"Tell me a tale, old witch, of despair and love, of courage and bravery. Sing to me the story of dreams, yet also the story of our history. Please read to me the story of a kingdom on the brink of disaster, of the lust of men, the disguises that ruined a facade, and the little mistakes made by the women of legendary beauty. Explain to me how this happened here, in Whael, of the magic involved and the manipulation that contolled beauty with an iron fist. Tell me the tale, please old crone, tell me this tale of deceit."
The old woman, shrouded in black, raised one, withered hand to her hood, and pulled it down, revealing her aged face, making the boy jump. It wasn't her ugliness that did this, rather where her eyes were, there were none.
"You mean the story of the dancing shoes."
