ㅤㅤname: Isadora.
ㅤㅤbirthdate: said to be october 31st.
ㅤㅤlegacy relatives: reader.
ㅤㅤstatus: alumni of School for Evil, current reigning queen of Esnan.
ㅤㅤtower: Mischief.
ㅤㅤfingerglow: wine red.
ㅤㅤspecial talent: controlling fire.
ㅤㅤpet: Blue (salamander; dead).

She was told her name means ‘a gift’. Isadora could only let out a snort every time she remembered about that. She clearly never felt like one. If she was a gift, why would her mother let the Elders take her?

She was so young when it happened. She couldn’t remember how her mother look like, all she knew about her mother was: she didn’t want her. She remembered the horror in her mother’s eyes, the loud shriek and the crying, though back then she didn’t understand what happened. Isadora just got back from her usual evening routine—chasing around neighborhood’s cats. Though that time, she came home with one of the cat—its corpse, to be precise.

That evening, the Elders came and took her away. They said she would be under a proper care—their proper care. Her mother didn’t even give another glance at her. The Elders gave her jewelries and other stuff—as a form of gratitude (for giving Isadora away? She couldn’t be sure) but her mother refused. "I want nothing that have anything to do with her” was all she said. They gave Isadora the ring. She still clutched into it sometimes.

Since then, she lived with the Elders in the church. Rumors had been spread like wildfires. By the end of the week, everyone already knew about what happened. They avoid her like she was a plague. Some were still nice to her, giving her food and clothes, until they saw her shooting down animals with her slingshot near the forest. She was already too good with knife by the age of five, this wasn’t normal. And this scared the people in Gavaldon.

If at first people were avoiding her, this time they avoid her and glare at her. They would close their windows and doors when she strolled around the town. They would hug their kids and rush them away when she was on sight. People would saw her flame-like hair and start to scream.

Isadora had learn how to give zero damn about that. The Elders raised her, hoping they could make her a better person, at least someone who wouldn’t try to mutilate animals or threatening to cook the villagers’ children. Under their care, Isadora was pretty much normal. Or so they thought. Then the Elders were ripped off from their position due to corrupt of power. Nobody batted an eye on what would happen to Isadora. One of the Elders rushed her out to a small cottage near the border of Gavaldon; near the forest.

She lived there since then, all alone. Eating scrapes she could find from villagers’ houses or simply staring at them until they got scared of her and give her their food. The hatred in Isadora’s eyes matched theirs. She was no longer afraid of them, not until some of the farmers stood up and tried to fight her. They called her things: monster, satan, witch. And witches weren’t welcome in Gavaldon, they only exist in tales. Witches are meant to be burned. Isadora locked herself in the cottage then, hunting wild rabbits for food.

And then the letter came.

Isadora accepted her invitation letter from School for Good and Evil, though she didn’t remember when did she apply to the school. But that didn’t matter. It was a sign of freedom. From this life, from this place. She could be someone she wasn’t. She could be a new person. With that and her mother’s ring, Isadora left the Gavaldon to the School for Good and Evil.

Gavaldon, sixteen years ago.

Dorothea met him in one bright night when the villagers were celebrating the last day of the year. It was a good year for the farmers, her father especially. The feast was held in Gavaldon’s town hall, people brought their best recipes and share them with one another. Eighteen years old Dorothea gazed at the clear sky wistfully. Around her, couples were dancing by the campfire. Her father had forbid her to date anyone that didn’t meet his standards.

Being the only child of the town's most respectable farmer, Dorothea practically raised like the princesses in books she used to read. Spoiled by her parents, loved by the peers. In exchange for it was her social freedom.

She wasn't picky in being friends with anyone, but girls of her age distanced themselves from her because their mothers keep on comparing them to her. Guys admired her from afar, not wanting to cross her father. In short, Dorothea had no one except for her parents.

Poor Dorothea never disobeyed her parents, nor did she ever try to question their decisions for her. But that night, for the first time, she wished she could be like the other girls, dancing with their boyfriends happily, not caring about what their parents might say.

She was eighteen, after all. Most girls in Gavaldon were sent off to marriage by the age of seventeen, some even being wedded when they were in their late fifteen. But her father hadn't find anyone he liked enough to be his son-in-law.

"A pretty girl being alone in celebration night is an act of crime.”

