Abigail Lynn was a terrifying sight to behold. Even at five winters, her caregivers knew there was something off about her. She was not the rosy-cheeked, darling princess the kingdom had expected, or the healthy heir they needed. She could do things-dangerous things-that should not be possible for an adult to do, let alone a child.
 
    It started fairly innocuous, so much so that no one would have thought anything of it had it not been for what was to come later. The first night the young princess was to sleep separate from her parents, it rained against the foreknowledge of the mages. It was only a light sprinkle, to be truthful, and it was easily overlooked as a wild fluke, and the mages assured the king they would be investigating the circumstances thoroughly.

    And yet, with all their power, they could not determine the cause of the rain, even as it steadily grew stronger and stronger with each disappointment and sorrow the girl faced, even if the child had grown more and more ill with every incident. Had it not been for the queen falling sick herself and subsequently perishing in Abigail’s fifth year, the strange weather may have continued to confound the mages for years more. But, with the queen’s death, the kingdom suffered a storm like which they had never known. 

    The earth shook and splintered, the sea rose, and bolts of lightning cracked the sky in half. The very buildings they stood in started to collapse as the princess fell to the floor screaming, hacking, and sobbing as her father tried to drag her from her mother’s bedside. Had it not been for the chief mage noticing that each pounding of thunder and shaking of earth coincided perfectly with the child’s grief, the entire kingdom might have been lost. But notice he did and, with a spell on his lips and a hand on her forehead, the princess slept.
The storm ceased at once. The earth stilled. The sea sank. The sky cleared. 

    “My King,” the chief mage spoke tentatively, yet his gaze was resolute. “My King, you tasked me to discover the cause of the storms plaguing our land.”

    The king looked anxiously to the mage, tearing his gaze from the small body clutched limply to his chest. “I did,” he responded, his voice a whispered croak. Sadly, the chief mage nodded to the sleeping child. 

    “You cradle it in your arms, my King.” The king’s face crumpled, and his shoulders shook, his stress and grief making him appear years older. 

    “What suggest you?” he said a moment later, after his composure had returned. But it was clear he already knew what the chief mage would say. 

    “She is too powerful,” a second mage spoke.

    “But worse than that, she will be unable to control this power at such a young age.”

    “One outburst could level the kingdom, my lord,” said another. “It nearly did.”

    The chief mage nodded. “If she does not wake then she will not feel. If she does not feel, she cannot accidentally raze the kingdom to the ground.”

    The king’s eyes hardened and his grip on his child tightened, though it lost none of its gentleness. “I will not allow you to harm my daughter.”

    “So, we shall not,” said the chief mage. “I do not mean harm; I mean sleep as she does now. She will wake when it is safe for her to do so.”

    The king was silent for several moments, his fingers caressing his daughter’s hair. Seeing that his king was not entirely convinced, the chief mage spoke again.

    “It is not only for the good of the kingdom I say this, my King,” he said. “But it is for the good of the princess as well. At least until we can find a cure for whatever ails her.”

    “But she will wake?” Hope filled the king’s eyes. It was such blinding hope that the chief mage could not bear to look at it. Instead, his gaze lowered to the sleeping girl. 

    “She will wake,” the chief mage repeated, his robes gliding across the floor as he approached the girl, hand extended. “When it is safe for her to do so.”

    The king took a deep breath and turned teary-eyed towards his child. He bowed his head to place a gentle kiss on her brow and then, pointedly looking away, he nodded. He could not look when his daughter’s warm body was lifted from his arms and carried away by the mages, and only when they left did he allow himself to weep. 

    Two giant structures were built within the week. The first was a grand entombment for the queen, who was much beloved. It was filled with treasure and gifts beyond measure, the likes and descriptions of which were never chronicled. The second was a tall, spindly tower made of obsidian. In this tower, the princess was rumored to lay, sleeping until her curse could be broken. No visitors were permitted by the child’s side, as the mages feared a disturbance could awaken Abigail and bring the kingdom crashing down.

    But, against the knowledge of the king, the child did not rest in the tower. Instead, the mages took it upon themselves to lay her with her mother, deep in the ground where they felt she could never threaten the kingdom again. 
It was there she slept for years, as, secretly, the mages had no desire to ever wake her. She was too dangerous and unpredictable. They knew not what state of mind she would have when she woke, nor would it be likely that she would be able to control her emotions any more as an untrained adult than as an untrained child. If anything, they feared, she would become wrathful upon learning what they had done to her, and she would destroy them all. 

    But secrets cannot be kept forever, and every ghost of the past will eventually come to light. Fate decided that the princess would not sleep forever. All it would take to wake her, it said, was a young thief, desperate to pay a debt his family owed, chasing the riches of the queen’s fabled treasure. 

    Many years later, after two decades of nary a storm in sight, the tomb opened, and it began to snow.