Queen Evilia's scream shattered the silence of the palace, rattling the windows in their panes as if the very glass was quaking in terror.
"ORANGE! I'M STILL ORANGE!" she bellowed, her voice rising to a shrill pitch as she hurled a crystal decanter at the magic mirror that adorned her lavish dressing room. The mirror, in its usual way, deftly dodged the projectile, tilting its ornate frame with a grace that could only come from centuries of practice.
"Technically," the mirror mused, its voice tinged with a touch of amusement, "you're more of a 'sunset coral.' Quite trendy, I must say, in the coastal kingdoms."
Queen Evilia's left eye twitched dangerously. She swung her gaze to her chambermaid, who stood frozen in terror. "Marlene!" she shrieked, her voice now a hurricane of fury. "Cancel all court appearances! Summon every dermatologist, alchemist, and backstreet potion-seller in the kingdom! NOW!" She clutched her face, her fingers trembling as though she might peel off the offending color. "I look like I fell face-first into a bag of cheese puffs!"
The chambermaid, wide-eyed and anxious, scrambled to do the queen's bidding, but before she could even move, the queen's voice rang out again, more frantic this time. "What happened to my beauty? What will the kingdom say? My face is... it's a disgrace!"
Meanwhile, in the heart of the Dark Forest, far from the queen's tirade, Snow White sat at a crooked wooden table, wiping berry juice from her chin with the back of her hand. Around her, seven dwarves watched her with eager, expectant faces, each of them eyeing her like a hawk with a gift for her every word.
"So let me get this straight," Snow White said slowly, her brows furrowing as she took in the situation. "You want me to be your... head chef?"
Doc, ever the scholar, adjusted his spectacles, peering over them at Snow White with a look that suggested he had never questioned this arrangement before. "Head cook, head cleaner, and head rat-catcher," he explained as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "The position comes with room and board." He gestured to a pile of straw in the corner that was clearly a residence to several families of mice.
"Also," Sneezy chimed in with an unexpected cheer, "achoo! You have to name all the spiders! That one's Gregory—achoo!—and that big hairy one is Uncle Boris."
Snow White opened her mouth to protest, but before she could say anything, Grumpy slammed his tankard down with a clatter that could have startled the dead. "Either you cook, or you get out," he grumbled, glaring at her with narrowed eyes. "We ain't runnin' a charity for runaway princesses."
A long beat of silence passed. Then, with a sigh of resignation, Snow White grabbed an apron hanging from a rusty nail and tied it around her waist. "Where do you keep the paprika?"
Back at the palace, a shadowy figure slithered through the servant's entrance, her hunched form barely making a sound as she moved.
"Your Majesty," croaked the woman, who was wrapped in an intimidating array of black lace and rags that seemed to defy all logic in their opulence. "I hear you're in the market for... transformations."
Queen Evilia eyed the woman with suspicion, her gaze flicking over the stranger's warty nose, which seemed to pulse with a life of its own. "Can you fix this?" she demanded, gesturing to her vivid orange-tinged complexion. Her eyes were wild with desperation, the very corners of her lips trembling with a nervous tic.
The woman—who called herself Madame Zubrovka, though the queen doubted the authenticity of the name—leaned in so close that the queen could smell her musky perfume, a scent that seemed to combine moss and rotten flowers. "Ahhh, classic carotenoid overload," the witch murmured, her voice dripping with glee. "Too many enchanted carrots in your diet, I presume?" She sniffed the air with a satisfied air. "I can erase ten years and three skin tones for... say, five gold pieces per treatment?"
The queen recoiled, aghast. "Five gold—" she shrieked, and the sound of her outrage startled a flock of ravens perched on the castle's tower. "That's daylight robbery!"
Madame Zubrovka merely shrugged, unbothered. "Fine, then. Enjoy your pumpkin impression." She started to pack her vials back into her bag with the casualness of someone who had been rejected a thousand times.
"WAIT!" Queen Evilia's hand shot out to grab the witch's arm. "What... what exactly does the treatment entail?"
The witch's grin widened, revealing several missing teeth. "Oh, just a teensy blood sacrifice, some ground-up mermaid scales, and of course..." She pulled out a glowing syringe filled with an eerie green liquid. "My patented Bog-Water Botox™."
At the dwarves' mining camp, Snow White faced what could only be described as the culinary apocalypse. The "kitchen" turned out to be a soot-blackened alcove in the cave, decorated with:
One iron cauldron, which had most recently been used to melt goblin toenails, according to Grumpy.