At first, she wasn't sure that was for her. Dorothea glanced to her side and found a redheaded, good looking man grinning at her. She guessed he was no older than her, perhaps twenty? But his face was unfamiliar. And that was ... strange. She knew almost everyone in Gavaldon and even if she didn't, it would be hard to miss a beautiful face like his.

"And are you here to rescue the girl from her crime?"

"Only if the girl would like to dance for one or maybe two songs."

"The girl would love that very much."

Dorothea didn't know what has gotten into her. She didn't know she possessed that much of confidence. And did she just flirt with him? But it wasn't the right time to think about all that.

The two of them danced around, blended themselves around the other couples. No one, not even her father, had noticed Dorothea was dancing with a man. And soon they got tired of dancing. Dorothea insisted for them to rest in her house, knowing nobody was there. Her parents wouldn't come home before the party was over.

"You're so beautiful, Dorothea, do you know that?"

She could feel herself blush. But then something else caught her attention. "How do you know my name? I don't remember telling you."

But he smiled oh-so-casually it made her think maybe her mouth slipped and gave him her name.

"Who are you?" she asked; her tone playful but she was curious too. It was as if he just appeared there, as if he never existed before.

"Would giving away who I am make you happy?"

"Maybe."

So he whispered his name in her ears. But it was too soft, not much than a hush. Five seconds later, she already forgot it. Because, well, you already know what’d happen next when two people were drunken by lust.

The next morning, Dorothea found herself laying on her own. There was no trace of the man she met last night. Except a strand of his flame-like hair and a little note beside her.

'Take a good care of her, count it as my little gift.'

She didn't recognize the handwriting nor did she understand what it meant.

The magic she felt when they were dancing the night before was gone. Now, fear was clutching onto her. Dorothea rushed to her father, she asked if he knew anyone with hair as red as the flame in their fireplace.

"Nobody has hair like that in Gavaldon," he replied. "Not that I know of." And her father knew everyone.

She stood as still as a stone. Dorothea decided to keep whoever or whatever that was last night as a secret.

Alas, the secret couldn't be kept for too long.

A couple of weeks later, Dorothea found out she had a child inside of her. This broke her father's heart, her mother's too. Whose child, they asked. But as she wept, Dorothea shook her head. Whose child, they asked again. And again, she shook her head, for she never knew who the man was. She was locked inside her house then. Her father died soon after, he couldn't bear the shame.

Almost ten months later, the child was born on all hallows’ eve. A girl with hair in flame-like color. A girl that reminded Dorothea of the man. A girl that reminded Dorothea of the note. Was she the little gift he mentioned? She wanted to laugh but all she let out was a painful scream.

Gavaldon, five years after the birth of Isadora.

Dorothea had done all she could to get rid of Isadora, but each of her attempt was failed because she didn't have the heart to actually kill her.

At first, she tried to love her. Isadora was her daughter, after all. But every time she saw her flame-like hair, it reminded her of the man who has tricked her. And she started to notice the strangeness of her child.

Isadora caught animals. In the beginning, it was insects—cockroaches, crickets, spiders, caterpillars, butterflies. And then she preyed on the birds, rabbits and cats. Not only she caught them, Isadora tortured (she plucked spiders' legs, cut butterflies' wings) and slaughtered the animals.

That was why Dorothea always let her play in the border of the woods alone; hoping maybe a bear or a lion or anything would eat her.

And there was one time, when she was not much of two years old. Dorothea had seen the baby crawled too close to the fireplace, but pretended as if she didn't notice anything. She hoped the girl would step in and be grilled by the fire. And Isadora was indeed, eaten by the flame, but she stayed in one-piece. On top of that, the baby was giggling. It was as if the fire didn't touch her. It was as if the fire embraced her.

On that very moment, Dorothea realized she had borne a monster.

That was why she let the Elders took Isadora away.

"I don't want anything that has something to do with her."

Gavaldon, almost by the time Isadora reached the age twelve.

Unfortunately (or fortunately?), the history of her mother never reached Isadora's ears. The Elders knew, of course, but they refused to say anything to the girl. They still believed they could change whatever-that-is in Isadora. Something that would made her be normal and less of a monster. But then they get ripped out of their positions. As one last request, they begged Stefan—the new Gavaldon's Mayor—to watch her out. Gave her food every once in a while. Stefan agreed on this. (He was a softie, he couldn't say no to abandoned children. Poor thing)

He didn't know much about what happened to Isadora, but seeing how almost everyone in Gavaldon tried to avoid her, he guessed it would be best if she was sent to somewhere else.

