Snow White: A Dark Retelling (BOOK 2 In ???? Series)
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The fairy tales lied.
They sang of a girl with skin like snow, lips like blood, and hair like night. They whispered of poisoned fruit, a jealous queen, and a prince's kiss that broke the spell. A tale of innocence destroyed, only to be restored by love's pure light.
But that was never the truth.
Snow White was never delicate. Never sweet. Never the lamb led to slaughter. She was the wolf hiding beneath the veil of beauty, her smile sharpened into a weapon, her crown forged from thorns and ash.
When envy and betrayal cut deeper than any poisoned apple, Snow does not die-she awakens. And what rises from the grave is not a helpless princess, but a queen born of shadows, hungering for vengeance.
The huntsman, the dwarves, the prince, the queen-all pawns on her board, all pieces in her bloody game.
This is not the story they told you in lullabies.
This is the story they tried to bury.
The one drenched in darkness.
The one where Snow White saves herself.
The one where she rules.
And kingdoms will burn beneath her name.
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Lara, in this magical and enchanting world, nothing is a lie! So believe in fairy tales. This was the phrase my mother whispered to me every night with her gentle voice. When she read the story of "Jack and the Beanstalk," I would always curiously ask: • But why don't I have a magic bean that can take me wherever I want? She would smile kindly and keep hope alive in my heart. We all believed in magic and wizards as children, fairy tales, and Little Red Riding Hood! I wished I would never know the bitter taste of reality. But years after her death, I faced the harsh reality of the world; a reality I had always tried to escape. After my mother's death, her voice remained with me, inviting me to the bright world of hope; unlike many who grew up and no longer believed in any childish dreams. But I remained faithful to stories and the land of fairies, believing that destiny awaits us all! We are born into different tales and live with love. However, the bitterness of the world ensnared me in its grip. Just when I was only nine years old, I became acquainted with the bitter reality of life; when the snowy night arrived! I had never seen snow so terrifying and ugly. Because my mother was in bed, coughing up blood and taking her last breaths. A tiny bit of white snow had fallen from my woolen boots onto the ground, and when her hand hung limp, droplets of blood dripped from her fingers onto the snow, turning it red.
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