"Listen closely," a new voice echoed in the dark, cutting through the lingering tension of the
Grim Theater. It wasn't the Male Narrator's composed baritone, nor the Female Narrator's
anxious lilt. This voice was sharp, theatrical, and dripping with a dark, knowing amusement.
"The voices you've been listening to so far... they tell a fine story, don't they? They paint a
beautiful picture of princesses and dark queens. But they always miss the shadows cast by
the spotlight. You can call me Narrator Three. And since our dear Snow White has such rigid
views on Heroes and Villains, I think it's time we made this story a lot more interesting. Let's
rewind the clock, shall we? Back to the beginning. Back to the Graduation."
The heavy darkness of the Shroudwoods dissolved, replaced by the blinding, golden
afternoon sun of the Dwarven kingdom Steinvik Wisdomhall courtyard. But we are no longer
looking through the eyes of Rosalind Valory.
We are looking through the eyes of Samantha Fuchs.
Samantha sat on a pristine white chair in the grand graduation pavilion, her small hands
clenched tightly in her lap. Her knuckles were white. Her heart beat a frantic, humiliating
rhythm against her ribs. She was replaying the events of earlier that day—her first real
encounter with Rosalind Valory. She remembered the coldness in the Princess's eyes, the
devastating humiliation she had felt when she had only tried to help.
How could it have gone so wrong?
Samantha was a noble, just like Rosalind. She was a German, just like Rosalind. She had
been admitted into the prestigious Glen Hearthstone Atheneum on the very same day,
though Samantha had barely scraped past the societal blockades to get her acceptance
letter. As she sat in the audience, listening to the Master of Ceremonies drone on at the
podium, Samantha's mind drifted back to the moment the ceremony had begun.
"And now, inheriting the pristine legacy of KHM 53, The amazing tale of Snow White and the
Seven Dwarves" the Master of Ceremonies had boomed, his voice practically vibrating with
reverence. "Rosalind Valory!"
Samantha had watched with breathless admiration as Rosalind ascended the stage.
Rosalind was the absolute picture of nobility and femininity. She moved with a grace that
seemed entirely unearned yet perfectly natural. The crowd had erupted into a deafening roar
of applause and cheers. People wept. They threw flowers. Rosalind was the Inheritor of
Snow White, and the world loved her simply for existing.
During Rosalind's speech, a single, drunken man in the back row had shouted a mild
obscenity. Before the word had even fully left his mouth, four heavily armored Atheneum
guards had materialized, tackling the man to the ground and dragging him away to ensure
the Princess's moment remained unsullied.
Samantha had languished in that applause, internalizing it, hoping some of that golden light She simply didn't understand it. People like Rosalind were praised just for taking their role in
stride and living up to it. But Samantha? Samantha was cursed.
She was the inheritor of a joke. A dark, twisted mockery of a feared and hated war
criminal—a dictator whose very name stained the pages of history. She didn't inherit the man
himself; she inherited the parody of him, born from a mocking wartime march created by his
enemies to humiliate him.
Because of this, she could never win. If she acted funny and leaned into the parody, people
looked at her with disgust, calling her insensitive. If she acted serious and disciplined, trying
to reclaim her dignity, they called her a monster in the making. If she tried to view the world
through the lens of the soldiers who had actually written the song, she was accused of
making light of a global tragedy.
Her parents ridiculed her. Her extended family and the Fuchs household treated her like a
stain on their lineage. Her so-called friends surely laughed behind her back.
But Rosalind... Rosalind was Snow White. Snow White was kind. Snow White took in the
outcasts, the dwarves, the strange, and the small. Samantha had been so sure that
Rosalind, of all people, would not ridicule her.
As Rosalind's pristine speech came to an end and the crowd gave a standing ovation,
Samantha paid close attention, hanging onto every word of hope and unity the Princess
spoke.
It felt like a lifetime later when the Master of Ceremonies finally reached her name.
"Next, we have... ah," the Master of Ceremonies paused, glancing at his card with a poorly
concealed grimace. "Samantha Fuchs."
Samantha stood up. She was exactly four feet and five inches tall. She smoothed out her
graduation robes and began the long, agonizing walk up the steps to the stage. She wasn't
just graduating; she was being called up to receive three of the most difficult academic
awards the academy offered: Highest Scorer in Occult Studies, Highest Scorer in War and
Strategy, and Highest Scorer in Philosophical Analogy and Jargons.
But there was no applause.
As her small boots clicked against the wooden stage, a low, ugly rumble rolled through the
crowd. It started as a murmur, then swelled into outright boos.
"Disgusting!" someone yelled from the third row.
"Get off the stage!" another voice cried out.
Samantha's face burned. She kept her eyes fixed on the podium, forcing her legs to keep
moving. When she finally reached the center, the Master of Ceremonies didn't hand her the awards with a smile. Instead, he leaned into the microphone, capitalizing on the crowd's
hostility.
"Well, folks, let's give a hand to Miss Fuchs," the MC said, his voice dripping with faux cheer.
He looked down at her, a smirk playing on his lips. "Though, I must say, for someone
inheriting such a colossal historical terror, you're a bit short for the role, aren't you?
