The Beast sat on his stone throne, his arms lashed to the corners of the room. His bones jutted out from his shoulders and lacerations tore through him, soaking his entire body in blood. Something had sliced open his chest, his ribs gone, showing the still beating heart that lay underneath.
Eris froze. This had to be a dream. The old man of the castle appeared behind the Beast, his moth-eaten black robes shaking with dust as he dragged his feet to the throne. He sank to his knees.
This is the future that I see, the old man said, his words more lucid than Eris had ever heard him speak. A king so blinded by vengeance that he does not see his inevitable failure.
Art from The Tempest and the Fire, my Beauty and the Beast retelling. This painting fought me every step of the way, and I’m so glad that I’ve managed to finish it.