Snow Is White and the Seven Book Dragons

PROLOGUE

It all started with an unfortunate hiccup.

The whole court, in fact the whole kingdom (it was a rather small kingdom, to be fair, barely more than a village) was gathered in the Great Hall. A sense of expectation and excitement hung in the air. Breaths were held, and all eyes were riveted on the dais at the back of the Great Hall.

Huge arched stained-glass windows diffused beautifully coloured light across the crowd. The brightest and most colourful light, which issued from the largest, most colourful circular window, fell on the dais and its matching twin thrones.

But that’s not what the crowd watched so raptly. It was the pretty carved wooden crib in front of the thrones. The crib had been carved, it was said, by the king's own hands during the queen's pregnancy. People whispered about this among themselves. That a king would stoop to carve a crib was proof of his love and devotion to his wife and baby girl.

The king stood beside the crib, one hand resting on the edge of it. He looked at his daughter with a mixture of love and terrible sadness.

The people murmured some more to each other. So tragic how his wife had died in childbirth. Such a beautiful, kind woman, too. So tragic for the king to be left alone to raise the princess. Some wagging tongues said it wouldn’t be long before he remarried. A girl needs a mother, after all.

The huge double doors of the great Hall opened with a dramatic crash that startled everyone into silence. The crowd turned as one to watch the new arrival and gasps shivered in the air.

Her shadow proceeded her, the bright afternoon light behind her silhouetting her. The courtiers and villagers parted ways before her like the sea opening for a prophet, the only sound the scuffing of boots and the whisper of fabric against the stone floor.

The fairy godmother wore a solemn expression and a blue dress, her russet hair pinned up in a rather haphazard bun. She wafted down the alley made by the parted crowd, her feet a few inches off the ground, occasionally breaking her solemn demeanour to smile benevolently at someone or nod a greeting. An astute observer might have observed a slightly smudged quality to her smile.

While she was busy smiling to her right, she lost track of her direction, drifting too far left and bumping into a man. The impact caused her to lose balance a little, but she righted herself quickly, with only a slight pinwheeling of her arms that knocked just the one wig askew.

An astute observer with a keen sense of smell might have noticed that there was an undertone to her perfume. An undertone that was strongly redolent of brandy.

The fairy godmother continued her progress, wafting up the stairs. She missed in her evaluation of the last step and caught her left foot on it, stumbled a little in the air, but this time righted herself without upsetting any wigs—there weren’t any within arms reach.

The fairy godmother landed daintily next to the crib, her feet finally touching the ground. The king looked up at her wordlessly. He nodded once and took a step back, giving his permission for her to perform the birth blessing.

The fairy godmother nodded in response and thanks, and she approached the crib.

An astute observer might at this point notice the way her feet shuffled slightly when she walked, or the clumsiness of her hands as she reached for the crib.

But there was, sadly, no astute observer present. The crowd gazed raptly at the scene, entranced by the magic that was about to take place, and the king was too lost to his grief.

The fairy godmother looked fondly down at the baby. A pretty baby, she was. Perfect smooth skin, with a little puff of black fuzz on her head, and a perfect rosebud mouth, every so slightly open as she slept. But then again, babies were all pretty, and princess babies even more so.

The fairy turned to the crowd. Now was not the time for cooing over the babe, it was time for pomp and circumstance, for ceremony and magic. For drama and awe and wonder—three things the fairy godmother was rather fond of.

She raised both hands. The crowd looked up as one, following her movement as if she were a puppeteer controlling their strings. She reached out into the air next to her, and plucked a magic wand as if it had been floating there the whole time.

The crowd gasped, whispered, and leaned in, craning to see better. The fairy godmother’s solemn expression faltered, letting slip her smugness and enjoyment at the attention.

Since an astute observer was lacking, no one noticed the gentle way she swayed on her feet, the unfocused glaze in her eyes, the cloud of brandy vapour surrounding her.

The fairy godmother raised her wand. "I hereby begin the blessing birth, I mean the birth blessing." She stifled a hiccup with her spare hand, the sound echoing loudly in the expectant and silent Great Hall. She cleared her throat gently, not at all put out by this.

"I hereby name this baby..." Magic gathered thick on the air, and no magic in Once-Upon-Thyme was more potent than than that of a naming. The crow held their breath for this most sacred moment in the life of their princess, their future queen, this moment that would determine the princess she would be. “I name her Snow—hic!—White."

