The wizard found himself in the very uncomfortable position of actually defending her father, of all people. “Well, it’s not like it was that kind of assault, princess.”

Her eyes darkened slightly. He disappointed her somehow. “What must happen for it to be that level of assault?”

This was not the conversation he wanted to be having with his newly cursed, royal captive. “Look, princess—“

“Last week,” she ignored him and continued, “do you know what my uncle did?” She looked out over the forest that lined the road. “The young earl of Stonebreak shot my uncle’s stallion during a hunt. It was an accident, of course, but it happened never the less.” She sighed, her shoulders rising with the effort. “For such violence against one of his prized possessions, my uncle challenged him to duel. He beat the young earl to a bloody pulp.”

She gazed back at the wizard once again. “Which do you think is worth more? A horse or a soon-to-be queen?”

“That’s…those are completely different…”

“Let me ask you another, Sir Wizard.”

He really wished she wouldn’t.

“One of my father’s noblemen had his fine fur ruined by a bottle of wine. It doesn’t matter how, exactly. More that he raged and he screamed and he punched a servant in the face. His fellow noblemen applauded him. It was a good punch, after all, and a fine fur. Do you think they would’ve applauded my mother, had she punched the Duke?”

“It’s entirely different, my dear.”

“I suppose. After all, they all marveled and praised her poise, her calmness, the way she smiled at the man who committed such violence against her. Look at how elegant she is, they said. How womanly.”

That gaze darkened again, something sharp and cutting in the edges. “She can’t rage. She can’t scream. She can’t punch. She can’t be angry.” Her voice grew just as cutting. “I can’t be angry. The woman in the factory paid half her male peers can’t be angry. The abandoned mother with a new child on her hip can’t be angry. It’s unbecoming, this feminine rage.”

She drew to her feet, still shorter than him but somehow suddenly so much bigger. “You see, Sir Wizard, I already hate. I am filled with hate for this world that sees more worth in a stallion than a woman. More worth in a fur than a girl. Who tells us to be silent and smile and appreciative, who tells us our worth is in how politely we can withstand being taken and taken and taken. Our value is seen in what little we can say, not how much we can do. Hate? I am so full of it that it strangles me.”

He could see it now—a fire in her eyes, iron in the set of her jaw, a consuming rage hidden behind silks and ribbons and a lifetime of ruthlessly instilled manners.

He blinked in shock, in her open emotion, the way it made him want to look away. “But…but that’s just YOU hating. To break the curse, someone must hate you back.”

Her smile was cold. “A society that values me as less than a horse already hates me, Sir Wizard. I am not even fully human to them, just a prop expected to act a certain way and to be acted upon only in the manner most convenient.”

She brushed off the dusk from her dress and started to step back in the direction of the city, ready to walk her way home.

“Your curse was broken the moment it was made.”

[honestly didn’t even know there’s a character limit on here. I’m a little half high on medication so idk if this story says what I intend, but at least my brain is somewhat working so I consider that a win. My apologies for anyone who labors through this if it doesn’t make sense]

“Oh goodie,” she purred, eyes narrowing to slits, her grin growing, growing, tugging at the corners of a mouth that lengthened into a muzzle, a muzzle whose skin stretched and split and slide off in wet, dense masses, splattering onto the ground around her. Beneath, gleamed white, hard bone. Eyes turned from earthy brown to a starry night, flicks of sparks whirling and burning between the black.

She leaned down, forward, onto all fours, long fingers digging deep into the ground as she shook her head, her shoulders, loose bits of flesh and skin scattering across the grass and sliding down the bark of forest trees.

“I hate when my meals get interrupted,” she crooned, a voice strung from something deep down inside the earth, older than bones and shells and fossils.

The serial killer was right, though. No one did hear him scream. No matter how hard he tried, or for how long it went on for.

He always did pick the perfect spot for a murder.