III. Snow White, The Faceless Hunger.

Before kings. Before gods. There was Sn'Whiate— the Faceless Hunger.

A cosmic horror from time's womb, whose seed fell upon the earth like a plague wrapped in starlight.

The necromancers who found her, who bound her, made no mistake in naming her.

They renamed her.

“Snow White.”

A phonetic prison disguised as a fairytale.

This circle of seven — draped in flesh, cloaked in lies — donned the forms of humble dwarfs,

and worshipped the sleeping entity beneath the forest’s roots.

They fed her with human souls, drip by drip,

until the hunger stirred beneath the silence.

And so they forged a tale:

A princess cursed.

A kiss to break the spell.

A prince of virtue, untainted and ripe.

“Snow” (Sefiroth – Níðhöggr – Oblivion’s Wail)

To freeze her essence, to slow the rot between worlds.

“White” (Wandering Hunger – Ixion’s Tears – Tiamat’s Echo)

To mask her true form in the illusion of innocence.

They twisted the spell into bait.

“A sleeping princess named Snow White lies beneath the glass,” they whispered.

But they knew.

Each time the name was spoken,

the seals thinned.

The bindings frayed.

And when Prince Erik knelt before the black crystal tomb and whispered “Snow White,”

the last cosmic nail rusted through.

Prince Erik rode into the cursed forest, his rusted sword tapping against his thigh.

The seven dwarfs awaited him beside the glass coffin.

"Save our princess," whispered the smallest one, his voice like fingernails dragged across stone.

Inside lay Snow White — skin like porcelain, lips as red as freshly spilled blood.

Erik did not see the runes etched into the dirt beneath his boots,

nor how the dwarfs’ cloaks hid twisted, inhuman hands.

"A kiss of true love will wake her," said another, grinning with teeth far too sharp.

The prince nodded, ignoring the cold breath crawling down his spine.

Beyond, deep in the trees, something watched.

Something that breathed in rhythm with the wind.

The dwarfs formed a circle as Erik leaned over the coffin.

Snow White smelled of damp earth and sulfur.

Her eyelids twitched the moment his lips brushed hers.

Then, the forest fell silent.

The prince’s heart stopped mid-beat.

A moan escaped Snow White’s chest, and her eyes opened — pupils black as bottomless wells.

Erik tried to scream,

but his voice vanished along with the warmth in his limbs.

His skin cracked.

Turned to ash.

The dwarfs shed their cloaks, revealing faces marked with ritual scars.

"The rite is fulfilled," murmured the leader.

Snow White rose.

Her once-white dress now stained with living shadow.

Her first smile in this new life…

Was a gash far too wide.

The castle was deep in revelry when the warning came: something was walking the royal road.

Villagers who glimpsed it spoke of a barefoot princess, dragging her steps, leaving black footprints that smoked.

"She has no mouth," a child muttered — before madness took him.

In the throne hall, the queen clutched her mirror.

"Where is my stepson?" she demanded.

The guards were silent.

Outside, birds dropped from the sky like ash.

Snow White passed through the palace gates without touching them,

her body gliding forward like a breath of smoke.

The servants fled.

All but one — a hunched old man dragging a dusty trunk toward the throne.

"Only this can stop her," he wheezed.

Inside, tangled in webs,

a mirror pulsed with its own, unnatural light.

Snow White crossed the threshold of the throne room.

The queen, pale but unyielding, raised her scepter as her only defense.

"I know what you are. You are not welcome here," she declared — though her voice trembled.

It was not hatred in her eyes,

but the raw terror of a mother guarding the last flicker of her world.

The mirror — forged centuries ago by a god who foresaw this moment — began to hum in its frame.

It did not show lies.

Nor beauty.

Only the naked truth of the soul.

As Snow White drew near, the glass revealed:

Her “face” — a shifting fractal of lipless mouths.

The kingdom — twisted into a landfill of writhing flesh, its towers built from the bones of children.

And at the center,

Sn’Whiate — her true form:

a cosmic tumor pulsing with infinite hunger.

Snow White screamed.

Not in pain.

But because for the first time in eons…

she understood herself.

The mirror did not attack her.

It reflected her madness — magnified, crystallized.

Her hands (if they were hands) clutched at her skull as her skin ruptured into black ink,

teeth,

tentacles,

and rot.

The queen fell to her knees, shielding her eyes.

"Don’t look!" the old sage warned —

but it was too late.

The reflection had already done its work.

Snow White melted like sugar in water,

dragged into the mirror by her own limbs.

The glass shattered as it received her.

But the damage was done.

The mirror shattered.

The throne room fell silent — save for the thick dripping of black liquid pooling on the stone floor.

The queen clutched her temples.

Inside her skull, a voice whispered:

"Do you wish to be... the fairest of them all?"

It was sweet.

It was a lie.

It was Snow White — speaking from within her bones.

"I need to rest," the queen told her servants, with a smile that was no longer hers.

"Alone."

That night, the queen left her castle.

The moon bled over the forest as she arrived at the clearing.

The glass coffin still stood, open like a wound.

The seven necromancers were waiting, kneeling in a circle,

their cloaks soaked in freshly turned soil.

"Queen..." murmured the leader, lifting eyes that had no pupils,

"Welcome to your true body."

She — was it still she? — touched the edge of the coffin.

And remembered things she had never lived:

The eternal void between stars.

The ache of endless hunger.

And a name — not Snow White,

but Sn’Whiate, devourer of worlds,

and fairest of all cosmic horrors.

The necromancers bowed low.

The first approached, offering a fragment of the broken mirror.

Within it, the queen’s reflection twisted…

and smiled back.

"I am the fairest," said the voice.

"I am the fairest," echoed the queen.

"And now… I am hungry."

And the forest — warped by the void — sang.

And welcomed its new queen.

Moral of The Story.

Be careful who you call ‘the fairest’...

She might agree."

— The Lost Tales