CH. 39 The Ugly Duckling Pretending to Be a Swan
The sun sinks low, spilling gold over the forest like someone tipped over heaven’s paint jar. Shadows stretch long across the floor of my cottage.
And that’s when it happens.
The air shifts — soft, electric. My skin prickles, and I know the curse is moving.
I take a deep breath, gripping the edge of the mirror. “Alright, Drew. Try not to turn into an existential crisis this time.”
Light spills from beneath my skin — first faint, then blinding. The air hums, the world tilts, and when the glow fades… I’m no longer the swamp witch who threatens mushrooms for growing crooked.
I’m her again.
The beautiful stranger.
Long, jet-black hair cascades to my waist, glossy as raven feathers. My skin gleams like moonlight poured over silk, not a single blemish in sight. Every line of my face smooth, balanced, infuriatingly perfect.
For a long moment, I just stare.
No disgust. No curse-fueled resentment.
Just… curiosity.
“Is this really me?” I whisper.
Leonardo blinks from his tank. “You look weird.”
“Thanks, Leo.”
Vivi tilts her furry little head. “You look like someone who charges for autographs.”
“Still me, then,” I sigh.
---
The gown waits folded neatly on my bed — the one the Supreme Witch’s coven had mended with starlight. I slip into it carefully, the fabric whispering secrets across my skin.
When I fasten the final clasp, it clings perfectly — regal, otherworldly, alive.
The reflection in the mirror makes me pause again.
“Alright,” I murmur. “You’ve got this. You’ve fought monsters, survived Seers, and babysat princes with egos taller than towers. You can handle one ball.”
I grab my cloak — a deep midnight blue — and pull the hood low over my head.
---
The forest hums as I walk, half-shadow, half-light. Every step crunches frost and leaves, as if the world itself is listening.
By the time I reach the edge of the Dark and Light Forest, the sky has deepened into violet. The village ahead glows with lanterns, laughter, and life.
I pull down my hood.
Gasps ripple instantly.
Carriages screech to a halt. Men drop their hats. Women whisper, eyes wide. Even the horses look mildly starstruck.
One driver actually trips over his own foot trying to bow.
“Oh my,” says a baker, clutching a tray of tarts. “An angel!”
“Hardly,” I mutter, but the words are swallowed by awe.
In minutes, there’s a line of carriages offering to take me to the palace. I pick one at random before someone tries to build me a shrine.
The driver stammers the whole way. “Y-you must be some kind of royal— or goddess— or—”
“I’m just someone who’s very, very late,” I say.
---
When we reach the palace, it’s glowing. Lanterns like floating stars hang from every column. The music spills through the open doors, elegant and bright.
I step out of the carriage and realize something crucial.
I forgot a mask.
“Oh, perfect,” I mutter. “Everyone else gets to be mysterious, and I’ll just blind them with cheekbones.”
Then I smirk at my reflection in the carriage window. “Well. Beauty is a mask too, isn’t it?”
---
The ballroom doors open.
Warm light washes over me, gold and glitter and noise. Heads turn — slow, inevitable, like the pull of tides.
Every eye follows as I move through the crowd. Whispers ripple in my wake. I can almost taste them.
“Who is she?”
“Which house does she belong to?”
“Not one of ours, surely…”
Their curiosity feels heavy, delicious.
For once, I don’t shrink beneath it.
I own it.
---
And then—
“You came.”
The voice is low. Steady.
Too familiar.
I turn.
Sorien stands at the edge of the crowd, mask in hand. His eyes — sharp, dark, searching — catch mine, and for a heartbeat, the room vanishes.
He doesn’t know me. I can see it in the way his brows draw, as if he’s grasping for a memory that won’t come. But he can’t look away, either.
He steps closer, slow, careful, as though approaching a dream that might dissolve.
“You came,” he says again, quieter now, the words almost reverent.
“I did,” I say, smiling faintly. “Wasn’t sure I’d be allowed in.”
He shakes his head slightly. “Allowed? I think the palace just rearranged itself to make room.”
“Flattery?” I arch a brow. “Dangerous game, Your Highness.”
“Not flattery,” he says, gaze unwavering. “Observation.”
The music swells behind us, slow and rich.
He hesitates for half a second, then extends his hand. “Dance with me?”
I glance at it — steady, offered, open.
And I take it.
His fingers curl gently around mine, warm against the cool silk of my glove. As we step into the waltz, the crowd fades to a blur of color and sound.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like a witch or a curse or a secret.
Just a girl caught between heartbeats — and a prince who doesn’t realize she’s the chaos he’s already fallen into.