The Snake Queen

The ballroom once pulsed with life, a symphony of chatter, music, and the rhythmic swirl of dancers under glittering chandeliers. At the heart of it all spun the princess, radiant and carefree. Her laughter rang like silver bells, her skirts fanning out as she twirled with her dear friends. The King watched from his throne, his gaze stern and disapproving. Her lack of decorum grated against his sense of order, but he held his tongue. Her joy was infectious, too bright to snuff out—at least for now.

But joy is fleeting.

Years passed. The King’s sternness turned to control, and one by one, her friends were chased away—unworthy companions for royalty, he decreed. When the next ball arrived, the hall was no less grand. The chandeliers glittered just as brightly, the music flowed just as sweetly. Yet the laughter was gone. She danced with prince after prince, their hands cool and impersonal, their rehearsed words hollow. Her movements were measured, precise, and devoid of the fire they once held. She was a marionette in a gown, performing the duty of finding a future king. The lively princess of old had become a ghost in the trappings of royalty.

And time marched on.

Now, the ballroom remains, though its splendor is but a shadow. The light from the chandeliers is dim, their crystal pendants tangled with slithering snakes. The air is heavy with ash, the once-vivid tapestries faded to gray. In the center of the desolation stands the princess. Alone. She dances to a phantom melody, her gown streaked with soot, her bare feet brushing against the cold stone. Her movements are slow, and deliberate, as if she is trying to remember what it once felt like to be free.

At last, she halts before the throne. Her father’s seat of power is empty but for his skeletal remains, long turned to ash. Snakes coil through the empty sockets of his skull, around the arms of the chair, and across the throne’s high back. She bends to lift the skull with reverence, holding it in her hands for a long moment. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she lets it tumble down the steps. It strikes the cold marble floor and shatters into dust.

The snakes descend, dragging the last remnants of the king’s bones into the shadows. She ascends the dais and sinks into the throne, her face a mask of serene detachment. The ashes settle around her like a coronation veil, and the snakes gather at her feet, their hissing chorus the only sound in the lifeless ballroom.

The princess smiles—a cold, hollow curve of her lips. This is her kingdom now.

And the music plays on.