Unbeknownst to him—and everyone—Dorothea (whom by now had started a new life with a normal man and a normal family) secretly wrote an application letter to School for Good and Evil. She assumed the school would be the perfect place for Isadora.

And that was how Isadora got her invitation letter, the one that she found under her bedroom door.

School for Evil, Mischief's common room; few days after third year examination.

Isadora stared blankly at the fireplace. She couldn't sleep. Well, couldn't go back to sleep, exactly. Her nightmares were haunting her again. It was the usual.

Her getting paraded around the town before being chained to the ground with blocks of woods around her. She forced herself to wake up before her mother threw the torch to burn her. Her mother.

Three years of being busy with school had made Isadora forgot about her mother, though not completely. But nights like these were the worst. She would wake up in cold sweat and couldn't let herself back to sleep. Her nightmares made her feel weak and it angered her.

Just like the bandage on her palm. She had accidentally hurt herself when she played with the knife (but it was fun so it was worth it), and turned out the cut was too deep so it'd take time to heal. But it made her feel weak.

She inched closer to the fireplace, carefully unfolding the bandage. She threw it to the fire, before she realized the other end still attached to her palm. he waved her hand, trying to shake the bandage off. It wouldn't go.

Isadora started to panic when she saw the bandage was burning. With her left hand, finally, she took it off. Relief filled her in.

But then she realized something else. She was too close to the fireplace. And there was fire on the edge of her index. Her index was in flame.

Wait, what?

Isadora glared at her own finger, waggled it as if she wanted the flame to be gone. It was hard to believe. This wasn't like the Flammagrea spell she used to use in classes. This was real fire. But it didn't hurt her ... not even a bit. Isadora was sure she was hallucinating.

The mini flame stayed on her right index. She tried to touch it with her left one, she watched how the fire moved, and now there were two mini flames. Both fire stayed in each of her fingertips and they didn't hurt her.

Curious, she put her palm inside the fire. And immediately, the flames were dancing on her right palm.

"..."

This revelation made her think. It just occurred to her she never wait until her nightmares end. Why would she? She knew what was going to happen; she'd be burnt. That was what supposed to happen, wasn't it?

But right now, Isadora started to laugh before she remembered the wolves could hear her. It was so ridiculous. For years, she had try to avoid actual fire. Getting haunted by nightmares of being burned into ashes and waking up drenched in cold sweat. Only to find out today that she was immune to fire.

She rose from her seat, tiptoeing carefully without making a sound.

She made her way back to her chamber with a ball of fire on her palm.

Isadora smiled widely to no one as she opened her door. The newfound knowledge made her insides feel warm, as if she just finished a good cup of hot chocolate. She blew the fire off before resting herself her bed.

'Look, mother,' a wide, wicked happy smile spread across her face as she slid under her blanket, 'this witch couldn't be burnt.'

School for Good and Evil, School Master's Tower; the first class of Special Talents.

Isadora frowned as she read through the parchment paper from Master Caelum once again. The assignment was easy—at least that was how it sounded. They had to find out what their talent was, and practice with it. She could say it was easy because unlike the rest of the class—judging from the choruses of grumbles—she already knew what her 'talent' was. The practice part? Well, now that was what made her anxious.

She had little sleep throughout her third year holiday, all because she tried to find out more about her ability. The information she was able to gather was too much and too little at the same time. Yes, they were a lot, but they were hardly useful.

Not to mention she always tried her best to avoid showing it to other people. Right now, it was still her secret. Until she knew how she could control it, she didn't plan on telling anyone. And this class was supposed to help her finding out how to control it—or at least that was what she thought.

Her frown deepened with the next words from Master Caelum. He encouraged them to ask Castor for help, if they needed any. Isadora wasn't familiar with the name, which meant she needed to find out who Castor was first. So as soon as the School Master dismissed the class, she searched the whole two buildings (not including that shiny castle, of course) for this Castor he referred to.

School for Evil; five days after Special Talent class.

He was a dog, Castor. And he barked at her, not loud but still made her quite stunned. The conversation was short, but it helped her with the stuff she had on her mind.

The stuff being something she was planning to do tonight. As soon as Curses and Death Traps class finished, she rushed off from the deadly freezing class. One because she couldn't stand the cold anymore, two because she wanted to do the thing as soon as possible.

