You have already heard this story. Beautiful, they call her, noble and selfless. A princess has faith in people, hers or others, and trusts them to do the right thing. She is as kind as she is sheltered, her ignorance being an admirable one. In the end, she will be gracious while she is held prisoner in some dark tower. Her knight will come and her gratitude shall be expressed in a kiss and eternal matrimony.
This princess was the exception. Still is, if the story is to be believed. Her knight did not come to rescue her, but to seal her further; the kiss withered on her lips and died in her heart. Her beauty became harsh, nearly painful to look at, as tender freckled skin faded to shadowed circles under her eyes and a pale sallow in the cheeks. Yet her green eyes shone ever blithely in the eclipsing dark and that easing grace of her lineage never left her. Like stains of innocence, those freckles persisted, matching her rusted blonde hair.
Now she became the threat, inclined to lean in close and drive the dagger deep. Fate had not been kind or gracious, and she had learned from him. When instead her servant came to save her from that damned stone tower, she tried to kill him. Failing that, she held him in the dungeon within her dungeon. The darkness was already in his eyes, buried deeper than even enucleation could reveal—if she elected to go so far.