The doors of the royal chamber creaked open and out rolled the crown of the king. The bedazzled coronet came to stop at the feet of the courtier. He picked it up, examining it—the emerald and sapphire jewels were intact; a streak of blood across its gold.
Something new bumped the courtier’s foot. He glanced down and leapt back.
The king’s head lay before him, staring up at nothing, a visage of disbelief, horror, his blood-soaked mouth twisted into a frenzied scream.
From the royal chamber, a young woman appeared, walking, carefully, almost floating. Behind her, she dragged a sword. The blade left a thin trail of blood. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, the fabric falling and exposing her flesh. There were scratches dug into her chest.
‘Princess,’ said the courtier, looking her over and at the scarlet stained sword she dragged. He backed away.
The girl nodded and took the crown from him. She affixed it atop her head. ‘A beauteous fit,’ the Princess declared. ‘If a bit gaudy and splendiferous.’
She placed the sword in the courtier’s trembling hands, the blade smearing royal blood on his palms. ‘Have this cleaned,’ ordered the Princess. She looked down to the king’s ruined head. ‘Have that burned.’
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