The blizzard was growing increasingly worse, but Tristan, nestled into the overstuffed chair and draped in his mother's old blanket, hardly noticed. The storm banged on the outer walls of the castle, but the young prince was too preoccupied with his flickering reflection in the mirror hung above the fireplace to hear it. He was captivated, as he usually was, by the perfection of his face: his dark hair that curled to his ears, his wide black eyes set high on his face, the conceit of his brow, the perfect curl of his lips as he smirked at the glass. He considered his pride and vanity as virtues and wore them well.

He was suddenly broken from his reverie by a servant rushing into the room. Names were meaningless to Tristan, especially those of who were beneath him. He grudgingly motioned for the servant to approach his chair, internally cringing at the thought of this audience being necessary. He longed for his previous solitude.

"Sire," the servant breathed at Tristan's feet, "there is a visitor at the door."

Tristan rolled his eyes and let out a sharp breath. "Order them away." He was not in the mood for entertaining.

"She won't be ordered away," the servant replied, a little too quickly and sharply for Tristan's taste. His patience was wearing thin.

"She? A woman? You expect me to believe that you cannot dismiss a common girl? Order her away." Tristan waved his arm, gesturing for the servant to leave.

But the servant didn't move from Tristan's feet; instead, he bowed lower and stared at the floor. "Sire, there is something about her…I do not think we should force her to go away." A pit of rage bubbled in Tristan's stomach. How dare this idiot offer advice to the next king? His hands clenched into fists and his lips pressed together.

"I don't care," Tristan growled through his gritted teeth, "if she is Aphrodite. I want her gone."

The servant seemed to take a deep breath and shook his head. "I…can't do that. Sire." The fiery ball in Tristan's stomach burst into flames and suddenly he found himself out of his chair and towering over the frightened man. He grabbed the back of the servant's hair and wrenched his head off the floor.

"I am your king," he whispered menacingly in the servant's ear before he slammed the man's face into the white marble floor. He stalked to the door, ignoring the quiet whimpers of the servant.

He navigated through the dark corridors of his castle quickly and surely, intent on forcing the headstrong woman at the doors to leave. His temper flared again when he saw his servants gathered together in the front hall. They surrounded a wrinkled old hag dressed in simple rags who clutched a single red rose tightly in her hand.

"How dare you allow her to enter," Tristan bellowed from across the room. He quickened his steps and watched with reserved amusement as his servants shrank away from the ugly woman. He grabbed one of the maids by her arm and twisted her around to look him in the face.

"Why?" he growled.

"M-m-master, please, have mercy. She's cold and ill. Just for the night, please, sire, let her stay."

"I will do no such thing!" He heaved the maid aside as he advanced toward the undesirable hag. "You," he screamed, pointing a shaking finger in her direction, "are not welcome here. I command you to leave at once."

"Young prince," the old woman begged, dropping to her knees, "please, have pity on me. I have been walking all day, and the storm is so cold."

"Pity is for the weak." Tristan grabbed the woman by her thin dress and dragged her towards the door.

Suddenly, he found he could not move his hand anymore, and the woman slipped away from him and started to float towards the ceiling. A strange wind blew from the hallways, whipping at the hair of those who stood in the great room. The old woman's face started to glow and change, until her features dripped away to striking and beautiful features, and her tattered garments became a flowing green gown that poured down her slender body and covered her hovering feet. She had become so beautiful that Tristan could not tear his eyes away.

"Tristan Hugh," the woman cried in her charming tone, her voice reaching all corners of the castle, "your heart is cold and beastly. Therefore, I am justified in the placing of this curse. From this day forward, your outward appearance will reflect your inward cruelty. You will be a beast, inside and out."

The moment the words were uttered, Tristan felt his body burst into flames. The heat coursed through his veins painfully, reaching everywhere. The fire licked his feet and his hands, consuming them in the flames. His terrified screams echoed through the empty castle and he doubled over onto the floor.

Through the overbearing temperature, Tristan felt his bones crunch and expand. His face and limbs grew at least three times larger and he felt thousands of tiny hairs, like burning needles, burst from every part of his body. His nails grew suddenly and became claws while his teeth became fangs. Tristan lay on the ground, writhing in agony, until finally the transformation was complete.

The room was silent and his servants were huddled in a corner, staring at his weak body in horror. Tristan opened his heavy eyelids slowly and his dark eyes flicked around the room. Finally, he focused on his hands, curled uncomfortably on the cold, stone floor. He let out a soft sob when he realized they were more like paws than hands. His stomach churned as his eyes wandered down to his feet, taking in the tremendous, hairy creature he had become.

"Please," Tristan pled, never moving from his position on the floor, "have mercy." His eyes welled up with tears and he his body started to tremble in fright. To die in this body, to exist forever as a monster, was unthinkable.

"Why?" the woman cried, her shill laugh piercing Tristan, "when you have shown none to me?"

"Please," Tristan whispered, a single tear dripping down his furry face. He held no hope and could think of no other reason for living.

The woman seemed to contemplate this for a moment before she started to speak. "Alright, Tristan. You shall remain in this body unless a beautiful young maiden will agree to marry you as the beast you are. She must never know your secret, or the curse will never be lifted."

Tristan felt nothing but dread course through him. Who would ever marry him as he was now? It was hopeless; life was meaningless, he was better off dead.

"And another thing," the woman recalled, "you will not be able die until you find this girl. Once the curse is lifted, this immortality will be as well.

"This rose," she continued, lifting the ruby flower in her hand, "must never leave this castle. If it does, the maiden will never come to you, and you will remain in this form until the end of time. Keep it always close to you." She threw it down to Tristan's trembling body and giggled another cruel laugh. His eyes were back on the levitating woman, watching as she thought out his punishment.

"You will be allowed to keep your servants," she decided suddenly, thoughtfully tapping her finger against her perfect chin, "but you won't be allowed to see them. They will be invisible whispers, ghosts roaming the halls…yes, that should do quite nicely…"

Her eyes flickered down to Tristan's pathetic body and a flawless grin spread across her face. "This is quite fun!" she giggled again.

Then she was gone. The only evidence that she had existed was the rose, a drop of blood on a stem, Tristan's twisted shape, and the absence of the servants. All else remained the same.