It was a mild Saturday—the sort of day where destiny should, by rights, stay politely dormant—when Princess Nell arrived at the foot of Mount Craglebone wearing seven layers of cerulean silk and a look that said "I've had three espressos and I've come to argue with fate."

Wielding a sword she'd named Existential Consequence, Nell now faced the gravest of topographical betrayals, because located inconveniently at the very top of Mount Craglebone was her family's sanctum. The mountain, edged with frost, was such a geological monstrosity that it rose from the continent like an accusatory finger wagging at the Nymbricae themselves.

"Ugh," she declared as she climbed, right after a particularly insolent pebble launched itself into her boot for reasons that felt personal. "Why is every divine revelation always at the top of something? Couldn't the sanctum be, I don't know, in a comfortable shrubbery near sea level?"

But the princess was determined. The "Grand Prophecy of the Royal Line of House Wyndham" was an ancient document so long and self-congratulatory that Nell refused to continue to lose sleep over failing to interpret it any longer.

Halfway through her ascent, Nell encountered a creature of such diminutive kawaii cuteness that she briefly questioned the structural integrity of her soul. 

It was a goat. A small one with a big head and wide, shiny black eyes, with a face like compressed clouds and a bleat that sounded vaguely friendly.

"Sup," she said, crouching dramatically. "Are you an emissary of the divine, or… just a freelance mountain guide?"

The goat blinked once. Then twice. 

"…Know any shortcuts?"

The goat did a little hop-trot as it spun around and headed toward a skinny little path that only the most skilled of mountain goats could traverse. Not Princesses like Nell who preferred wide-stances and stomping so that everyone knew she meant business. 

But then the little goat skipped straight past the pathetic little trail and head-butted a big slab of rock. In one go, the wall crumbled, revealing a much wider, smoother incline for Nell to traverse.

Nell walked up to the goat, impressed. "I shall name you Benjamin Thundercheeks," she declared, relating to the creature's apparent knack for crafting his own path. "And together, we shall thwart destiny with panache."

The path upward became increasingly obnoxious. The air thinned like a nobleman's excuses, the rocks sharpened like a duchess's gossip. All the while, Benjamin insisted on chewing her cloak with quiet, relentless malice.

Nell slipped. Nell tripped. At one point, she may have insulted an entire species of moss. And yet, her resolve remained indomitable, like a cat who refuses to acknowledge gravity.

"I will not be outmaneuvered by sedimentary formations and ankle-height wildlife," she growled, hoisting herself upward using a root.

Benjamin bleated in agreement. Or perhaps dissent. His opinions remained opaque.

By dusk, princess and goat had developed a profound rapport, built on mutual disdain for rocks and a shared appreciation for sarcastic eye contact.

"Do you ever think," Nell asked the goat as they huddled beneath an outcropping, "that fate is just a lazy Nymbricae's excuse for deciding they know what's best for everyone?"

Benjamin chewed meditatively on her glove.

"I knew you'd understand," she sighed.

At long last, the Sanctum came into view—perched on the summit like an overpriced travel lodge. It shimmered with esoteric authority and mild smugness.

Nell stood tall. Her Chelsea-gem-coloured eyes were radiant with purpose. Benjamin licked her boot.

"We did it, Benjy," she whispered. "We made the climb not for glory. Not for honour. But for the right to redact."

And with that, she mounted the final crag, goat in tow. 

At last, her time had come. The Sanctum pulsed with light, its marbled floor etched in golden sigils that shimmered like constellations caught in stone. Tall windows opened to an endless sky.

Nell entered the drafty building, marching straight toward the ever-glowing weave. On it was all thirty-two paragraphs of her family's prophecy:

"And lo, from the bloodline of the first moon-splitter, shall descend she who is not she, nor not-she, but rather one of probable consequence, upon the third turning of the time-that-isn't, during the unseasonably warm eclipse of the frost moon—"

No. No longer. Nell was through with skimming this absurd thing. It was time to officially declare war on it.

Armed with a sewing kit and at least a week's worth of lessons, she fully intended to excise all the fluffy ambiguity and insert something more to her liking. Something like: "Princess Nell shall not be bound by anything except maybe tight leather pants and extremely dramatic entrances."

But alas, fate (being a snarky and petty construct) had other plans.

A hidden guest within the Sanctum appeared from a side room with a flourish and a dramatic gust of wind. The girl, roughly Nell's age with long flowing hair the colour of claret, planted herself directly between Nell and the weave.

"Well, well, someone's playing fast and loose with sacred cosmological contracts," she purred, voice dripping with the practiced insincerity of someone who regularly weaponized eyelash fluttering.

Nell squinted. "Do I know you?"