Four-foot-five! Maybe they should add a verse to the song about your height!"
The crowd roared with laughter. It was a sharp, mocking sound that felt like physical blows
against Samantha's chest.
Samantha swallowed hard, her throat tight. She gripped the edges of the podium,
desperately holding back the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She leaned toward
the microphone, her voice trembling but determined.
"Thank... thank you," Samantha began, her voice echoing over the dying laughter. "I want to
say that... not everyone is necessarily a reincarnation of the person they are inheriting."
The crowd quieted, if only out of sheer disbelief that she was defending herself.
"Inheriting a story does not mean you are bound to its sins," Samantha continued, her voice
growing a fraction steadier. She looked out toward the front row, where Rosalind was seated.
"For example, Rosalind Valory is inheriting Snow White. But she herself may not be Snow
White in her heart. Achieving the highest of Cadence isn't about becoming the character you
are given... It is about understanding the character. It is about studying their flaws and their
triumphs, and choosing your own path."
She reached out, grabbing the heavy brass plaque for Highest Scorer in Philosophical
Analogy and Jargons, and raised it above her head with both hands. "And I can prove it! My
understanding of these roles, of the philosophy of the Echoes, has earned me this!"
For a single, suspended second, there was silence.
Then, the backlash hit like a tidal wave.
The boos didn't just return; they amplified into a vicious, hateful roar. The crowd was furious
that the "joke" was trying to lecture them.
"Shut up, Nazi!" a man screamed from the aisles.
"Get off the stage, you Kraut freak!" a woman shrieked, throwing a crumpled program at the
stage.
Samantha flinched, instinctively bringing both of her hands up to cover her mouth, dropping
her award with a loud, hollow clang. The sound of the metal hitting the wood was drowned
out by the sheer volume of the hatred directed at her. Where are the guards? Samantha screamed in her mind, her eyes darting frantically around
the perimeter of the pavilion. Where are the armored men? They arrested a man for
mumbling during Rosalind's speech! Why aren't they doing anything?!
The guards stood perfectly still at their posts, their faces blank. They did not move.
The Master of Ceremonies quickly stepped in, not to defend her, but to save the mood of his
event. He grabbed Samantha by the shoulder and roughly forced her away from the
microphone, pushing her toward the stairs.
"Alright, alright, settle down!" the MC laughed into the mic, waving to the crowd. "Let's
lighten the mood! You all know the famous tune she inherits, right? The one about the
dictator's... missing anatomy? Well, seeing as Miss Fuchs just won three awards, maybe we
should change the lyrics! He only had one, but little Samantha here has three!"
The crowd erupted into raucous, mocking cheers, clapping along to the rhythm of the cruel
wartime march.
Samantha stumbled down the stairs, her vision blurred with tears of shame and a deep,
burning anger. She was German, just like Rosalind. She was a noble, just like Rosalind. How
could they let such horrific comments go unpunished? Was it simply because the slurs were
directed at her?
Perish the thought, she told herself bitterly, wiping her eyes as she hurried back to her seat.
It is the world we live in. The story is the law.
She collapsed into her chair, her chest heaving. Her two personal maids were waiting for her
in the aisle. Trying to salvage whatever scrap of dignity she had left, Samantha gathered her
three heavy plaques and held them out.
"Guten Tag," Samantha greeted them quietly in her native German, her voice thick with
unshed tears.
The maids did not reply. They didn't even look her in the eye. They simply took the awards
from her shaking hands and, under their breath, began to hum the exact tune the Master of
Ceremonies had just mocked her with.
Samantha froze. The betrayal stung worse than the crowd's shouting. She sank deeper into
her chair, wanting nothing more than to disappear into the upholstery.
But before she could completely surrender to her despair, a sudden sensation washed over
her.
It was a chilling Vim. It swept through the pavilion like a sudden winter draft, gripping
Samantha's shoulders and sending a violent shiver down her spine. It was a terrifying, heavy
energy. But just as quickly as it had arrived, the Vim shifted. The dark, freezing aura
suddenly inverted, turning into a warm, calming pulse of pure, bright energy. It washed over Samantha, easing the painful knot in her chest and replacing her humiliation with a strange,
sudden burst of happiness.
Confused, Samantha lifted her head, her tear-filled eyes scanning the crowd to find the
source of this incredible, shifting Vim.
Her gaze landed near the exit. There, standing amidst the dispersing crowd, was Rosalind
Valory. She was glowing with that pure, calming energy. But she wasn't alone. Approaching
Rosalind at a hurried, aggressive pace was a girl shrouded in dark, heavy clothing—a girl
who looked exactly like a witch out of a nightmare. It looked like Rosalind was about to have
a terrible episode, or perhaps be attacked.
Samantha's heart leapt. This is it, she thought, the oppressive weight of her own graduation
completely forgotten. She is Snow White. She is kind. And she is in trouble.
Wiping the last tear from her cheek, Samantha Fuchs stood up, squared her small
shoulders, and stepped out into the aisle. Being the Good Samaritan she desperately
believed herself to be, she hurried forward to help the Princess.