Chapter 13

[Third pov, ]

As Clara was still a child, her daily duty included filling water in the palace's water pots. Although this task seemed simple, it proved challenging for a young girl to carry water to every room and ensure each pot remained filled. She needed to check the pots regularly, refilling them as necessary. Additionally, she was responsible for tending to the small gardens scattered throughout the palace. This work kept her in close contact with water throughout the day, yet remarkably, she managed to avoid falling ill despite her prolonged exposure. The labor itself provided her with ample exercise, contributing to her robust health. This day was no exception.

However, as Clara diligently filled a pot, she unexpectedly stumbled, leading to a disastrous result. The pot shattered into numerous pieces, leaving Clara drenched. As her eyes scanned her surroundings, she spotted Mitchell, whose sinister smile betrayed her true intentions. Unbeknownst to Clara, it was Mitchell who had orchestrated the accident by pushing the stool Clara had been standing on. This resulted in the pot breaking and the carpet being soaked.

Seizing the opportunity, Mitchell confronted Clara, berating her for the mess she had created and vowing to deduct the cost from her mother's salary. Despite Clara's pleas, Mitchell remained unmoved by her appeals, driven by a desire to torment her further. Mitchell's resentment lingered even though Clara had since cut her hair short. She harbored a deep-seated animosity and aimed to intensify her mistreatment.

Upon learning of the impending salary deduction, Windy Brown, Clara's mother, was furious. Frustrated, she sought out Clara and took her to a secluded corner, venting her anger through physical violence. Clara suffered a barrage of slaps and shoves, her explanations falling on deaf ears. Windy's judgment was swayed by Mitchell's words, ignoring Clara's perspective and emotions. Her sole concern was her salary and her employer, Mitchell.

"This incompetent girl can't complete even one task properly. Her actions have cost me a significant portion of my earnings, and now Princess Mitchell is displeased with me. How can I regain her favor and the radiant smile that accompanies it?" Windy muttered in frustration as she hastened toward the kitchen to resume her duties.

Unbeknownst to Windy, Clara had incurred a cut on her palm from the broken pot, an injury that went unnoticed or deliberately ignored by her mother. Windy's callous treatment remained consistent with her usual behavior.

On the day of the festival, excitement reverberated through the capital. The festival was inaugurated with a royal announcement, accompanied by the triumphant blast of trumpets from all directions. The entire capital was alive with festivities, people dancing joyfully in the streets.

The highly anticipated Golden Ball was a focal point of the festivity, offering an opportunity for attendees to revel in dance and lavish celebrations.

Clara accompanied Miss Lillian to the festival, while Windy Brown remained at the palace, burdened by increased responsibilities due to the festivity. Windy had also scheduled a late-night meeting with the witch Grey, compelling her to complete her tasks efficiently and discreetly depart the palace before dawn. She intended to return and resume her duties before her absence was noticed. The fest's demands had imposed overtime on the palace's maids and workers.

Curiously, Windy's urgent meeting with the witch involved more than just her own fate, prompting her to offer her friend a portion of her earnings to cover for her absence—a rarity for someone as frugal as Windy. The gravity of the situation was apparent as she sought the witch's assistance, risking her employment for reasons undisclosed.

At the stroke of midnight, Windy Brown left the palace, making her way to an old tree where she awaited the witch's arrival. After a tense wait, the witch, Grey, materialized out of thin air atop her magical broomstick, landing before Windy. The abrupt appearance startled Windy, heightening her trepidation.

"Are you prepared?" the witch inquired.

"More than prepared, but please make it swift and less painful than the last time. I need to return to the palace and resume my duties," Windy replied, a mix of anxiety and urgency evident in her voice.

Acknowledging the potential benefits of the upcoming ritual, the witch agreed to Windy's terms, extracting a small quantity of blood from Windy's arm with minimal pain. She collected the blood in a black jar, sealing it. Almost instantaneously, the area became shrouded in a magical fog, obscuring Windy's vision and muffling sounds. The fog enveloped Windy, leaving her unable to see the witch, who remained standing just a few feet away. She could only hear the incantations as the witch worked her magic. After an hour, the fog dissipated, revealing Windy holding four tiny, enchanted balls. The witch vanished once again, leaving Windy to herself. Frustratingly, Windy realized that her wallet was missing—apparently, the witch had not forgotten to claim her payment.

