The Sovereign Fruit

The glass hall was silent, save for the slow, heavy drip of crimson pooling upon the black silk tablecloth. It did not bloom from a wound, but from the heart of the obsidian tiers, three mirrors of polished temptation stacked to touch the vault.

At the summit, she did not wear the crown; she grew from it. Her high white collar unfurled like cold porcelain petals from the skin of the topmost apple, her eyes fixed on the fractured gemstone embedded in the base below. Long ago, she had hunted a girl with skin like snow and lips like blood, trying to carve her away. But in the end, it was the Queen who was hollowed out. She had spun her envy into something smooth, brilliant, and utterly lethal. She was no longer a monarch waiting in the shadows with a curse. She had become the harvest, waiting for white hands to reach out and take a bite.