As she made her way back to her room, she grabbed some candles that were placed in some corners of the castle, used as source of lights.

She closed off her door, locking the latch she never used before since Mischief wasn't really crowded except by the wolves on patrol or the noisy crows and ravens, so she never really cared about intruders. Perhaps she should start to now. Her new nightmares had made her more anxious of people trying to kill her.
Isadora placed the candles on her table. She shut her eyes as she thought about hot, crackling flames like the ones that lit the common room's fireplace. She concentrated, hard. She could feel something inside her as if it was trying to get out. Something that usually came when she about to cast a spell. Magic, she thought. But nothing happened. Her finger started to glow, though.

"Flammagrea," she said finally with a huff of disappointment. The little flames dancing in her finger, died in fifteen seconds.

At least now she found one thing about her ability: she couldn't summon it, not without a help of spell. So perhaps she wasn't so powerful, after all. She didn't like that thought.

She casted the basic elemental spell once again to lit a candle. She watched as the tiny fire became real, shifting from her fingerglow color to a shade of orange. It wouldn't die unless she blew it, and she had no plan to blow any fire soon.

Isadora glanced at her windows, making sure they were closed before putting her finger on top of the candle, watching the candle dimmed while the fire moved to her finger. She touched the tiny spark with the tip of her other finger, and then the next finger, and another one, until finally all of her fingers were aflame.

She giggled in amusement. She decided she liked fire now, for it was beautiful. She tried to lit the rest of her candles with the flame in her fingers and more giggles came out from her. Oh, jolly! How wrong she was. How could she thought they were deadly? No, not deadly, she decided. Fires were pretty.

"I'm like a living matchstick," she announced to Blue, who was still inside its cage on top of her cupboard. "A living, human-sized matchstick."

Isadora snapped her lit fingers, out of curiosity, but the result made her eyes goggled. The flames were twice of their actual size now.

She laughed. Well, maybe this was what the School Master had meant when he asked them to practice.

Isadora stared at the half-melted candles as she thought about the things she could do with her talent.

She placed her palm, which by now already covered with fire, around the candles. They melt faster. She couldn't be burnt, but she could burn, right? As if on cue, images of her mother flickered on her mind.

Her mother with torch in hands like what she saw in her nightmares, her mother who was trying to burn her in front of Gavaldon's people. And then there was a new set of memories, one she had pushed back and didn't think would come ever again.

There was one time, when she strolled around the town. She saw a figure that resembled her mother, holding a baby in her hands with two other kids circling around her knees. She was smiling. Isadora thought she was imagining it, that it wasn't her mother. So she pushed the memory to the back of her head, and it was the first time the images of that day being brought to the surface again.

Blood rushed to her face, she could feel heat in her cheeks. Her body trembled with anger. She wanted to wipe that smile away, she wanted to take the children and throw them into the oven like the Hansel and Gretel's witch supposed to do or snap each of their necks. She wanted her mother to suffer, like she did in the last decade. She wanted to make her pay for everything. She wanted to—

A loud gasp came out of her when she realized her palm wasn't the only part of her body that was covered in flames. The other palm, her arms, her chest, her stomach, and even her head.

The clothes she was wearing were not immune to fire like her, the fabric starting to turn into ashes, it made her skin itch. But there was no time to think about clothes now. Isadora panicked because she couldn't stop the fire. It was spreading to her thighs, and soon she would be covered in flames.

Water. She needed water. Lots of them. She spun, accidentally tripped herself and crashed into her table. It didn't take much time for the fire to eat it whole.

"No, no, no!" Isadora watched in horror as her table, along with the candles and her parchments, notes from classes all being crisped by the flames.

She needed to think fast.

She reached for her doorknob, but it fell, half-burned and turn into ashes as soon as her flame-covered hand hold it. The latch, she remembered. But it melted under her fire, too. The material (alloy? iron? bronze? she couldn't care less, honestly) turned into some kind of liquid, filling the gap between the wall and the door. She didn't know if it could go back solid again but she realized she was trapped. Locked in her own chamber and unless someone opened the door from the front, soon her entire room (and maybe, even the whole castle) will be burnt.

Her table is almost gone now, if she didn't do something the fire would surely spread. In fact, it was already starting to with the chair.

'Think, Isadora.' She took a deep breath as she trying to process what had just happened. Where was her? Right, she was just thinking about burning something and then thoughts of her mothers popped up. She was angry, full of rage. The feelings hadn't left, she was still angry. And then it struck her.

