Finally, they reached the Forest of Bones—a bleak, white landscape of petrified trees that looked like the ribs of ancient giants. In its center, on a pedestal of obsidian, sat the Singing Bell. It hummed a low, mournful note that made Bartok’s soul ache.
“I’ve come for the prince’s heart!” Bartok squeaked, drawing his wand. It snapped in half. bartok the magnificent script
“Nonsense, my furry friend!” Bartok chirped, though his knees were knocking. “We are magnificent!” Finally, they reached the Forest of Bones—a bleak,
“And what is that?” she sneered.
Bartok’s ears drooped. He was the court jester, not a hero. He’d never even held a real sword. The closest he’d come to danger was stubbing his toe on a suit of armor. He missed his old friend, Ivan the Terrible’s son—at least he appreciated a good disappearing act. “I’ve come for the prince’s heart