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Fury seethes within Giza as she clenches the delicate flower in her fist, its petals crumpling under the force of her rage upon hearing the news of Horney's capture. The relentless rain beats down upon the capital like a thousand angry fists, mirroring the screaming brewing inside her.
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In this unlit chamber of hers, the calligrapher toils away, her hand cramping as she scribes the hundredth letter for Giza. A displeased groan escapes her lips as she tries to stretch her aching muscles, seeking a moment's respite from the monotonous task. Giza's eyes flash with ire at the sound, her frustration boiling over. In a swift, violent motion, she slaps the calligrapher across the face, the sharp crack of skin against skin echoing through the room. No words are spoken, but the calligrapher can see the barely contained wrath smoldering in Giza's eyes.
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Without a word, Giza storms out of the room, her footsteps heavy with anger. She barks an order at the guards, her voice as cold and hard as steel, commanding them not to let the calligrapher leave until she returns. The guards flinches and nods in obedience, not daring to question her commands.
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“A week has past and that old man has yet to return” muttering her growls, “Horney gets captured by barbarians. What in hell are those two doing!” Her stomps echo throughout the central hallways, yelling at any passing servant as to where her younger sister—Then is. They all would bow, forehead on the floor as they tell her like pleading drags that they do not know. Their petty, nor the cold winds of downpour do not cool her smoking head.
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She heads for the eastern hallways and meets Cornelius along the way. He bows promptly and, almost ignorant of her anger, followed the princess around telling him of his successes in his tailoring business. ended up getting slapped as well. “I don’t care and out of my way, pig”
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Military arms and symbols row the walls and great military figures hang as portraits. Giza roars to the guards by Thean’s chamber to knock but they shakingly tell her that Princess Thean is at the treasury. But even so, she commands them to knock their fists till they are bloody before she leaves and go down to the treasury.
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Kinguin’s basic treasurers are stored on the first level of the treasury. All lined on shelves like an alchemist’s laboratory. She heads down to the second level, darker and glum compared to the first. But the green liquids and popping chemical reactions never fails to catch her attention and the Kinguin’s only scientist is here conducting on a certain liquid that she cannot tell the princess.
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“Fine,” Giza says, “Tell me where that orange head is.”
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“Uh, I did not mean to upset you your highness…”
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“You are not!” she yells but her booming voice and low tone tells otherwise, “Just tell me where”
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“D-D-down to the golden treasures.”
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So, she still has to walk down, before finally seeing her sister who has been sleeping on the gold pile of treasure.
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"Wake up," Giza commands, her tone brooking no argument. She stomps her foot, the sound reverberating through the chamber, before reaching out and delivering a stinging slap to Thean's cheek. "Get your lazy butt off the gold and do your job."
“Sol…?”
“No”
“Ah…you…” Thean stirs, her eyes fluttering open as she groggily takes in her surroundings. She had expected to wake to the comforting embrace of the cool metal beneath her, lost in dreams of wealth and luxury. Instead, reality comes crashing down in the form of her sister's stern visage and the throbbing pain in her cheek. Utterly “Rude…” She yawns, “What’d you expect me to do even?" Thean asks, her voice still heavy with sleep. She languidly runs her fingers through the gold, savoring the feeling of the precious metal against her skin. "They are outside Kinguin’s walls. So, I cannot do anything about them. Better ask Sol to do it for you."
Giza's eyes flash with anger, her voice rising in volume as she erupts, "That woman has not even reported to me ever since!"
Thean sighs, her mind still clouded by the allure of the treasury's riches. She had hoped to spend her days lounging amidst the wealth, free from the burdens of responsibility. The reality, however, is far less idyllic.
"Well, sorry," Thean drawls, her words laced with indifference. "But I cannot do anything about those barbarians. Otherwise, the other kingdoms would see it as a sign of war. You know how tense they are these years. Can't even let a sword drop on their road."
Giza's frustration mounts, her voice taking on a desperate edge as she unloads her worries about her reputation and the lack of management under her rule. She had expected Thean to step up, to shoulder some of the burden, but reality has proven her hopes to be nothing more than wishful thinking.
"If anything, more than the Adviser getting captured happens, you will be held responsible," Giza warns, her finger pointing accusingly at Thean. "And I will not do anything to help you."
Thean, still lost in her dreams of golden opulence, barely registers the gravity of Giza's words. She nods sleepily, mumbling an affirmation before allowing herself to sink back into the comforting embrace of the treasure, oblivious and pig lazy.
The rightern hallways are next for her stomping. Eyes glaring at servants and guards holding hands together in a human barricade in front of a door that has a sign saying ‘in use’. “Move” she threatens but none of them are flinching nor moving. Not a single one is breathing in and and out but Giza is too angry to notice their breaths, lifeless dazes and purplish lips. The princess’s eyes glow gray but nothing happens.
“Rumen!”
And no response,
Giza frustrates herself into the open courtyard, her footsteps heavy and like a storm kicking the trimmed bushes and stepping on the flowers. The rage simmering within her is evident in the way she bites her lips, a futile attempt to contain the emotion that threatens to spill out. Suddenly, the fat ass Cornelius once again appears before her. Another disgusting pig who fully has the princess’s attention
"Your Majesty," Cornelius begins, his voice laced with a mix of contrition and mischief, "I come to beg for your forgiveness. I have failed in my task to kill the Lord Magister."