Feelings. Magic was driven by feelings. And what she had done was some kind of magic, wasn't it? Could it be possible for her talent to be driven by feelings too? She had seen how the flame doubled its size when she snapped her fingers, but maybe it was because she was laughing—she was amused, almost happy. Still under control.

She tried to calm herself down. She thought about happy things. Food, mostly. The time when she caused the classroom's window to shatter. The disasters in tea party.

Her guess turned out to be right. It did driven by feelings, because now the flames were slowly getting smaller, and smaller, and smaller, and smaller until all that left was a little light on the tip of her finger.

Isadora exhaled. Another thing about her talent being revealed, then. She averted her gaze to the burning chair and the remaining of her table. She walked to the fire, letting herself be consumed by it. The flames left the chair, trailing to her skin. She tried to concentrate again, as if absorbing the flames that engulfed her, wiping it away until it ceased to a spark on her fingertip. The furniture had stopped burning, all that left was ashes and smokes.

She opened her window, letting the smoke out and fresh air in. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, she realized how exhausted she was. And the cold that came along with the wind from outside. She shivered, quickly putting on new clothes from her cupboard (which, fortunately, was safe from the incident) and searched for scraps of papers and pen. She wrote letters for school faculties to let them know she couldn't attend classes for a couple of days, though she didn't explain why.

She grabbed the cage, pulling Blue out and tied the letters to its body and brought her salamander to the window. She hoped salamanders don't fear height and won't crack bones if they jumped.

Isadora sat down on the edge of her bed, staring at the ashes of her furniture, her locked-knobless-door, and the blackened walls. What just happened earlier was insane. It felt surreal. Perhaps she was just dreaming, perhaps tomorrow she would wake up and see everything was fine, that she didn't try to burn her room. She decided to deal with all of the mess later and fell into deep slumber.
***
When she woke up, she knew it wasn't a dream. Because everything was messier now. Ashes splattered here and there because of the wind.

She couldn't guess what time it was, the sky was already dark. Maybe she hadn't sleep that long. But as she heard the noises from the halls, she knew it was already a new day. The others were probably on their way to class.

She sighed, raising to her feet. The burning smell was still filling the air. She needed to find a way to get out. She considered screaming for the wolves' help. But what would they do when they saw the inside of her room? She could imagine the torture she'd get if they drag her to Doom Room for ruining school's facility.

She took her knife, grateful she didn't tuck it inside the drawer of her table. She started to make a hole in the door.

An hour later, when her work on the door didn't seem to success, she finally realized her stupidity. If she wanted to make a hole in it, why didn't she just burn the door?

She picked up a piece of wood, casted the same spell like last night and watched as the fire turn from wine red to bright orange. She wished she knew how to create actual fire without spell. It was very time-consuming, she was sure she would die before she could burn her nemesis.

Isadora wiped the flame, doubling the fire ball on her palm and then placed it on the door, setting it on fire.

Then she waited as she listened to the sound of flapping wings and croaks from behind the door.

Once the door was half burned, she kicked it, making a hole big enough for her to pass.

At first, she wasn't aware of what just happened when the croaks grew louder. But when she stepped out of the door and found two crows laying on the floor, burnt and dead, she knew something was wrong. Pieces of her burning door must've knocked the murder of crows, either that or they flew too close to the fire.

She started to panic when she saw the birds were still in the halls, some of them ablaze. They flapped their wings maniacally, dodging at her direction. Few birds flew to her face and she was too panicked to move.

Along with the howls of wolves, Isadora screamed when one of the birds pecked her left eye, slicing her eyelid and cheek.

Blood blurred her vision, she screamed and didn't stop until her throat felt sore, didn't stop even though the birds were already dead, burned by her fire. She heard footsteps, then a pair of hands with furs trying to guide her to somewhere, carefully not touching her.

The rest went like a blur. She didn't even know if her door was still burning when she left. She must've calmed down at some point, because her left eye—or whatever remained of it—was sewn, her wounds tended.

That day, she realized everything really came with a price. She had control over fire, but she lost an eye. And she didn't know if it was worth it.

Everyone in Esnan had heard about the witch who lived in a cottage near the forest. Her hair was as red as the flames in fireplace and candles that surrounded her cottage. It was said she would grant your wishes, but with a price she saw fit. There was a time when she was once known as Isadora, but now the name was almost forgotten because everyone believed her name would bring continuous bad luck to anyone who said it. No one would come to her unless they were utterly desperate.

