Queen Evilia stood stark naked before her towering full-length mirror, framed in gold and dragon bone, furiously scratching at the inflamed, blistering red splotches spreading like wildfire across her otherwise flawless porcelain skin.
"WHAT IS THIS SORCERY?!" she shrieked, her voice echoing through the obsidian corridors of the royal bedchamber. Terrified handmaidens scattered like startled pigeons, their silk slippers slapping against the marble floors as they fled.
The enchanted mirror cleared its throat with a sound like a polite cough filtered through static. "According to my advanced dermatological enchantments… that appears to be—hives."
"HIVES?!" Evilia bellowed, flinging an ornate perfume bottle toward the mirror with terrifying accuracy. "I AM THE QUEEN! QUEENS. DO. NOT. GET. HIVES!"
The mirror nimbly tilted itself to avoid the projectile, clearly having survived worse tantrums. The bottle shattered against a velvet-curtained wall, releasing a mist of cursed lilac that turned a passing spider into a frog.
Out in the herb garden, Snow White poked her head through a window frame, a basket of suspiciously glowing flora cradled in her arms. "Oh yikes," she said, cocking her head. "That's the worst case of magical buyer's remorse I've ever seen."
The queen spun, robe tangling around her feet, nearly sending her sprawling. Her eyes locked onto the younger woman like a predator spotting prey. "YOU!" she hissed. "What did you do, you barefoot botanical menace?!"
Snow raised an innocent eyebrow. "Me? I've just been… gardening." She held up a bunch of vibrant purple leaves, which pulsed faintly with a light that suggested they were humming in Latin.
The mirror gasped, its voice dropping into scandalized italics. "Is that… Poison Ivy of the Magical Variety?"
Snow shrugged with theatrical nonchalance. "Maybe~" she sang, tossing the leaves into her basket like confetti. "Fun fact: it only affects vain people who use too much enchanted skincare. Weird, right?"
By high noon, the queen's condition had reached catastrophic levels:
Her face had puffed up like a cursed soufflé, making her look like a startled toad in a crown.
Her emergency leeches, tired of the royal drama, had unionized and slithered out chanting, "Better bloodsucking conditions now!"
The royal physician, after a hurried consultation with a grimoire and three skeptical crows, diagnosed her with acute magical allergic existential crisis.
"This is YOUR FAULT!" the queen screeched across the absurdly long banquet table, pointing a trembling, greenish finger at Snow White.
Snow, unbothered, spread jam over her toast with surgical precision. "Technically," she said, "according to Chapter 7 of Royal Botanical Law, any monarch who attempts to assassinate her stepdaughter with enchanted apples forfeits all future sympathy in cases of plant-based karma."
Grumpy, who had somehow secured a spot at the royal breakfast table (and was already on his third cinnamon bun), snorted. "She's got you there, Pumpkin Face."
The queen's resulting scream shattered three stained-glass windows depicting her own glorious coronation. One of the shards embedded itself into a passing tapestry, which promptly caught fire.
In desperation, Queen Evilia summoned the royal wizard—Archmage Borbin the Mostly-Reputable.
"I shall perform the Ancient Rite of Soothing Scratching!" he declared, raising his wand like a divining rod.
POOF!
The spell had mixed results:
The itching ceased instantly.
The queen's skin was replaced with velvety, sentient moss.
Everyone within ten feet suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to water her with teacups, holy water, or leftover soup.
"Well," mused the mirror, as footmen awkwardly poured Earl Grey over the queen's head, "at least now you're finally green with envy."
Snow facepalmed so hard, the imprint of her hand stayed on her forehead. "I'll go get the antidote herbs," she muttered.
By nightfall, things had… escalated.
The red splotches had evolved.
"We are the Hive Mind," announced the patches on her arms, their voices eerie and unified. "We demand better working conditions and foot rubs."
The queen whimpered as her left elbow rash began drafting a manifesto.
Snow returned with an armful of glowing blue flowers. "Alright. Deal time. I cure you, and you promise to stop trying to murder me with fruit."
"NEVER!" Evilia spat defiantly, even as the rash on her thigh started a chant of "STRIKE! STRIKE! STRIKE!"
Doc, peering through a magnifying monocle, nodded. "Fascinating. Her immune system has achieved class consciousness."
The final showdown unfolded in the royal bath chamber:
Snow wielded a feather duster enchanted with temporary distraction magic.
The dwarves formed a frantic bucket brigade, passing herbal infusions and dubious poultices.
The queen's sentient bathrobe, incensed by the working conditions, joined the rash in protest.
"JUST TAKE THE ANTIDOTE!" Snow hollered, narrowly avoiding a flying loofah that disintegrated midair.
"FINE!" the queen wailed, as her kneecap rash began writing grievances on the marble floor. "I PROMISE NOT TO POISON YOU FOR—FOR A WHOLE WEEK!"
Snow paused, considered the offer, then nodded. "Good enough."
She tossed the glowing blue blossoms into the air.
POOF!
The cure took effect instantly:
The queen's skin returned to its usual cold, ageless perfection.
Her hair turned rainbow-colored for a full three hours, drawing compliments from confused birds.
She developed a lingering, irrational fear of ferns and begonias.
As Queen Evilia examined her reflection with a mix of vanity and trauma, Snow leaned toward the dwarves and whispered, "Best part? Those were just regular chamomile. The rash was entirely psychosomatic."
"Technically," the mirror offered, "it was all over her—"
CRASH! The queen hurled a hairbrush with lethal precision.
The mirror wisely decided to go silent for the rest of the night.