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Giza's eyes narrow, her voice dripping with venom as she speaks, "It's all your fault. It's all your FAULT! The prophecy is coming true."
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Cornelius, unperturbed by Giza's accusation, chuckles softly. He had expected her to react with anger, but the reality of her fury surpasses his expectations. "Now, now, Your Majesty," he teases, a playful glint in his eyes, "there's no need to lose your temper like a baby having a tantrum."
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In an instant, Giza's eyes glow an eerie gold, and Cornelius's lower body turns to stone. The transformation is swift and merciless, leaving him immobilized from the waist down. Panic seizes Cornelius as he realizes the gravity of his mistake.
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"Y-your Majesty," he stammers, his voice trembling with fear, "I beg your pardon. I really beg your pardon. Please don't hurt me." He tries to reason with her, desperation seeping into his words, "It's just... It's my mistake, yes, but it shouldn't be this much, right? I'm sure the prophecy is just tales—it's not real. It's just a festival. The Lord Magister did not come to assassinate you; he is here to propose the festival."
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Giza's expression remains unchanging, but the fury in her voice is palpable. "But the prophecy tells of a performance that the Magister would be delightful despite his agony. Everything is coming to fruition because of you, Rumen, Sol, Thean, ALL OF YOU!"
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As she speaks, Giza's eyes fully turn gold, and a wave of petrification spreads across the courtyard. Every flower and leaf turn to stone, their vibrant colors replaced by lifeless gray. Cornelius, however, remains untouched, his head the only part of him spared from the curse.
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Giza turns away, her anger fuming out of her like a tangible force. She strides back to her chamber, leaving Cornelius trapped in his stone prison, a testament to the consequences of his failure and the weight of the prophecy that looms over them all.
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Cornelius watches helplessly as Giza disappears from view, the reality of his situation sinking in. He had expected to toy with her emotions, to push the boundaries of her patience, but the outcome has proven far more dire than he could have ever imagined. As he stands there, half-stone and half-man, he wonders if his playful nature has finally caught up with him, and if the prophecy he had dismissed as mere tales might hold more truth than he ever dared to believe. “What’s wrong with her even…”
Giza bursts into her chamber, the heavy wooden door slamming shut behind her with a resounding bang. The calligrapher, Fiona, jumps at the sudden intrusion, her quill leaving a startled ink blot on the parchment before her. She watches as Giza plops herself onto the bed, the princess's actions speaking volumes about her agitated state. Fiona knows better than to question Giza's behavior, the memory of the earlier slap still fresh in her mind.
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Silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the scratching of Fiona's quill as she resumes her work. She keeps her head down, focusing on the elegant strokes of her calligraphy, hoping to provide a sense of normalcy amidst the tension.
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After what feels like an eternity, Giza's voice breaks the stillness. "Fiona, what do you think about the prophecy?"
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Fiona pauses, carefully considering her words before responding. "You mean the climax's performance, Princess?" She keeps her tone neutral, not wanting to further agitate Giza. "I think it's all just a tale, Princess."
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Giza sighs heavily, her frustration evident in the sound. "You too, huh? But what if it isn't?"
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Fiona sets her quill down, turning to face Giza. She had expected the princess to find solace in her words, to share her belief that the prophecy held no weight. The reality, however, is far different.
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"Your Highness," Fiona begins, her voice gentle yet cautious, "if I may be so bold... I understand your concern about the prophecy, but I believe we should focus on the present rather than dwell on tales of old."
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Giza's eyes narrow, a flicker of anger sparking within them. "And why is that? Do you not believe in the power of prophecy?"
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Fiona's heart races, but she maintains her composure. She had hoped to be a friend to Giza, to offer comfort and support, but the princess's reaction makes her question the wisdom of her approach.
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"It's not that I don't believe, Princess," Fiona explains, her voice trembling slightly. "It's just... my father, he was a superstitious man. Always going on about curses and omens. In the end, he turned to stone, and everyone said it was because he angered the gods. But I know the truth - it was the food he ate, not some divine punishment."
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Giza's expression darkened as a realization dawned on her. The calligrapher's story sounded all too familiar. Memories flashed through her mind – the calligrapher’s own father, his disbelief, and the fury that had consumed her. In a moment of blind rage, she had turned him to stone, just as she had done to countless others who dared to question her.
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"You dare doubt the power of the gods? The power that flows through me, the princess?" Giza's voice is low and dangerous, her eyes glowing an unsettling gold.
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Fiona's eyes widen in terror, the gravity of her error sinking in. She drops her quill, ink splattering across the parchment. "P-please, Your Highness, I meant no disrespect—nor disbelief in anything."
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But her pleas fall on deaf ears. Giza's hand shoots out, grasping Fiona's wrist in an iron grip. The calligrapher's skin begins to harden, her flesh turning to cold, unyielding stone. A scream freezes on her lips as the transformation spreads, engulfing her entire body until nothing remains but a lifeless statue.
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Giza steps back, her chest heaving with a mixture of anger and exertion. "My word is law and the belief of the people. No prophecy shall stop me..."
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The room falls silent once more, the only sound being Giza's labored breathing. She stares at the stone figure before her, a testament to her power and the consequences of defying her will. In that moment, Giza realizes that the prophecy is not just a tale - it is a reality she must confront, and she will not tolerate anyone who stands in her way, not even those who seek to be her friend
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