Everyone had also heard about the king’s eldest son. Prince Cornelius was a tall, handsome, clever man. It was expected that once the king passed away, the throne would fall to his hands. Alas, it wasn’t the truth. Unbeknownst to the people, the King of Esnan favored his youngest son more. Prince Alastor shared the same physical traits with his brother, but he had better temperament. He was more loving, gentle, and soft-spoken than Cornelius. Cornelius knew it and he wasn’t happy about this.

Cornelius knew that as long as his brother was still alive, his father would make Alastor the heir instead of him. The kingdom’s seer told him so. That was why he finally knocked on the witch cottage’s door. It swung open almost immediately, as if she was already expecting him. Perhaps she is, thought the prince. He walked inside as the door closed behind him.

“Your Highness, to what do I owe this visit?” Her lips curved into a wicked smile when she saw her guest flinched at the greeting. The witch had made sure her mocking tone was obvious to him.


“I come to make a deal,” the prince said without missing a beat. “I need to secure my place as the king’s one and only heir.”

“Ah, so it is true. Your father likes him better than you,” the witch smiled knowingly.

Cornelius almost asked her how she could know about it. But then he remembered who she was. Of course she knew. She was the witch, she probably knew everyone’s secret. The witch’s smile grew wider.

“So you want me to get rid of your brother to keep the throne for you,” she looked into him with her only eye. “Easy. I can get it done by now. But … you said you wanted to make a deal. What will I get for killing him?”

“I’m the prince, I can get you anything,” he answered, full of pride and arrogance. “Gold? Jewels? A bigger house? A bigger house with better lightning? Name your price, I can give it to you.”

Even though she already had her answer in the tip of her tongue, Isadora pretended to think. She watched the prince grew nervous at his seat. As he should be, she thought. This was the witch’s favorite part whenever someone came to make bargain with her; making them wait for her to tell her price. She gazed at her own collection of eyeballs and hairs behind him.

“I want to be the queen.”

The prince let out a startled laugh, clearly taken aback by the answer. “You’re asking me to marry you?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“But … but you’re a witch!”

“You say witch like it’s a bad thing,” she remarked. “It would give you a lot of advantages. I can help you to grow your kingdom.”

“You will kill me once I made you my queen!”

“As long as you won’t try to kill me first, I won’t.”

“No, anything else, please. You’re a witch, I cannot trust you.”

Isadora cackled, then she said to him very sweetly, “and yet you still showed up at my door and asked for my help.”

That silenced the prince.

“Fine.” He finally gave in. “Fine, I will do it.”

Her wicked grin returned. “Now go home and wait for tomorrow. Ask your brother to accompany you to hunt in the forest. When you heard a cry, step as far away from him. Once he was dead, tell your guards you were trying to chase a stag and you came back to find him laying down the ground.”

And so the deal was made. Prince Cornelius went back to the palace and did what the witch told him to. His brother suspected nothing of him and he was happy to fulfill the eldest prince’s request, not knowing his life would be taken soon after. They were already deep inside the forest when Cornelius heard a cry, the signal he was waiting for. He left his brother and hid behind a tree as he watched the ivy leaves and tendrils crept around Alastor’s body and strangled him. He tried to push away his guilt and fear as he listened to his brother’s last cry before life left his body. Shaking, he told the guards with the precise words from the witch.

The kingdom mourned the death of the young prince. The King had it worst of all. He was so devastated by sudden death of his favorite son, it affected his health and he died from terrible fever soon after. Now, the throne was certain to be left for Cornelius. He should be happy about it, but he remembered his promise to the witch. No matter what she told him, he still couldn’t trust her. Again, he went to the kingdom’s seer to ask for another advice. The seer told him to trap the witch and gave him magic seeds. The seeds would grow into gladiolus and dahlias, and while they looked like the common ones, the flowers would rinse out the witch’s magic when she was near around them.

Prince Cornelius went with the plan. He planted the seeds and prepared for his wedding and coronation day. He came back to the cottage a week before the day. The witch was already waiting outside, her smile grew wider as he stepped closer.

“I have to ask for one more thing,” he confessed. “The people already knew who you are, and I—”

“You want me to alter my appearance,” she said sullenly. “I thought I look beautiful enough.”

“It’s not that you’re not beautiful. But … I don’t think the people would like it if they know I’m marrying a witch.”

