The princess and her friends enter the royal treasure vault (think creamy marble, gold, lit sconces) and moves the statue of her great-grandfather, the land’s founding sorcerer king. She angrily accuses him of having been a despot and a monster, locked away by his own son, and cries as she renounces her crown. She has suffered terribly in the last few weeks.
The statue cracks, the air shimmers, and the sorcerer appears, smirking. (Think Joe Pantoliano as Cypher in a gold robe.)
One of the allies accuses him of orchestrating this. “You could never escape until the kingdom fell. You needed to make one of your own descendants so crushed she despaired.”
The princess punches him. He staggers back, catches himself, wipes blood from his nose and sneers.
“But I have tried other ways. Many other paths.”
The sorcerer waves a hand and more versions of him appear.
“And now I will take my realm back from my ungrateful children.”
But the princess shakes her head. “You needed me to feel helpless.” She doesn’t any more.
One of the other versions of the sorcerer fails to fully appear, still and transparent.
Her allies faces off with the sorcerer doubles, who now look rather uncertain.
And then another version appears, wearing travelling clothes, followed by an apprentice.
“Ah, this must be the road not travelled. Well, we must all confront our worst self at some point...”
