It's all happened so quickly" Princess Mary of the Demyrth province remarked to one of her servants.
Life had been simple for the 15-year-old up until a week ago. Her father, Magnus, had ruled as king of Demyrth for 15 years. Magnus attempted to maintain a functioning, if not happy, kingdom but an extended drought had robbed Demyrth of whatever little resources it had.
Still, his people loved him, and Mary expected her father to rule for a long time. However, one morning, one of Magnus' aides found the king dead in his bed. His heart had given out, and while there was no way to determine it, Mary knew her father had been murdered.
"You will make a great queen" Mary's servant Ishti exclaimed, as she brushed the teen's long brown hair.
"I know" Mary responded, not believing it for a second. In her brief capacity as interim ruler, Mary found that she could not handle the sheer amount of daily duties required of her and found little to no respect shown to her by her subjects. The coronation ceremony was in three days, and in Mary's mind, there would be no way she makes it. She believed the same people who murdered her father would have little appetite for his bloodline to continue.
She felt trapped. If she attempted to run, she wouldn't make it thirty yards without one of her guards or a rival faction capturing her. If she stayed in power, she was an easy target and in her own mind, someone not capable of ruling the kingdom. She knew she had to make some difficult decisions.
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After everyone else was asleep, Mary decided to sneak out of her room. She walked out and headed towards the stairs to the dungeon.
As she made her way down, she could hear the castle's apothecary, Bertram, at work. Bertram had been a dear friend of her father, and had acted as a mentor towards her.
"Hello little crane, what brings you down at such a late hour" the elderly potion maker asked her.
"I need one of your magic potions." Mary pleaded. "I'm not ready to handle the kingdom like this."
Bertram shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that. My potions are very powerful and giving one to someone as young as you would likely result in mortal wounds."
Mary did not take this well. She ran up to Bertram and started pounding her fists on him, continuing her pleas for a potion. "You have to give me one! You just have to! I can't....I can't" she bleated as she fell to the floor sobbing.
Bertram felt conflicted. He had an ethical duty to not cause harm to the princess, but yet, her life was in grave peril in her current state. Seeing no other options, Bertram went to one of his cabinets and pulled out a flask with a viscous substance.
"I do have a potion that would be safe for your use." Bertram said. "It transforms the drinker into something new; the issue is that it's unpredictable and I have no way of knowing what you would become."
Mary, in an almost fugue state, barely registered what Bertram was warning her about. To her, becoming something new was the only thing she cared about. Before Bertram could raise an objection, Mary took the flask and drank it whole.
"That went down better than one of father's ales." Mary remarked. "I'm not sure what-"
Mary caught the words in her throat as she felt a sharp pain in her stomach. She collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain.
"MARY!" Bertram yelled, panicked. He could only be a bystander to what came next.