After Cardan named you his Queen, Elfhame shifted. The land bent subtly beneath your feet, and the citizens of Elfhame learned to respect you. Most did so with accepting smiles, but a few, with annoyance.

One foggy morning, a gardener found you beneath the willow tree and told you of children loitering beyond the walls, eyes too rebellious, movements suspicious. Mischievous. You sighed. Mortal or not, a Queen must mind even the smallest of rebellions.

So you went. And as you appeared, your shadow dark in the fog, the children scattered like startled animals. They left behind a small basket. Inside was not stolen treasure or food, but a cluster of small, prickly cacti, looking bloated.

You leaned closer.

BOOM

The explosion was small, but treacherous. A fury of tiny needles shot through the air. You swung up your arms up just in time to shield your face. The pain bit deep. Hundreds of microscopic barbs sank into your skin. Your breath hitched, and you bit back a curse so horrible you may be looked at with disgust.

You wobbled back to the castle, wounded in pride more than flesh. Each step was agony. You hobbled into the throne room, stiff as a board, front half of your body like prickly fur.

Cardan was lounging sideways on the throne like it was a cheap chair, dark eyes gleaming. He looked up, saw you, and snorted. Not unkindly. But loudly.

“You look like a depressed hedgehog.”

He said, biting his lip to keep from laughing again. You glared at him.

“Shall I send for the healers, you little pincushion?”