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.