A collection of wooden spoons, several of which had tooth marks, possibly from previous meals that had fought back.
And what appeared to be an entire family of salamanders residing in the spice cabinet.
"Right," Snow muttered, rolling up her sleeves. "How hard can mining camp cuisine be?"
Three hours later...
Dopey stared down at the smoking lump in his bowl, his expression one of genuine concern. "Is it supposed to... breathe?"
Snow winced as her "stew" emitted a soft whimper. "In my defense, the recipe said 'simmer until tender,' not 'until sentient.'"
Doc, ever the scientist, poked the mass with his fork. It squeaked. "What even is this?"
"Rabbit?" Snow guessed weakly. "Or maybe that weird mushroom Sneezy found. Or possibly Grumpy's left boot—I couldn't find it earlier."
Grumpy's eye twitched in silent fury. "That's it. You're on latrine duty for a week."
The dwarves were in the midst of heated debate about whether to bury or burn the meal when a loud, thunderous knock reverberated through the cave door.
Snow peeked through the cracks and saw the queen's huntsman standing awkwardly in the moonlight. He was a mountain of muscle, a man of few words, and he had the unfortunate habit of communicating primarily through grunts.
"Uh. Hey," he said, scratching his beard nervously. "Her Majesty sent me to kill you. Again."
Snow sighed deeply, leaning her forehead against the doorframe. "Let me guess—poison apple? Dagger? Good old-fashioned strangulation?"
The huntsman looked genuinely offended by the suggestion. "I'm a professional! I don't do strangling on weeknights." He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Look, between us? The queen's gone full fruit-loop. She's injecting swamp water into her face now."
Snow blinked, the words taking a moment to register. "She's what now?"
"Paid some witch a fortune to pump her full of Bog-Water Botox," the huntsman explained, visibly shuddering. "Her face doesn't move no more. Smiling? Frowning? All the same creepy blank stare. It's like talking to a wax mannequin."
At that moment, a crash came from inside the cave as the dwarves' argument over the sentient stew escalated into a full-blown food fight. The huntsman winced. "Anyway, I'm supposed to bring back your heart in this." He held up a tiny decorative jewelry box.
Snow arched an eyebrow. "That's barely big enough for a chicken heart."
"Yeah, well..." The huntsman shrugged nonchalantly. "Budget cuts. So here's what I'm thinking—I'll grab a pig's heart from the market, you stay hidden, and we all pretend this never happened."
Snow thought it over for a moment. "Throw in weekly updates about the queen's beauty disasters, and you've got a deal."
They shook on it just as Grumpy burst through the cave door, covered in what appeared to be sentient gravy. "WHO'S MAKING ALL THAT RACKET—oh." His gaze shifted to the huntsman. "You here to kill the princess or what?"
"Nah," said the huntsman, handing Snow a wrapped parcel. "Just delivering this."
Snow unwrapped the package to reveal seven tiny aprons. "Aww! You shouldn't have!"
"Wasn't me," the huntsman admitted, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "The magic mirror sent them. Said something about... 'improving workplace morale'?"
Back at the palace, Queen Evilia stood before the mirror, her face frozen in place. It was perfect—smooth, flawless, unnaturally perfect. Not a single wrinkle marred her porcelain complexion.
"Well?" she demanded, her voice tight with anticipation. "How do I look?"
The mirror took its time before responding, its voice dripping with careful diplomacy. "You look... smooth. Exceptionally smooth. Like a river rock. Or an egg."
The queen beamed—or at least tried to beam. Her lips barely moved, her expression frozen in place. "At last! Eternal beauty!"
Madame Zubrovka, having collected her payment, left with a sly grin playing at the corners of her mouth. "Just remember," she said over her shoulder, "no extreme temperatures, no strong emotions, and absolutely no smiling for six to eight weeks."
As the witch departed, Queen Evilia's smile immediately drooped into an unnatural frown. Or at least, she tried to frown. Her face remained eerily still.
"Mirror," she said slowly, her lips scarcely parting. "Why can't I... feel my nose?"
The mirror flickered nervously. "About that..."
Outside, a horrified scream echoed through the castle as Madame Zubrovka's carriage was suddenly engulfed in a brilliant flash of light and transformed into a pumpkin, rolling away at an alarming speed.