The fairy godmother's eyes widened with shock, her reaction matched by the crowd. A stunned silent hung in the air for a couple of heartbeats.

"Snow Is White?" The crowd whispered, confused. "What kind of a name is that?"

But the magic had already settled. The name had been pronounced, and it could no longer be undone.

"Er, yes." The fairy godmother cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable. "And of course, the usual beauty, um..." She fished two fingers into her corset to pull out a crumpled piece of paper. "Ah, yes. Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, hair black as night." The fairy godmother waved her wand efficiently a few times over the crib. "Sweetness and light, friend of the birds and the small creatures. Gentle and kind. All the princess things. There we are, now. There we are."

She cleared her throat and glanced about the crowd, conspicuously not looking at the king. "There. I declare this baby named.” She carefully avoided repeating the name. “Righty-ho, well, gotta dash. Another baby to name, you know. Things to do, places to be.” She turned to the king briefly and patted his hand. "Terribly sorry your wife died, of course. A tragedy.” She glanced awkwardly one final time at the crowd. "Er, yes. Wonderful. Blessing and happiness on all present.”

And then she disappeared in a puff of blue  smoke.

* * *

Just beyond the castle walls, the fairy godmother reappeared in a puff of smoke.

"Mirabelle," a ten-year-old girl hissed, poking her head out from behind a bush. Mirabelle jumped, squawking.

"Grimhelda!" Mirabelle pressed a hand to her ample bosom. "You startled me. What are you doing, skulking back there?"

The girl stepped out from behind the bush. She was uncommonly pretty, with rich chestnut hair, fine features, and large brown eyes lined with thick lashes. Womanhood wasn’t yet on her, but it was clear she would be devastatingly beautiful as an adult.

"I wanted to get a look at the naming, but I'm not allowed to go in there."

“Of course not. But you’ll have plenty of time to nose around once you live there.”

Grimhelda bit her lip and glanced at at the castle. "What's he like? The king?"

"I didn't get much of a chance to talk to him, but you know, the usual,. Kind, beset with grief, dotes on his daughter, mourns his wife.” Mirabelle hiccuped, not quite managing to catch the sound in her left fist.

"I can't believe I'm going to have to marry him," Grimhelda made a face. "Yuck. He’s so old.”

“You’re not marrying him for another ten years," Mirabelle reminded her. “And he’s only twenty three now, which is far from old. Take it from me. I thought he was pretty handsome, grief not withstanding…”

"I wish I was never marrying him. I don’t want to be married.”

"Well, at least wicked queens are never married for very long."

“That’s true.” Grimhelda smiled. “And the baby? What’s she like?"

"Hard to tell when they're that small. I expect she’ll be very normal for a princess. Sweet, patient, kind.”

“And her name?"

A flash of discomfort skittered across the fairy godmother's features. "Mind your own business. You're not married into that family yet."

"I'm going to be in ten years, so I might as well find out now the name of the girl who's going to be my..." Grimhelda shivered. "Stepdaughter." She made a face again. "Ugh. I don’t want a stepdaughter. I don’t think I ever want children.”

"Well you can find out your future stepdaughter’s name in due course," Mirabelle said primly. "Anyway, little girls shouldn't pry."

"I can find out by myself," Grimhelda countered. “I’ve got my own magic, remember, since I'm to become a wicked queen." She frowned in concentration for a moment, and then her eyes widened with confusion. "Snow Is White? That's really what you named the baby? What kind of name is that?"

"The name her mother wanted for her," Mirabelle replied defensively.

Grimhelda raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me the late queen wanted to give her daughter a sentence for a name, complete with verb?"

Mirabelle hiccuped before she could reply. Grimhelda sniffed and then gasped.

"You're drunk!"

"Am not. I just had a bit of brandy before the naming ceremony, that's all. I always have a snifter of brandy before an important moment. To steady the nerves, you know.”

Grimhelda rolled her eyes. “You’ve never been nervous a day in your life.”

“I’ll have you know that I have a delicate disposition with nerves that are easily frayed, and that require care.”

“Ha, you’re as delicate as I’m old.”

“I’ll thank you not to talk to me like that,” Mirabelle sniffed. “You’re ten, you’re not suppose to sass fairy godmothers.”

