her tone softened, though her eyes betrayed the exhaustion of constant reprimands. "No running. A lady walks with grace, not haste."

"But Mummy, running is faster! Walking is for the weak," Guinevere huffed, rolling her eyes and tugging against her mother's firm grip.

"Rule number two, Guinevere," her mother countered, her voice dropping into a stern, calm rhythm. "Never speak so coarsely. It is entirely unladylike to talk like a common sailor."

Guinevere's temper flared, her jaw setting defiantly. "Then I'm going to be a sailor when I grow up! I'll captain a massive ship and travel the seven seas!"

"No, no, no, and absolutely no." Lady Baroque's tone was final. "A lady stays with her family, where she belongs. High-seas navigation is a man's burden, and men are expected to handle those dangerous, unsightly trials. It is simply how our society functions, dear Gwen."

The little redhead groaned dramatically, tossing her head back. "Curse those rules, and curse the halfwits who made them—"

Crack!

As if summoned by her disrespect, a tiny, harmless spark of localized lightning snapped against Guinevere's upper lip. She squealed in surprise, instantly clapping a hand over her mouth. "Ow!" she whined, rubbing the tingling spot.

Her mother knelt down to her eye level, tired of repeating the same ancient lessons. "Little Guinevere," she sighed, smoothing down her daughter's ruffled collar. "Either you learn to follow my rules, or you will continue to face the magical consequences of defying me. How about a compromise? If you help us welcome our guests for tonight's formal dinner, I will allow you to ask for one thing. Anything you wish."