“You would be the king soon, you can just punish them or throw them into the dungeons,” she tried again. “But perhaps you’re right. It would be better if they don’t know who I am.”

After she said that, she changed her hair into a straight blonde, grew her left eye and make both of her eyes blue, her nose and jaw sharper, and her body thinner. The prince stared, amazed by her transformation. That almost made him forget about his plan. Almost. He cleared his mind and promised to visit her again before the wedding to take her into the palace.

The days went fast, and tomorrow was already his wedding day. He did what he had promised, and now he was waiting for his bride to walk inside the chapel. The coronation was done earlier. A bouquet of gladiolus and dahlia already in his hands. He smiled to himself, feeling triumphed by his victory. Soon, he would get the kingdom to himself and get rid off the witch.

Isadora walked down the aisle. She wore her disguise and once again almost made the prince forget about his plans. At last, she stood beside him as the priest opened the wedding with a speech. But something was happening. Her skin itched, no matter how hard she try to ignore it, she couldn’t focus on everything around her. And then her head started to throb, she gasped when she realized her hair was changing back, along with everything else about her. The whole room was filled with shock gasp from the guests, too.

“It’s the witch!” her groom cried. “It’s the witch! She was trying to kill me! Like what she did to my brother!”

Rage filled her chest. She didn’t like being lied to; cheated. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

“I told you I can’t marry a witch,” he whispered so only her could hear.

“You betrayed me.”

“You would too once you get the crown on your head.”

The guards seized her hands, her magic, strangely, didn’t work and she had no idea why. She could hear the prince said something about bringing her to the stake in the middle of the town. He wanted to burn her. He wanted to burn her in front of his people. Isadora didn’t try to fight the guards, but rather let them guide her to the said stake. People left the chapel, eager to see the witch to be burned.

They tied her to the stake. It was clear to her the prince already planned about all this. He lit the woods with his torch. She spat on him, and muttered her threat with a low voice. “If I come back alive, I want your head.”

The prince scoffed. “You wouldn’t come back alive, no witches runs from deadly flames. I outwitted you, witch.”

“Oh, I will,” she said calmly, “and once I do, I will get your head. Hear me, god of truth; I curse the liar and his serpent tongue; Let me get his head with flowers of death grew of his skull.”

The earth underneath them shook for a mere second, the prince sure he was hallucinating. So the fires were lit. He along his people watched as flames engulfed the witch. They watched for hours. They watched, watched, watched. They watched when the woods turned into ashes. They watched when the fire died down. And they watched when, true to her words, the witch walked down the stake; alive.

“Impossible …” the prince started.

“I told you, didn’t I?” she smiled with eyes full of revenge. “Now I will get what I was promised.”

With her magic, she ordered a nearest guard and beheaded the prince, right there in front of everyone. His head rolled off the ground before turning into a skull with flowers and snakes filling in the holes of his eyes and ears. She looked at the people who were still there, watching her with fear.

“He promised me his kingdom,” she told them. “And he lied to me. That’s what happens when people don’t fulfill his promise.”

She took the skull off the ground, clutching into it like a trophy. “I believe I am now your queen.”

No one dared to disagree. It could’ve been less violent, she thought. But what was done was done. All her life she had been called a lot of things. Monster, villain, witch. And soon, she would add one more to the list: Isadora, The Queen of Esnan.

trivias
⋆ Isadora had one ring that she claimed as her mother’s (though actually, it was given from the Elders to her mother, which she refused, before they finally gave it to Isadora)
⋆ Isadora lived alone in the cottage near the forest since she was seven before she got accepted to School for Good and Evil.
⋆ Isadora doesn’t like chocolates (as in chocolate bars)
⋆ Isadora doesn’t like to meddle in someone else’s business.
⋆ Isadora has trouble guessing/knowing someone else’s feelings (she’s not sensitive)
⋆ Isadora is good in hunting animals.
⋆ Isadora’s fingerglow color is wine red.
⋆ Isadora is very stubborn. She likes to do what she wants.
⋆ Isadora eats a lot.
⋆ Isadora is afraid of stymphs.
⋆ Isadora’s personality traits: strong-headed, blunt, mischievous, secretive, short-tempered, impatience.
⋆ Isadora has quite sensitive nose, she dislikes everything with strong smell (whether it's good or bad)
⋆ Isadora dislikes animals.
⋆ Isadora lost her left eye to a murder of crows.