“I’m not a normal ten-year-old,” Grimhelda replied. “Plus, I’m supposed to be unpleasant—I’m destined to be a wicked queen.”

“Be that as it may, I don't answer to you. I named the baby, as I was supposed to, and that's all there is to it. Now, I've got to dash. Another baby to name. Um..." She fished the piece of crumpled paper from her corset once more. "Ah, yes. Adrianna. Better run."

"You're just going to leave me?" Grimhelda asked in a small voice, all her previous confidence and sass gone.

Mirabelle paused and gave the girl a kindly look, reaching out to pat her cheek. "Don't think too much about your future as a wicked queen, my sweet. Enjoy these years you have for now, when you have your freedom, before the storylines start to truly set the wheels in motion.”

“I wish I didn’t have to become a wicked queen,” Grimhelda whispered. “I didn’t ask for this.”

Mirabelle leaned over, her breath rich with the smell of brandy. “If you want to know what I think, better to be a wicked queen than a princess. You live longer, for one, and you get to do what you want for most of that time. If you were a princess, you’d have to be locked in a tower or made mute or something. And as a wicked queen, once the prince comes along and boots you out of the castle, you get to live out your days tranquil, away from all this nonsense.”

Grimhelda nodded. “Yes, then I can have a small cottage, fill it with books, get a pretty tea set and a cat, and I’ll be happy.”

“Exactly. The wicked queen is an unpleasant but short interlude before you get there. Now, pet, I really have to run. I'm going to… what’s it called again? Ah, yes, Veridi castle. They're expecting me for more than just a naming. I'm to be the fairy godmother in residence."

“You’re staying there for good? Why can’t I have a fairy godmother to watch over me?”

Mirabelle sighed. “Wicked queens don’t get a fairy godmother, you know that. That’s why you have your own magic.”

“But that means I’m all alone.” Grimhelda’s eyes brimmed with tears.

Mirabelle glanced around, making sure they were far from prying eyes. "Tell you what, I'll come visit you regularly, then it will be like you do have a fairy godmother. How does that sound?”

The girl brightened up at that, and Mirabelle grabbed her into a hug. “Aw my pet, fairytales aren’t easy for anyone.”

“Fairytales suck.” Grimhelda’s voice was muffled against the fairy’s shoulder.

“But we don’t have a choice but to live by them.” Mirabelle stepped back. “And now I really have to dash. I shouldn’t have booked two namings back to back. Bad enough that I…"

“Screwed up the first one?" Grimhelda asked, grinning.

“Hush now.”

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone.”

"Thanks, pet.”

Grimhelda gave a wicked grin, a flash of the queen she would become. “People are too stupid to think for themselves and notice, anyway.”

Mirabelle frowned. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

Grimhelda shrugged. “What, it’s true.”

Mirabelle patted her cheek. “I’ll be back to see you soon." When Grimhelda’s eyes filled with worry again, Mirabelle paused. “And once your storyline truly starts, once you marry the king, if you need me you can call for me, and I’ll come to you. It will be fine, Grimhelda. All will work out.”

And the fairy godmother winked out.

 

CHAPTER 1

The knock at the door was discreet, deferential. "Your Royal Highness?"

Grimhelda was sprawled across her bed, still in her nightdress, a thick book open in her hands. Several piles of books were scattered across the foot of her bed, with more books on the floor. The room was opulent, with silk drapes at the window and gilding on the furniture. An inordinate number of mirrors covered the walls, with an additional triptych at the vanity and a selection of silver handheld mirrors on the nightstand.

Grimhelda didn't like having so many mirrors, but it couldn't be helped. A wicked queen, especially one as beautiful as her, was supposed to preen and be obsessed with her appearance.

She turned the page, ignoring the knock at her door. It came again, a little more insistent. "I know you're there, Royal Highness." The last was added in irritatingly polite and gracious tones, the kind that set her teeth on edge.

Grimhelda made an angry huffing sound, throwing herself back on her bed, book against her chest.

"What, Bradford?" she snapped.

The door opened and a small, neat man entered. He wore a sober midnight blue suit with a discrete gold pin at his breast to indicate that he was her chief adviser. His hair was hidden beneath a tidy grey wig, the pouches beneath his eyes speaking to the late and sleepless nights he spent poring over the finance ledgers. "There are issues with the village mill."

