The future may be stayed, but at what cost?
Old Majir had conquered all his enemies with his witchcraft. All but one. Determined to forestall the inevitable, he cast divinations.
When the bud blossoms, Majir’s star will fall.
Now, the jayanta’s young daughter Inkadi was so exquisite, everyone called her Rosebud. The prophecy surely meant her.
Majir vowed. That bud would never open.
In a quiet garden, Majir handed Inkadi an elegant glass rosebud. Filling with her captured future, it glowed red. She squealed, delighted.
At first, nobody noticed she’d stopped aging. But over time, the curse cast shadows over the royal castle. Her parents grew desperate to cure her. Nobody could break the spell.
Trapped in a child’s body, Inkadi searched everywhere for information. Finally, her path led to Majir’s door.
Her peasant disguise fooled him, until she plucked the glass rosebud from its vase. At her touch, it shattered. She grew a dozen lost years in as many heartbeats.
The curse rebounded. Majir aged twice as many years, just as fast. Suddenly frail, he collapsed.
Inkadi begged, “Why did you do this to me?”
Majir wept, done with excuses. “Fear.” He gazed upon her, spending his last moments seeped in beauty. Oh, how the rose had bloomed.
Word count: 200