It had just been a normal day. Nothing to do, nothing to worry about.
Nothing outside of the norm, at any rate.
Princess Winter had celebrated her thirteenth birthday the week before, a splendid little party thrown in her honour, with her few friends gathering together to laugh over some cake, including her best friend, and childhood sweetheart, Jacin Clay. He had given her a beautiful necklace as a gift, and she was wearing it now, a chain of silver with a single charm shaped like an apple, made of rubies and a lone emerald for the leaf at the top. It was the most precious thing she had ever owned.
However, not everything was as happy as she wanted. The one person whom she'd hoped would come to give her love and celebrate had not shown her face at all that day. For years, Winter had yearned for her warm touch, to be held in her motherly embrace just like when she was a young child, before her father was killed and everything fell apart at the seams.
Queen Levana, her stepmother.
Winter loved her dearly, the only mother figure she had in her life. It broke her heart when she watched her sink into evil and darkness bit by bit, day by day. Levana never smiled anymore. She never laughed, never told a funny story or a bad pun, was never happy. Always sad and depressed. It had been years since Evret Hayle—her father and Levana's husband—had died, and although Winter had foolishly hoped that she would get better, that time healed all wounds, Levana only grew cold and distant, isolating herself as much as she could.
Now, she only ever saw her stepmother at meals, and even then, she never spoke, just ate and left. Every year on Levana's birthday, she would go the queen's bedroom door, singing her a special song, and would always leave a piece of chocolate cake, Levana's favourite. She would come back around several hours later, saddened when she found the cake to be untouched. Every time she would tell herself that maybe Levana just didn't like birthdays, or maybe she forgot—it seemed like everyone else in the palace had forgotten that the queen even had one of those.
Her stepmother's sadness and misery always made her feel low, when she had so many friends and Levana seemed to have none. She must've been so lonely. Winter wanted nothing more than to cheer her up, keep her company, but whenever she tried, the queen would brush her off or blatantly kick her out. It almost seems like she enjoyed being alone, with no one else but herself, her own thoughts. Winter wondered how she could stand it. She would probably tear her own hair out if she had to be so alone for so long.
As she continued to walk down the halls, she hummed a soft tune under her breath, a song that she remembered from her early childhood, one that her father would sing to her whenever she had a nightmare. Her footsteps echoing softly though the vast halls, the cream skirt of her dress whispering around her legs, she wandered on past the vast doors of the ominous throne room, which she usually preferred to avoid. The bloodstains painting the walls and the eerily strange faces of the Lunar court had always freaked her out.
The aura of calm and peace that she had wrapped around herself was suddenly shattered by an ear-piercing scream that echoed from down the corridor.
The shrill sound was like that of death, of pain, of torture. Winter's blood iced over and her heart nearly stopped beating, fear creeping up on her like her shadow and nearly choking her. She broke into a sprint, racing down the hall to the room where the sound was coming from, the screams only getting louder as she came closer to the source. She skid to a halt in front of a blank, wooden door, the bland piece simple and dull in contrast to the rest of the palace's splendid doors of gold and regolith.
She shivered.
Jacin had always told her to never open one of the wooden doors. He said that once you went in, you saw things that would scar you for life, that you could never wipe from your memory. He made her swear to never even go near one.
But she had to know what the screaming was about. She just had to.
Taking a deep breath, she slowly pushed open the door, and the first thing she noticed was the sharp, metal tang of blood, the musky smell of decaying flesh making her eyes water. She could feel her breakfast about to make a reappearance, and she had to bite her lip to keep from emptying the contents of her stomach on that very floor.
As she opened the door completely and took a few steps into the room, the sight she came to made her shriek, loud.
On the floor was what seemed like the mangled corpse of a man, yet he was still moving and wailing, an arm raised above his body with a blood-soaked whip in his hand, ready to strike. All of his limbs were shaking and Winter could only make out a single word uttered from his cut lips.
Help.
