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CW: none.

What do the wicked stepmother and the innocent princess have in common? In this retelling, a lot more than you might think. I love a good fairy tale retelling, especially those that subvert the narrative in unexpected ways, and it’s high time for the jealous villainess archetype to be rewritten, because why do we still pit women against each other? What if this archetype were merely an illusion to hide a more terrifying truth?

—LZ

Sleep, princess, sleep.

Here, in this icy chamber in the heart of the Idugan mountains, far from the horrors of the Imperial Palace, there is neither a worry to perturb your smooth brow nor an echo of fear to pierce the silence of your glass tomb.

Perhaps one day you will wake, and I will explain to you—gently, of course—the life that you once had. Or perhaps you will smile and shake your head, black locks swaying across your face like inky brushstrokes, and say the past does not matter, let us not disturb the beast in its slumber. Then, the ugly truth of the story will forever rest with me.

Perhaps one day, there will be more for us, the used and the captive. But for now, we will content ourselves with dreams and the quietude of this frozen lair.

• • • •

They say your mother made her wish one snowy day upon seeing a lone rose growing in the Imperial Gardens. The rose was as a droplet of blood against the blank canvas of winter, and its thorny stem was as black as ebony. Your mother sighed, for she had long wished for a daughter amidst her many sons, and surely, a rose in the middle of winter was a sign of hope.

I do not know how much of that is true. I was not yet bound for the palace when you came into this treacherous world.

But if your mother had truly wished for a child with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as dark as ebony, then her wish was granted. This much is true.

You were a fair child, the fairest among the Emperor’s daughters. The jewel of the palace, the pearl of the dragon. The Emperor, especially, loved to set you on his knee and stroke your lovely black hair.

You were to become a princess of grace and talent, they say, perhaps even the one to establish peace with our neighbors through a harmonious marriage alliance. Everyone wondered what your future would hold—until you were stolen, hidden away by the jealous sorceress consort who could not tolerate your growing beauty.

The Emperor is looking for you now, the only daughter of his late Empress, and those are the stories that the Emperor’s ministers will tell as they begin their search for their lost princess.

But I must tell you a different story.

• • • •

The Emperor’s throne sits in the middle of the great hall in front of a paneled dragon screen. Only the Emperor is allowed behind the screen, but I, on occasion, have ventured there with a touch of shadow magic.

Behind the latticework of the dragon screen is hidden a small alcove, and within the alcove is a looking glass. Its smooth surface is as still as an underground lake and as dark as a well of ink.

To the ordinary eye, the looking glass is but a strange ornament, little different from the other oddities decorating the palace halls. Yet, when the right words are spoken, a foreboding presence stirs within its depths and rises to the surface.

Looking glass upon the wall, who is the fairest of them all? the Emperor asks.

The looking glass responds with the reflected image of a maiden, perhaps sitting by a river, drawing water from a well, or peering into her own jeweled mirror. And the Emperor’s dark eyes, filled with the image of one so lovely, become pools of desire. He summons his seven ministers, each endowed with a different magic, and they are sent to bring back the maiden.

As her image fades, her brows pinch together as she feels a sudden shadow, the shadow of inescapable fate closing in.

• • • •

Once, as told by the Emperor’s looking glass, I was the fairest maiden in the land.

They came to my village, a small village of outcasts where my sisters and I, the last of the Idugan people, dwelt peacefully. A wind of fire and ice whipped through our threadbare homes, thunder rolled overhead, and the earth rumbled beneath our feet. Power crackling at their fingertips, the seven ministers threatened to destroy our village unless I agreed to return with them.

Unwilling to make my people the price for my freedom, I left for the palace, where I was bathed in jasmine water, wrapped in silk robes, and carried to the Emperor’s chambers. That night, I shivered under the sheets, not out of fear, but because my Idugan blood sensed that there were evils far greater than my shadow magic lurking in the palace.

Yet it was I who was reviled by everyone as the greatest evil—an Idugan sorceress, a wielder of darkness. They tried to strip me of power, binding my feet so that my shadow would not wander. For my beauty, I was envied. For my heritage, I was despised. By all, except you.

Fair Snow, Little Snow, Xiao Xue, whose name means both blood and snow. You, whom the entire palace adored for your heart of gold. I wanted to hate you, but that hate never blossomed. Like a rosebud frozen by the nip of winter, it was cut before it could grow.

Why was it you who found me in the Imperial Gardens, kneeling before the taunting consorts, my ancestral Idugan robe torn and tattered, with darkness seeping from my fists?

Sister, you called me, as you helped me to my feet. Do not let them anger you into something you will regret. If the ministers find out, they will not be kind to the Idugan.

By generation and by custom, you should have called me mother, you said, but I looked to be little more than a few years older than you, so sister it was.

Why was it you who found me amidst the smoke and flames, when half the Inner Palace was burning—burning because I wanted to see their faces transform with horror?

Sister, you called, a water bucket in your hand, your drenched robe clinging to your body, cheeks aflame and raven hair escaping their pins. Hurry, the roof is about to give.

Why was it you who insisted that the palace fire was an accident, an accident made on your behalf because you had requested slow-simmered bone broth from the kitchen? Why was it you who argued so passionately that the ministers never questioned anyone else?

Fair Snow, I liked to call you, for Little Snow felt too diminutive. Only once have I called you Xiao Xue, and it is a painful memory to recall.

Are you sure you want to know?

• • • •

A day came when the Emperor turned towards his looking glass on the wall, and the reflection that poured forth from that unforgiving cold surface was that of his own daughter. You.

In his heart, a thorn took hold and grew into a tangle of twisted desires. There was a summons, and the shadow of fate closed in around you.

You came to me from the Emperor’s chambers, your eyes glazed with tears and bitterness and hate. You begged of me a spell, a poison, anything to set you free from the defilement of your body and soul.

I had never seen you so desperate, so small.

Xiao Xue, I called you. Little Snow. I wanted to comfort you, but what was there to say? I was never as good at words as you were.

You watched as I turned an ordinary apple blood-red with a few drops of my own blood. You took it wordlessly, and as the first bite passed between your lips, you fell into a deep slumber.

They say the Idugan practice dark magic, shadow magic used to harm and steal, but with you, I have sought only to save and preserve.

• • • •

I admit it has been my guilty pleasure to watch you in your slumber, for even encased in ice, you are beguiling. The gentle curve of your red lips, upturned in a peaceful smile. The pale porcelain of your cheeks, still tinted with a hint of blush. Locks of ebony, arranged like wreaths over your still chest.

But far too long I have dwelt in this fantasy, that one day you would wake, and I would watch over you until then. I am afraid that this dream, like all dreams, must end.

Fair Snow, the Emperor’s ministers are gathering. They will go to my village, and I must be there with my sisters. For you, I have endangered kin and blood, but without you, I would have had neither kin nor love.

Before I go, I will cast a spell upon the tomb. There will never be a day, never a time, never a man who will be able to open this tomb. They will come, as surely as moths drawn to flame, as bees to honey, but none shall reach you. None shall touch you ever again.

Sleep, princess, sleep.