Tap Tap Tap
Her feet softly struck the moist soil beneath, each step a deliberate act of grace. She danced as if offered salvation, her movements a stark contrast to the carnage surrounding her. Her beauty was flawless—high, sculpted cheekbones and a nose that gave her face a regal air. Her lips, full and tender, evoked the first bloom of spring, now stained with the metallic taste of violence. Her hair, wild and untamed, fluttered in the heavy air, its fiery hue like molten lava flowing in the night.
It was a scene that might have brought peace—except this was no serene picture, but a nightmare. The soil was moist, not only from the rain but also from the blood that soaked the earth. In one hand, she held a sword, still dripping with crimson life, and in the other, she clutched the hem of her once-pristine dress. She danced her way to the center of the carnage, standing tall over her now lifeless family—each one slain by her own hands.
In fact, everyone lay lifeless: her family, her aide, her vassals, her servants, her people. Yet she smiled. Freedom, at last, was hers. In the midst of a dead world, she found a twisted sense of safety.
"Aah... how beautiful indeed..." she breathed. But something was amiss. Unknown to her, tears fell, staining her dress with sorrow's touch.
A cool breeze caressed her skin, carrying the scent of copper and the impending rain. She paused, her triumphant smile faltering... something felt wrong. Her free hand rose to her face, fingers tracing a path of moisture down her cheek, slowly making her realize... she had been crying.
Her sword slipped from her grasp, landing with a silent thud on the blood-soaked earth. Wide-eyed, she stared at her trembling hands, now both wet—one with tears and the other with blood. Her breath caught in her throat as the weight of her actions crashed down upon her.
In that moment, she transformed. The serene mask of victory cracked, revealing a storm of emotions underneath. The victorious dancer's silhouette was now replaced by a figure of despair and inner conflict.
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As the night deepened, so did the shadows across her face, leaving only a glint of unshed tears in the darkness... as in a distant space—
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The walls of an immaculate white chamber quivered with each deliberate strike, the sound eerily reminiscent of the protagonist's dance of death. In the center of this sterile sanctuary, an elderly figure worked tirelessly, her white-clad form a stark contrast to the blood-soaked field of moments ago. The surroundings offered a sense of comfort and serenity to the unsuspecting, much like the deceptive calm that had preceded the princess's rampage.
As her gnarled hands shaped the stone in front of her with ethereal precision, the once lifeless mound took form of a young princess. Each delicate feature emerged flawlessly—the high, noble brow, the sharp yet elegant cheekbones, the full lips forever set in a dignified smile that hid a tempest of emotions. Long, flowing hair cascaded down the statue's back, each strand seeming to have a life of its own, wild and untamed like the warrior's fiery locks.
The figure's silhouette captured the very essence of royal grace and beauty, a perfection that seemed to mock the limits of human artistry—and morality. As the elderly woman worked, an aura of ancient power pulsed through the room, infusing the stone with something more than mere craftsmanship. It was as if she were shaping not just stone, but destiny itself.
Abruptly, the rhythmic tapping ceased, plunging the room into an unsettling silence that mirrored the quiet aftermath of the princess's violent dance. The hooded figure stepped back, regarding her creation. She pushed back her hood, revealing a face etched with immeasurable age and unfathomable knowledge.
The old woman raised her hand with an eerie grace, her lips parted, and she whispered words so ancient and terrible that even the air seemed to shrink away. As she spoke, her face transformed, warping into a sinister expression. Devoid of any benevolence, it hinted at the true nature of this act of creation—not a gift, not a blessing, but a carefully crafted curse. Beautiful and terribly cruel in equal measure, just like the actions of the princess she had sculpted.
The statue stood, perfection incarnate, unaware of the malevolent purpose woven into its very being. In its polished surface, a faint reflection appeared—the image of a dancing figure, sword in hand, tears streaking down her cheeks. The sculptor's lips curled into a knowing smile, for she alone understood the tragedy she had set in motion.