She then noticed a woman standing beside him, in a white silk dress, her milky hands clasped together in front of her, her blood red lips curled in a cruel smile. Her eyes were closed and her brow seemed to be creased in concentration, with auburn curls falling perfectly around her face, giving her an air of serenity, as if there wasn't a man bleeding to death at her feet.
"STEPMOTHER!"
Levana's onyx eyes flew open and her head whipped around at Winter's scream of terror, and she looked nearly surprised for a moment, before her full lips spread wide into a grin, making her look twisted and demonic. "Why, Winter, how nice of you to join us!" Levana spoke in a playful voice. "I was just teaching Thaumaturge Rite here what happens when you," Her tone became suddenly dangerous, "don't do your job correctly." She sneered.
"P-please...Your M-Majesty...I-I beg...you..." The nearly dead thaumaturge barely managed to force out the words, his voice a harsh, raspy whisper, blood pouring out of his mouth and nose. Levana looked at him with disgust, the crimson liquid that was pouring from his wounds lightly staining the hem of her dress, and surely her shoes as well.
Winter froze, unable to move, until she saw the man's arm come up once again, and Levana's eyes were sharp and cold, her arms crossed over her chest. He flicked back his wrist once, twice, before the whip came down on his chest with unimaginable force, a sharp crack so loud that Winter could've sworn that she had heard a gun go off. She expected more agonized screams from the poor man, but instead he just moaned softly before the whip fell from his grasp, and he twitched a few times before relaxing, his body sprawling out, his eyes glossing over and staring up blankly at the ceiling like glass marbles.
Winter clapped a hand over her mouth, the tears running freely by then.
He was dead.
She had just watched someone be killed. And by her own stepmother.
She nearly fainted.
Levana gazed at the mangled corpse, a look of awe on her face that one might have when admiring a work of art. After a moment, once she tore her gaze from the dead thaumaturge, she burst into a fit of girlish laughter at Winter's horrified expression, the sound light like the tinkle of raindrops on a rooftop, yet ominous and haunting like a funeral hymn played by a church organ. She sauntered over to the princess, bending down to meet her height, and she stared at her straight in the eyes. Winter shuddered. The queen seemed to be possessed.
"What are you so afraid of, Winter?" Levana's gaze wandered around the room. "It's only a little blood."
"How could you do this?" Winter breathed, her big caramel eyes open wide, still glossy from tears.
"Is it that bad? It's not like he was important or anything." The queen looked back at her, her brow furrowing. "Don't you know anything at all about justice, stepdaughter?"
Winter took a step back, a sudden surge of anger flooding through her veins. "This is not justice." She looked up at Levana, in her cold, black eyes, a new feeling of unwelcome nostalgia making her quake in her small black shoes. The glint of insanity, of murder in Levana's eyes, made her think of only one person. The woman, that, when she died, Winter couldn't help but feel relieved, thinking like a fool that she would never meet another person like her ever again.
Never would she have guessed that her own stepmother, of all people, would become so much like her older sister, the late Queen Channary.
She had always hated her, since the first day that she met the royal family, when his father had proposed to Levana. And for the first four years that she spent living in the palace, Channary was always the person whom she would try to avoid and much as possible. She saw how she treated those around her—including Levana—and the way that she would torture her sister, for no apparent reason, and also the way she had seduced her father, leading to the birth of one of her only friends. She had been quite close to Princess Selene before her tragic and accidental death.
So when she looked into Levana's eyes, she couldn't help but see Channary's cold brown ones staring back at her instead, and she grit her teeth. "You..." Winter recoiled in fear, her features contorted with terror and revulsion. "You're just like her."
Levana blinked. "I do beg your pardon?"
"You're just. Like. Channary." Winter spat, a surge of rebellion keeping her from thinking clearly.
It was probably the worst thing that she could've said.
Levana's eyes flashed and, out of nowhere, her hand came out and gripped Winter's arm, hard, her sharp nails digging deep into her skin. Winter yelped, squirming and struggling to escape her grasp, but Levana just dragged her out of the room, down the hallway, the princess shrieking and calling for help, at the same time begging the queen to let her go.