Grimhelda sighed. "There's always an issue with the village mill."

"It's all the snow and ice," Bradford said carefully.

"Yes, yes. I know. The snow and ice that descended on the kingdom ever since I became the Wicked queen." She threw Bradford a look. "I wasn't supposed to rule for this long. I was supposed to swan in, be beautiful and vapid and mean for a few years. Then Snow was supposed to meet a prince, gets married, Happy Ever After, all the snow and ice disappears, and I get booted out into retirement."

Bradford cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Yes, your Royal Highness." He never liked it when she referred to things in such a straightforward manner.

"I don't want to rule, Bradford. In fact, I’m not meant to rule. I'm meant to say that 'less is more', or 'thin is in', or 'if they can't make bread, then let them eat cake'. Preferably while wearing a negligé that’s worth more than a year’s income for a villager.”

"Yes," Bradford said.

"I'm not supposed to be the good one," Grimhelda added. "I'm the wicked one, and I'm very good at it. It's not my fault the good one is so useless at playing her role."

"Yes," Bardford said.

"It's not my fault that my reign is lasting way longer than it should. I didn’t want this, nobody wanted this.”

"Yes," Bradford said.

"Oh my goodness, man!” She set her book aside, throwing her hands in the air. “Stop harassing me in this way. Fine, fine. You win! I'll go sort out this mill issue. But you better make sure nobody knows about it. If anyone hears that I fixed the mill, I will wring your throat myself."

"Absolutely." Bradford smiled broadly.

“I mean it Bradford. If I hear the slightest good thing said about me, I will roast your feet over the fire.”

“Of course.”

“I will douse you with honey and feed you to the ants. I’ll have you paint the castle’s spiky gate with your tongue. I’ll turn you into a toad and have your pustules squeezed daily for poison for my potions.”

“Quite so, Your Royal Highness.”

“I will turn you into a flea and send you to live on the back of a cantankerous swamp beast.”

“You can rest assured, Highness, that I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“I hope not,” Grimhelda groused. “I worked damn hard to build my reputation to this point, and it’s not for people to suddenly start thinking well of me.”

“Of course not.”

“In fact after I’m done you should tell the people that the queen has spent all their taxes on anti-wrinkle cream.”

“I will say that to the exact word. Might I suggest the addition of a facial made of goblin snot?”

Grimhelda wrinkled her nose. “Ew! Is that a thing?”

“Apparently so. I’m told of another beautiful witch trying to keep her looks, and she swears by them.”

“What do you mean “also trying to keep her looks”?”

“Err, I mean that unlike your beauty which is completely natural, she’s having to resort to all kinds of concoctions.”

“Well done, Bradford, good save.”

“Thank you, Highness.”

“And yes, you may tell the people that I slather goblin snot on my face.” Grimhelda turned her attention back to her book, flicking back to her page.

“Of course. So… does that mean Your Highness will take a look at the mill?”

Grimhelda shut her book with a huff. Such a good book, too. She shuffled to the edge of her bed and clambered out. It was a tall bed, although not as tall as the pea princess’s, of course.

Bradford beamed. “Thank you Highness. You’ll also be pleased to hear that Snow Is White has a visitor.”

Grimhelda spun around, her nightdress whirling around her. “A visitor? Is it a prince?”

“…Yes.”

“And you waited this long to tell me? This could be a potential suitor!” She sprinted out the door.

"What about the mill?" Bradford called.

“It can wait!” Grimhelda shouted over her shoulder as she rushed out into the corridor. “In the meantime just tell the people that thin is in and to eat cake!”

CHAPTER 2

Grimhelda's feet slapped along the bare stone corridor floor. She reached the door that led to her tower and flung it open. As she did every time she had to climb the stairs of the tower, she cursed the need for her magic mirror to be locked so high up. What was wrong with the ground floor? Or better yet, a room adjoining her own bedroom? Why did her magic mirror have to be stuck at the top of a cold, dank, and draughty tower?

The stairs turned up and up, a steep corkscrew. Grimhelda flew up at first, one hand light on the rope handrail that was threaded through iron rings screwed into the stone wall, but she rapidly slowed, growing out of breath. She paused long enough to give herself a little boost with her magic, before sprinting up the stairs once more.