Despite her annoyance, Windy's commitment to Mitchell outweighed her concerns about her missing money. A few vials of her blood seemed like a small price to pay. She hurriedly returned to the palace, dutifully administering one of the enchanted balls to Mitchell. The next day, she repeated the process, offering her a second ball. The remaining two balls, resembling medicine, were reserved for the full moon night.

Mitchell, curious about the concoction, inquired about its nature. Windy brushed it off as a tonic for health, a lie that Mitchell accepted without suspicion. The reason for this monthly ritual remained obscure, but Mitchell's unwavering trust in Windy prevented her from questioning further. The ball had shown no discernible side effects, further cementing Mitchell's belief in its medicinal properties.

The fest itself ushered in an atmosphere of jubilation, causing the palace security to be heightened. Troops stationed at the borders were summoned to the capital to provide security for the fest and the palace. Prominent figures from various realms had gathered, necessitating stringent security measures to ensure a safe and joyous celebration.

Amidst the dimly lit room, Grey's enigmatic smile concealed the depth of her wicked intentions. The mirror, its surface obscured, seemed to hold an image that wasn't quite clear. The figure in the reflection posed a question to the grey witch, seeking answers from the depths of her sorcery.

"I've told you, Blare," Grey's voice resonated, carrying an air of ominous wisdom. "That vile lady holds the answers to your liberation."

"Freedom?" Blare's voice trembled, blending sorrow and hope. "You're toying with my emotions, Grey. We both understand the curse that binds me, the unbreakable chains woven from someone's sacrificial despair."

A subtle sniffle escaped the witch as she rubbed her nose, her emotions momentarily laid bare. The image in the mirror regarded Grey, contemplating the significance of her gesture.

Observing the image's uncertainty, Grey chimed in, her tone confident. "Remember, I don't lie. You can trust what you see—my nose is the proof."

In response, a melodious laughter erupted from the mirror's depths, carrying an aura of joy that resonated with its confined existence. The laughter painted a vivid picture of the image's exuberant spirit, as if it roamed freely within the boundaries of the reflective glass.

"I'll soon break free of this mirror grasp, Grey," the image declared with determination. "Tell me the precise sequence of events, Grey. What actions did you take? Who is that mysterious lady, and why does she offer her blood? I demand to know every detail."

In response to the image's insistence, the grey witch's fingers snapped sharply. Doors swung shut with a resounding thud, windows latched themselves tightly, and even the chimney above was sealed. The mirror and the grey witch, in eerie unison, leaned closer, their whispers carrying an air of secrecy. "Remember," Grey's voice murmured, "walls have ears as well. I shall divulge all."

A shared laughter rippled between the mirror and the grey witch, a momentary connection forged through their intrigue. Grey began to weave the tale of Princess Clara's birth, describing how she and the enigmatic lady, Wendy, had schemed to switch her newborn daughter with the true Princess Clara. Wendy's magic altered the stolen child's appearance, yet the real princess's eye color remained unchanged.

"However," Grey confessed, "there was a flaw in the spell."

The mirror image, curious and perplexed, interjected, "A drawback? This word has never been in your vocabulary before, Grey. Did you play a cunning trick on them?"

"The drawback," Grey elucidated, "was that on every full moon, both the stolen child and the real Princess Clara experienced excruciating pain in their right thighs. The pain was so severe that it left them physically weakened."

The mirror image's curiosity deepened as it pressed further, "So, did you provide a remedy for them?"

Grey's response carried a weight of complexity, "No, the remedy was not for both of them. It was exclusively for the imposter Princess. Her mother, the mysterious lady, would visit before every full moon to offer her own blood, from which I crafted a medicine to ease her daughter's suffering."

The mirror image, identified as Blare, reflected upon the unequal fate that had befallen the two girls. "So, only one of them is spared from the agony, while the other continues to suffer," Blare mused, her empathy evident in her words as she felt genuine sorrow for the innocent child.

Grey's voice, laden with a mix of conviction and regret, cut through the somber air. "Blare, I've said it before and I'll say it again: the sacrifice you made for those creatures, for that little girl, is it truly worth it? The scales of justice tip unevenly. In the end, both you and that girl have been unwittingly sacrificed to a world of shadows and secrets."