"How dare you..." Levana seethed as she stomped down the corridor, pushing the door to Winter's chambers open and throwing her inside, entering herself and slamming the door hard behind her. Winter let out a whimper of pain, her side most likely bruised from the hard impact on the marble floor. She wrenched herself up, propping her body up with one arm, rubbing her forehead, trying to soothe the pain.
Levana's eyes were still blazing as they swept around the lavish bedroom, searching for a sharp weapon, until her gaze set upon a pair of silver shears resting on the vanity table, that the maids had left behind after they cut Winter's hair that morning. She smiled, a twisted grin that showed all of her teeth, before snatching the scissors from the table and grabbing Winter's wrist, pulling her up, and forcing the sharp object into her hand. Winter looked at it in horror as her hand clenched into a fist around the pair of scissors, her traitorous limb moving against her will as Levana twisted her brainwaves to her desire.
"S-stepmother..." Winter stuttered, her voice rising as she said the word in a mantra, her hand trembling as the sharp end of the shears was pointed to her cheek, coming to rest underneath her eye, beginning to dig into the skin. "Please...d-don't..."
Levana didn't listen, however, just cocking her head to the side, her auburn curls cascading over her chest, her beautiful face complacent, her grin never faltering.
No, no, no, no!
Winter's pleading made no difference as the queen continued to twist her brainwaves, the sharp point of the scissors digging straight into her skin, streams of hot blood running down her cheeks, mingling with the tears, as the blade ran down her face, leaving a gruesome gash in it's wake. The searing pain was nearly blinding as she screamed on the top of her lungs, blood dripping off of her chin and pooling on the floor. The blade stopped mid-cheek, coming out of the skin and back up to under the eye, cutting a new gash, and after that, another, creating a pattern like perpetual tears.
After the third cut, Winter felt her grip on the shears loosening, letting them fall to the floor, still wailing and sobbing, staring down at the ground, holding a hand to her wounds, blood running down between her fingers. Levana stepped forward and pushed Winter's chin up, glaring at her with eyes as sharp as needles, her teeth clenched. "Let this serve as a permanent lesson to you," She spat before turning around and floating out of the room like a spring breeze, as if the events of the past few minutes had been nothing but a dream.
Winter dropped to her knees, her shoulders shaking, in agonizing pain. She had no words, no thoughts, completely shocked and terrified at what had just happened. She couldn't believe it. She knew that there was something wrong with Levana, that she was going crazy, but she never thought that she could ever do something like that, to hurt her intentionally. She started to cry even harder as she mulled over memories of when she was younger, when Levana would hold her close and read her stories at night, when she would play with her and kiss her forehead and tell her that she loved her.
She missed those days dearly, and she prayed, wished with all her heart that things could go back to the way they used to be, to when her father was alive and Levana was kind and loving.
She wanted her stepmother back.
She grasped the hem of her skirt and tore off a piece of the cream fabric, folding it and pressing it to her face as a makeshift bandage, the cloth instantly soaked with liquid crimson. She was still shaking, still crying, soft moans of pain escaping her lips, her raven curls flying everywhere in a complete mess.
But she didn't care what she looked like. That was the least of her worries.
Her pain and sadness quickly turned to anger, disgust for her culture, her people, her power making her quiver with rage. It was the glamour's fault. It was what had turned Levana into a bloodthirsty, tyrannical psychopath, and had scarred her face, causing her pain beyond all belief. It was what twisted Luna into a country of hideous greed and violence, where brother turned on brother, for nothing more than each person's desire for more, whether it be wealth, beauty, or power.
It was stunning, really, how such a seemingly normal day could've turned into such a nightmare, an important turning point in her life.
And as she sat there, on her knees, Winter could only do one thing. She could only make a silent oath, an unspoken promise, to her father and everyone that she held dear.
She vowed that she was never to become like Channary, like Levana.
To never be like them, like any other tyrant that had sat on the Lunar throne.
She was never to use her glamour again.