"I am moving this bloody mirror," she muttered as she reached the top of the tower.

The room should have been locked, but nobody came up here, so she’d long stopped bothering. Nobody in their right mind would climb those stairs. And what for, anyway? For everybody else, it was a large and mostly empty circular room, cold and hostile. Bare stone walls, bare stone floor. No windows.

A single, huge mirror leaned against the wall to the left, held in an intricate silver frame. The mirror part was silvered with age, the frame beautiful in a dark and gothic way.

It was the only furniture, save for the little corner of the room Grimhelda had put together for herself, with a small fireplace, two chairs, a rug, a small table with a couple of books—just in case she fancied reading after gazing into her mirror. The cozy nook was small enough that the room generally speaking remained as dark and inhospitable as it was supposed to be, and it was hidden from prying eyes by her magic. But at least this way she still had a little corner just for her. It felt like a preview of her retirement cottage once Snow was married. Grimhelda still hadn’t given up hope.

Grimhelda ignored her nook for now, rushing across the cold stone floor, not even noticing the icy chill that was leaking up into the soles of her feet.

"Show me Snow!" she called to the mirror. It didn’t reflect her or the room, the surface dark. The glass absorbed light rather than reflected it.

A pale ghostly face appeared in the mirror, like a lidless, hairless, lipless version of her own. It was frightful to look at. "Don't talk to me that way," it snapped. "You know very well I like to be spoken to properly.” And then the face disappeared.

"Oh, for crying out loud," Grimhelda shouted, stamping her foot. "Stop with your theatrics right now, and show me Snow. She has a visitor—I have to see what's going on."

"You know the way I like to be spoken to," the mirror's voice rang out as if from far away. The face didn't reappear.

Grimhelda rolled her eyes. "Mirror mirror, on the wall —"

"You haven't been a fairest for a while," the mirror interrupted gleefully, the pale face reappearing, bearing a grin. "And you’ve gain two pounds."

“Do we really have to do this every time?" Grimhelda asked.

"It's the ritual," the mirror replied primly. “I like rituals. They contain things.”

"Fine. So now that you've insulted my appearance, can you show me Snow?" Grimhelda kept her tone flippant, but she discreetly gestured with her right index finger to hide those extra two pounds from her stomach and hips and give her face a little freshening, just to be safe.

She was embarrassed that her mirror's needling got to her, but she couldn't help it. She knew her perfect looks were only temporary, but she wanted them to last as long as possible. She was thirty-five, an unspeakably old age for a wicked queen. Most lost all their looks by the time they reached thirty, relegated to retirement and disappearing into the blissfully forgotten part of fairytale history.

"Your wish is my command," the mirror replied.

The darkness and the pale face disappeared, replaced with an image of Snow walking in the rose garden alongside a handsome young man.

It still never failed to amaze Grimhelda that she had a stepdaughter. They were only ten years apart, so Grimhelda thought of Snow Is White as more of a younger sister than a stepdaughter, but in moments like these, she was painfully aware that she was a stepmother with an important role to play in her stepdaughter’s life.

Snow was every bit as beautiful as she’d been blessed to be. Flawlessly pale skin, like cream and alabaster and, well, snow. Ruby red lips. Dark, gleaming hair, like raven wings. It hadn't been easy for Grimhelda to see her own beauty gradually eclipsed by Snow, but it was inevitable. This was her role, to be the most beautiful in the land until her stepdaughter outshone her.

In her more petty moments, Grimhelda found Snow's beauty boring. Too expected. Too...by the book. Yes, she had teeth like little pears, and hair that gleamed, and features that seemed to have been designed to inspire painters into creation. But still. Too perfect. A tad boring. Lacking in personality. Like Snow herself, in a way.

Grimhelda could be catty when in a bad mood, which often coincided with someone forcing her out of her book and back into the real world.

But right now wasn’t the time to be catty. This was possibly the moment she had waited for all these years. And even she had to admit that Snow looked radiant. It was a beautiful winter's day, with a crisp blue sky and bright sunlight that only emphasised the perfection of Snow's features, the shininess of her hair, the lush fullness of her lips.

The young man next to her equally as handsome. Blond to her dark hair, bronzed skin to her paleness, a golden boy, in short. They made a beautiful, contrasting match that was guaranteed to produce a beautiful baby.

