The iron door creaks open, and the guard shoves me into the dim chamber. My shackles clink, their enchanted metal sapping my magic. I glare at him, my green eyes glowing beneath a tangled mane of black hair. He avoids my gaze, muttering a protective charm under his breath.

“Sit, hag,” he snaps, securing my chains to a rusted floor ring. “Your lawyer’s here.” He spits the word like a curse before retreating.

A figure emerges from the shadows—a man in a velvet trench coat, his smile sharp as a sickle. His scent is cloying: burnt sugar and deceit. No fear. Only ambition.

“Ms. Thorn,” he purrs, placing a business card on the rotted table. Mr. G, Esq. Narrative Alchemist. A golden spindle gleams in the corner. “I’m here to spin straw into gold for your… unfortunate situation.”

I snort. “I curse princes. I don’t hire them.”

“Ah, but princes hire me.” He leans in, eyes glinting. “The charges are dire: poisoning apples, kidnapping children, that unpleasantness with the oven…”

“They trespassed,” I hiss. “The girl volunteered to check the bread.”

Mr. G waves a hand. “Semantics. The court sees a monster. I see… a misunderstood outcast.” He produces a parchment contract. “Sign, and I’ll rebrand you as a persecuted herbalist. A single mother driven to desperation by village bigotry.”

I stiffen. Single mother. The words claw at a memory I’ve buried: a tiny grave in the woods, unmarked.

He notices. “Tragic backstories sell, my dear. We’ll host tearful interviews. Crowdfund your ‘innocence.’ You’ll walk free, and I’ll take 60% of the book deals.”

My fingers twitch. Freedom. A cottage without mobs at the door. No more curses hissed at my back. But then—

“What of the children?” I rasp.

He blinks. “What of them?”

“The ones I did lure. The ones who mocked my scars.” My voice cracks. “I’m guilty, lawyer. I’d do it again.”

Mr. G’s mask slips, revealing frustration. “Don’t be a fool! Play the victim, or hang at dawn!”

The chamber falls silent. I see my reflection in his polished shoes: a haggard woman, yes, but not broken. Not ashamed.

“You’re right,” I say softly. “I’m no victim.”

His grin returns. “Splendid! Let’s—”

“I’m a witch.” I stand, chains rattling. “I own my curses. My rage. My grief. If I want redemption, I’ll earn it—not buy it with lies.”

He slams the table. “You’ll die!”

“Then I’ll die as myself.”

The door bursts open. Guards drag him out, sputtering about wasted potential. As they lead me back to my cell, I whisper a spell—a small one, just enough to wilt the roses in the courthouse garden.

Let them hate, I think. But let them see me true.

In the end, stories outlive us all. Mine won’t be a fairy tale.

But it will be mine.