"Lady Virelle the Stunning," she said, producing a rose-scented calling card that shimmered in five colours. "Winner of the Royal Elegance Trials, Patron Saint of Reflections, and recent recipient of the Handsomest Hero's Handkerchief. Like, I totally thought this was a spa; I heard vague rumours of enlightenment, glowing threads, and inner peace. I was hoping for a foot soak and a nap."

Nell stared at her. "It's not a spa; it's my family's sanctum. I'm here trying to deface prophecy. Now kindly flutter somewhere else."

Virelle's eyes narrowed into aristocratic slits. "You're tampering with fate, aren't you?"

"I'm editing," Nell corrected. "There's a difference. One's illegal. The other is... dubiously unethical."

"But every prophecy exists for a reason!" Virelle argued. "Do you hate the concept of reassurance and security, or something?"

"Funny, my prophecy and I had a meeting, once—I decided to fire it."

Benjamin bleated in vague agreement.

Virelle brandished her sword with a surprisingly snappy flourish. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

Unsheathing her own sword, Nell's eyes sparked with defiance. "You're gonna learn the hard way what happens to people who say things like that to me."

The first strike was swift—Virelle's sword sliced through the air like a note from a holy choir. Nell ducked, her own blade arcing upward to meet it in a clang that echoed through the sanctum like a bell tolling rebellion.

Virelle pressed forward with precision and grace, every movement a line in a sacred text.

Nell parried with chaos.

She spun, pivoted, kicked a marble column for momentum. She rolled under a sweep and slashed cleanly through the material of Virelle's expensive-looking cloak purely out of spite.

"Destiny is never late, darling; you're just impatient!" Virelle proclaimed, her movements fluid, almost balletic, her strikes deliberate and elegant. "If it was meant to happen it, would have!"

"Hey, guess what?" Nell was unpredictable, aggressive, ducking under sweeps and grinning like someone who ate chaos for breakfast. "Free will called—said to tell destiny to stay in its lane!"

Virelle parried Nell's next strike. "Even your doubt is part of the design. I don't fear the unknown; I was meant to walk through it."

They fought for hours. They debated cosmic intent. They even insulted each other's boots. 

"You fight like a stuffy poem," Nell grunted, blocking another precise blow. "A little too polished. Could use a punchline."

"Well, you fight like an earthquake," Virelle retorted. "Loud. Destructive. Unscheduled."

Their blades sparked, and golden embers danced through the air. The floating threads of the weave shivered behind them, catching the glint of steel and prophecy alike.

Nell launched herself off a dais, flipping over Virelle's head and landing in a slide.

"Hey," she huffed, "know of any prophecies that say you're gonna win this?"

"Prophecies tell what must be."

"Aw," said Nell, her grin feral, "then is 'fate' your emotional support excuse?"

She surged forward.

As the battle escalated, the sanctum began to respond. The Weave above them rippled—threads pulled taut, straining, fraying. Each clash of steel created sparks that made the strands flicker like nerves in a divine spine.

Virelle's blade sang a high, mournful note as it connected with Nell's shoulder pauldron, nearly throwing her off balance. Nell staggered, then swept low, catching Virelle off guard and sending her skidding backward across the polished floor.

They paused.

Virelle stood slowly, her breath shallow.

Nell's brow was furrowed, sweat beading on her brow, blood at her lip—but her smile remained.

"You're strong," Virelle admitted. "But strength alone doesn't rewrite the stars."

"Hey, it still gets me in the editing room," Nell corrected, leaning on her sword like it was a cane. "Stubbornness, too. As well as pride in being really, really bad at being told what to do by glowing threads of nonsense."

Nell stepped forward, and with a single, deliberate motion, seized a nearby torch and hurled it straight at the prophecy.

The tapestry almost immediately caught fire in a loud whoosh. 

"There," said Nell, grinning. "I fired it."

"That's not fair! You've just committed arson!" Virelle fumed. "You've vandalized a millennia of cosmic planning!"

"And yet," Nell said smugly, "the stars haven't exploded. Which means either I was right, or the universe is too lazy to correct me."

Virelle turned on her heels, hair glistening like the tears of a unicorn, and declared, "This isn't over. You've just made a rival, Nell the Criminal."

"It's 'Nell the Uncontained'," Nell shouted after her. "And bring snacks next time! Editing prophecy is exhausting!"

With Virelle's departure, Nell tore the tapestry off the wall and stomped out the flames. With that, she finally took out her sewing kit once more, and got to work. 

By the time the Oracle finally waddled in wearing nothing but prophetic robes and a pair of bunny slippers, Benjamin had chewed off two clauses about "peril" and "purity," and Nell had successfully inserted the phrase:

"...and the princess may rewrite her own darned ending, especially if she's clever and under-appreciated."

The prophecy remained partially singed, slightly misspelled, and having been chewed away in places by Benjy the Goat. But rather than change it back, the oracle agreed it was objectively better.