(continued from Part XV | Act I | Act II | Part XVII)
The princess walked among the crowd, figure in a regal gown. Her steps were sure, her hands held fast, fingers on the royal crown.
But she was not alone that day, though it quickly turned to night—within the shadows growing long hovered telltale points of light. A mountain covered by a cloak, upon which had perched a beast. A mass of leather, steel and teeth, like a wolf prepared to feast. Unkempt hair that masked the glowing, piercing stare of eyes that seared. Beard that hadn't seen the blade and sword that those who'd seen it feared.
With whispers hushed, the twelve drew near, from all corners of the land. They raised their arms, she raised hers too; crown held high, its time at hand.
"I rule this place only in name, asking with humility: grant my claim your benediction, add my name to history."
The princess winced, but said the words, every syllable a chore. She could not stand what they revered; could not bear what they stood for. The twelve approached and formed a ring, representing land and folk; with rites and divine ritual, ancient were the words they spoke.
"From gods above and gods below, with our every living breath. Mana drawn from land and people—coronation until death!"
"If people seek a ruler just, may the task then fall to me. Should their trust in me be broken, wipe my name from history."
"From gods above and gods below, with our every living breath. Mana drawn from land and people—coronation until death!"
"The song of land and dance of sea, oceans vast and caverns deep—with crown in hand they fall to me, to protect and then to keep."
"From gods above and gods below, with our every living breath. Mana drawn from land and people—coronation until death!"
The ritual advanced apace, coronation drawing near; but the princess had no patience, any more than she had fear.
"The halving of the Witches' Tree, and the moon calamity; the work of tyrants crowned before, ripe with lies and enmity. The taming of the Giant Folk and the people of the Flame... the wise among the populace claim that this crown is to blame!"
The twelve looked among their brethren, unsure what to do and say. Would the ruler they had chosen undermine this sacred day?
"But I shall walk the righteous path. May my dreams one day come true. Without the strength to cut these bonds, the only way out is through."
The twelve stood down and stepped away, glad that this was not the case. The monarch's will was theirs to bend; Crown and City knew their place.
"From gods above and gods below, with our every living breath. Mana drawn from land and people—coronation until death!"
But then the crowd stood very still. No one dared to move a hair. For time itself had held its breath; flame and smoke had filled the air. A figure taller than them all rose up from the fiery ground—a hornèd maiden, mother, crone; hair alight and eyes tight-bound. She stepped among them with a smile, knowing none could match her pace. She left her body standing still, met the princess soul-to-face.
"I see the noble heart inside, in a battle it can't win. I see how powerless you are, as the Twelve around you grin. They only think of their own gain, but tonight they shall serve me! The Witch-Fiend walks among you now—glorious and crowned-to-be."
The figure slid across the ground, resolutely to her goal. She touched the princess on the heart—from her body, took her soul.
"I'll take good care of this, my dear—slip my own into its place. For when the ritual is done, you'll be gone without a trace. Yes, you prepared the winning piece, one who'll make my dreams come true: the wolf that made the White Woods feared... whom the people call Le Loup."
The bodyguard stood deathly still, frozen by the Witch-Fiend's curse. As soon as time would flow again, he alone would make things worse. His blade would find its target true, ending Witch-Fiend once for all. But unbeknownst to the proud knight, she'd not be the one to fall.
Though not one second had yet passed, the Crown's plans had been undone. The march of time itself resumed, to the bell the Witch-Queen rung.
"I changed the ritual. The rhythm is askew! The power draws to me; it will not come to you."
The princess fell to ground; her body's life wore thin. The crowd came back to life; the horror sinking in. The Witch-Fiend's plan was thus: reach out and count to three; send out her soul, and then... wake up, as crowned-to-be.
She grinned and stretched a hand, time bending to her will. But unbeknownst to her, the wolf was faster still.
"The world shall drink to me, and you'll not get one dram! And now I—this can't be!?"
"ARE YOU LOST, LITTLE LAMB?"
The entire crowd erupted in raucous cheering as Le Loup's blade flashed across the Witch-Fiend's body, people from the floor seats to the balcony shouting out the words along with him.
Lou opened one eye to take a peek. This was her favorite part.
— end of preview
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