If I Must

The Transformation.

Lily was leaving the Palace stealthily through the servant's corridors when she saw a royal footman in the lobby, but he was not a footman from this monarchy. Puzzled, she stayed hidden behind the thick curtains and waited to hear what he was doing there. The Queen's handmaid came out to meet him, which meant that he had probably requested an audience with the Queen herself, something that would never be granted. That's when she heard the news— the Prince of Buchanon had issued a marriage proposal to Margaret.

She left quickly through the foyer. How absurb, how outrageous, how sudden- the repulsive Prince of Buchanon, wanting to marry the Princess? What would he want with her? Who had filled his head with such an idea as to propose to the most eligible debutante in the world, especially when he was widely considered the least likeable, and eligible, Prince in all of the Union?

Her pulse quickened, her blood boiled. The Queen would be so naive as to actually give this awful proposal serious consideration. Even if she did not, the law stated that the noblemen of the kingdom got to pick their brides, and could not face opposition if they picked a woman first. If nothing was done about this, Margaret would have to marry the Prince, whether she was pleased by it or not.

She ran through the walk to the palace gates. There, she stopped and allowed herself a moment to breathe, to think. It only did her a disservice. Her rage increased to uncontrollable proportions. There, under the light of the full moon, she transformed. As much as she tried to avoid it, she could not help it- this was a part of her, she could not change who she was.

She grew larger as hair started sprouting all over her body. Her teeth elongated, sharpened into fangs, and claws fought their way out of her hands. This always happened when something infuriated her, when someone got too close to harming Margaret. This time, however, she was in danger of actually losing her. Bloodlust engulfed her. Lily knew what she had to do.

She took off at a surprisingly fast pace, faster than she had ever run before. If the Prince had sent word that quickly, he had to be residing in the Palace that was designated for visiting dignitaries. It would not be too difficult to get there. She had to do this, she had to. Otherwise, the Queen might marry her poor sister off to an imbecile, and she would have a miserable marriage and never be happy again. She had to do this to save the woman she loved.

The visitor's palace was quiet. Perhaps all the servants were at the main palace, assisting with the ball. Her ears perked up as they picked up distant sounds- two voices, both male, presumably the Prince and his equerry. She followed the noise, correctly pinpointing the location of the Prince's chamber.

Their backs were to the door as the equerry moved the Prince's luggage in and the Prince prepared his bed. She took the chance to slip, unobserved, into the attached bathroom and hide. The equerry soon left for the night, the Prince approached the bathroom. She braced herself for what she was about to do. She grabbed the nearest candlestick and, as soon as he walked through the bathroom doors, brought it down upon his head as hard as she possibly could.

A thud resounded as he fell to the ground limply. He was an unbearable personality, and now she could see that he had a face to match. It was beastly. No woman would want to walk up to this face every morning. She was enraged, she wanted nothing more than to maul him to bits and scatter them so that he could never have a royal burial, but that would only raise suspicions. She had to make his death look like an accident.

As a crown prince, he had likely trained with a sword. With a single claw she gashed him deeply across his chest. Blood started gushing out, and she had to be careful to avoid stepping in it and leaving tracks. She made her way to his luggage, open each of the suitcases to make it seem as if he had been in the process of unpacking. In the biggest suitcase she found his sword, large, heavy and just as arrogant as its owner. Back in the bathroom, she placed the handle near his palm, giving the whole scene the appearance of an unfortunate accident.

Quickly she left before the equerry discovered her there. As she raced to her home, the reality of the situation, what she had just done, began to set in. She was not a murderer. How could she kill a man? It was the form, being like this made her violent and aggressive and she did not mean to hurt him but she did, and now he was no longer alive. What had she done?

The weight of guilt slowed her down, the adrenaline was no longer coursing through her blood. She began shifting back into her human form, and had to hurry home before she had completely changed. Once she arrived she locked the doors, closed the windows, and sank into an armchair with her head in her hands. Regret, guilt, mortification was all she could feel, instead of the relief she initially thought she would experience. How could she have done this?