One sip to poison a prince, his teeth sunk into forbidden fruit, while one-true-love stands waiting, patient, the perfect good girl all fairy-tales and smiles, alone. Drinks her own potion, steps free of skin crafted from paperbound volumes brittle with age. Breathes. Finally. Screams.
“Once upon a time,” Illany panted, beads of sweat clinging to her eyebrows as Kilogi’s sword bore down on her own. “There was a princess who didn’t want her crown.” She shifted her weight and twisted Kilogi’s weapon to the right exposing his left side. “Her father said no,” she continued, throwing herself forwards and smirking at crack of ribs breaking and Kilogi’s gasping howl. “She would carry her responsible just as he did.” Kilogi stumbled and dropped his sword. “So she gave the crown to the blacksmith.” Her blade was against Kilogi’s neck. “And said make me a sword.”