And they were taking a turn about the rose garden! Why, that was the most auspicious sign Grimhelda had seen in a long time. She peered at the mirror intently.

It was very hard being a wicked queen and an obstacle to someone's Happy Ever After, when that someone didn't seem to care one whit about the Happy Ever After. How on earth was Grimhelda supposed to be an obstacle to something that simply wasn't happening? She couldn't get in the way of nothing. She needed Snow to fall in love with a prince, or for a prince to fall in love with Snow, so she could scheme and block and in short provide all the Impossible Odds, so the prince would overcome them and marry Snow.

These days, though, Grimhelda had completely given up on the idea of being an obstacle. Instead, she worked hard behind the scenes, trying to move Snow in the direction of a prince, any prince. She’d have paid a prince to marry her, if such a thing was done. But it was not done, and anyway, these days she was pretty broke, having dutifully squandered the kingdom’s money as her role dictated. Had she known, she’d have held back funds for the bribing of Snow’s future husband. Still, maybe all was not lost. Maybe Snow would snag herself a husband all by herself.

Grimhelda was so damn tired of ruling over a kingdom she had never asked for and didn't want. She wanted the retirement that was hers by right — as soon as the Happy Ever After happened she would lose her looks and be forced to disappear. That would mean blissful anonymity, peace and quiet, and more importantly, lots of books, and the cat and tea set she’d dreamt of as a little girl.

Of course, the idea of losing her looks made her feel more than mildly panicked, the importance of her beauty having been drummed into her since birth. She liked being beautiful. She liked the looks in people’s eyes when they saw her for the first time. The desire in men, the envy in women. Well there was desire in some women’s eyes, too. She felt visible, important. Valued. The idea of becoming invisible and ignored was scary, even if she knew that way lied her happiness.

In any case, there could be no avoiding it. Losing her looks was her fate, and, as she kept reminding herself, the prospect of all the books made becoming plain bearable.

“I want to hear them,” she ordered the mirror

"The garden is beautiful.” The prince’s voice echoed out of the mirror as if he were just in front of Grimhelda.

He and Snow ambled pleasantly among the snow-dusted roses.

The rose garden was the crown jewel of the Palace grounds. Ruby red roses lightly and perfectly dusted with snow, interspersed with magic ice roses that twinkled and gleamed in the sunlight, never melting. On a sunny day the rose garden gleamed and shone as if made from jewels. On a cloudy or snowy day it was a beautiful mystery, shrouded in mist.

"Yes it is beautiful,” Snow replied.

"Come on, Snow, would it kill you to show a little charm?" Grimhelda muttered. “What kind of conversation is that? Flirt with him a little, at least.”

Snow and the prince walked a little further in silence. Grimhelda squirmed at the awkwardness she could feel emanating from the prince, even from such a distance, even from within the mirror.

"I was curious about your name," the prince said at last. "Snow Is White. It's unusual to have a verb in a name."

"But snow is white."

"Yes, it is. But... It's unusual for a name, no?"

"I don't think so. Snow is white. The sky is blue. The sun is shining."

"Um, yes." The prince fell silent, not that Grimhelda could blame him. There wasn't much that could be answered to Snow's statements.

"There is a cloud in the sky," Snow announced suddenly.

"Oh...yes," the prince replied, looking up. He glanced around the garden. "Is your stepmother a wicked queen?"

Grimhelda's heart thumped. Was he evaluating the obstacles he would have to marry Snow?

But Snow was still looking up at the sky. "Now the cloud is passing over the sun."

"Yes, I can see that," the prince answered. "I was asking about your stepmother."

"Come on, Snow," Grimhelda said. She gripped the mirror's frame, wishing she could do something. But she was not presentable right now, and she feared that by the time she got the servants to dress her, it would all be over. And in any case the last time she had intervened in person, the idiot prince had been so taken with her, he’d wanted to marry her rather than Snow. He’d been so insistent, Grimhelda had turned him into a frog to get rid of him.

So now she no longer intervened in her normal appearance.

"And now the cloud has passed," Snow continued, still looking up at the sky.

The prince shifted awkwardly and looked around him, as if seeking a reason to walk away.

Grimhelda release the mirror and sighed. There wasn't much need to watch much longer, she had a pretty good idea of how things were going to go.