"I despise that king with every fiber of my being, Blare. The fact that he turned a blind eye when he had the power to help us burns deep within me," Grey seethed with resentment.

Blare's response carried a hint of understanding. "Grey, I've always known your feelings towards this matter."

"Blare, you misunderstand," Grey's voice grew colder, the emotion fading. "The one you once knew, that part of me, died long ago. My sole desire now is to liberate you from this prison." With a determined gesture, Grey extended her hand, summoning a broomstick with an air of authority. She mounted the broomstick and, with a swift snap of her fingers, windows flung open, allowing her to ascend into the sky.

"Grey, aren't you also guilty of involving an innocent girl in your schemes?" Blare questioned, her voice laced with a poignant mix of reproach and sadness.

Meanwhile, as Grey soared high over the forest, her anger and determination evident, a mishap struck. In her haste, she lost her grip on the broomstick, and it became entangled with a long tree branch.

The grey witch's frustration boiled over, her voice gritted with annoyance. "This is wretched luck!" She clenched her teeth, her attempt to disentangle herself from the tree branch verging on comical, as she found herself hanging in a manner reminiscent of laundry on a line.

Perched upon the tree branch, Grey's acute senses picked up on hushed whispers below. The murmurs revealed a sinister plan orchestrated by the vampire king. Her keen nose caught a scent that was unmistakably that of blood, despite the attire of the men resembling Manchester soldiers.

With a disdainful wrinkle of her nose, Grey realized that the soldiers were actually vampires, cleverly disguised in the uniforms of Manchester soldiers. In an attempt to discern their intentions, Grey whispered to her broomstick, invoking its assistance. The broomstick responded by flying closer to the ground, positioning itself to eavesdrop on the soldiers' conversation and unveil the secrets concealed within their sinister scheme.

Hidden amongst the branches, the grey witch waited with bated breath for her trusty broomstick to return and divulge the secrets it had gleaned from the soldiers' conversation.

The broomstick remained concealed behind a tree, its attentive "ears" attuned to the whispered words of the disguised vampires. The soldiers exchanged information, discussing the unsettling revelation that many vampires had assumed the guise of Manchester soldiers.

The broomstick's report unveiled a dark and nefarious plot hatched under the vampire king's command. The vampires aimed to disrupt a festive event and manipulate the situation to their advantage. They intended to spark conflict by orchestrating events that would frame the humans of Manchester, prompting the other creatures to view them as warmongers. This scheme would expose the vampires' true nature, revealing the malevolent beings they truly were. The whispered conversation painted a grim picture of deception, manipulation, and a power play that threatened to plunge the realm into chaos.

As one of the vampires suddenly grew aware of a lurking presence, he cast an apprehensive gaze behind a nearby tree, detecting nothing amiss. Sharing his unease with his comrade, they quickly realized the urgency of their task—to inform their fellow vampires about the unfolding plan.

Meanwhile, Grey's broomstick returned to her, recounting the details it had overheard. The vampires' sinister plot was unveiled: they aimed to disrupt the festivity while framing both the Manchester king and the grey witch. The broomstick conveyed the malevolent strategy—by sowing discord between the Manchester king and his allies and tarnishing the grey witch's reputation, the vampires hoped to eliminate two potential threats with a single move.

The revelation exposed the vampires' intricate plan to manipulate alliances, incite chaos, and consolidate their power. The unfolding events where both the Manchester kingdom and the grey witch will found themselves ensnared in a dangerous game of deception.

Fueled by anger and frustration, Grey's emotions manifested in the darkening sky and the rumbling of thunder. Her mood had soured considerably upon learning of the vampires' deceitful plans.

A sense of determination fueled her response. "Let's see who has the upper hand, Andrew Charles Vygotski," Grey sneered, her voice dripping with a mix of defiance and mischief. The mere mention of the vampire king's name was infused with an air of challenge.

Resettling herself onto her broomstick, Grey's tone shifted as she whispered, "I suppose luck isn't entirely against me." Her words held a glimmer of hope and

resolve, suggesting that she was ready to face the impending storm, both literally and figuratively.