CHAPTER ONE

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A Divergence of Ruination

THE SYMPHONY PLAYED OUT  as musicians tugged the strings of their violins, an exceptionally somber melody traversing the vastness of the salon as notes cascaded from dutiful instruments. All across the Palace's ballroom, vestments scraped the polished marble tiles.  Women clinked champagne flutes with astonishingly indulgent men, batting ebony eyelashes in a coquettish manner. The overly potent odor of fragrance was intoxicating, so much so that one could slip past reverie simply by sashaying across the salon.

Servants scrambled around, trays of sumptuous delicacies in their hands, and slithered through the crowd like shadows—passable figures in a sea of brilliant apollos, each lady a more refined jewel that enhanced the metaphorical crown of the regency. High ceilings held magnificent chandeliers, yet the light in the ballroom was dim, silvery, and almost tangible as one floated across the floor inebriated on passion and merriment.

Irene Sovetskaya played with the flute in her hand, a delicate finger trailing the edge in an almost taunting pattern as falcon eyes scrutinized the room. Across the salon, the throne to Mirzemla stood pridefully, made of the most honed iron and crafted by the best smiths in the land. Emperor Lebedev sat on it in an overbearing manner, crown fallen back on his head and circling his balding spot, legs outstretched and movements lethargic as he took in his subjects.

Hatred pooled in the girl's guts, so much so that she tightened her grip on the champagne glass until it quivered in her hold. Still, her face remained apathetic, a talent she had acquired after twenty years of existence, and nobody would have noticed the excruciating swirl of thoughts that dilated her pupils.

A hand wrapped around hers, slowly unwinding the digits from the flute, and Irene turned steely eyes to Abraxas Malfoy, scrunching her nose at his pestering sneer and knowing gaze.

"It would be a pity to waste such expensive alcohol by spilling it," he muttered, his striking periwinkle irises twinkling with amusement at her peeved expression. He made to pick the drink from her hold, but the girl drew her hand back.

"I would not put my lips on this if I were you," Irene decreed, already moving across the floor to find a more private space to talk. She felt eyes trailing her movements, and a quick glance around the ballroom told her that she was being watched by the guards, who did not take lightly to two magic bearers openly interacting in public.

The witch's steps accelerated in fright, not for herself but for Abraxas. Her title of Countess of the Sovetsky territory sheltered her from direct retaliation, but the Malfoy heir was much more open to attack, for he was a foreign bloodline on Mirzemlan territory. Although his striking platinum hair might have had him blend in with the other noblemen, Abraxas' accent was still terrible after four years of residency in the land. No matter how many language lessons his father had paid for, the boy had tenaciously clung to his peculiar identity, wishing to stand out amongst the rest of harshly-cut men at court.

"And why is that, exactly?" he questioned when they found a secluded balcony, opening the doors and letting the winter wind caress their forms.

"Poison," her answer came simply, baffling the boy as it always did. It was hemlock this time, a plant she had ground up and sizzled in her drink, having it sink in her glass. To prove her point, Irene lifted the champagne flute, letting the moonshine expose the solid parts at the bottom.

Without another word, she brought it to her lips, wetting them at first before slowly sipping on the alcohol. The taste of poison had stopped phasing Irene a long time ago—she had been taking small bits for years, building immunity slowly. It had started out as paranoia at first. Her parents had been killed with a brew that had never been traced, and they had died of a brutal death. The medics had discerned that it had been poured in their drinks, somehow managing to slip past both the tasters and chefs, who claimed they had not tampered with it. Still, Irene had not hesitated in having them sent away and out of Mirzemla.

There had been repercussions for engaging in such self-damaging activities, as poison tended to harm the tissue even in the most minor bits. Irene's statue had remained relatively petite, her skin almost transparent, her hair a little sparkless. As much as her maidens tried to cover it through thicker layers of clothing and an absurd amount of powder, the sickly translucence never seemed to fade away. It clung to the girl's figure, sticking to her bones until they whined with her every move. Until the iniquity that had shredded her soul attempted to claw itself out, bursting her intestines open and having them fall to the ground.

Servants whispered. They told tales of a girl who, after her parents' assassination, had been abducted and drowned in the Kovak Lake, her epidermis turning to that of such victims and the light inside her perishing. Then, almost as if her soul had splintered yet her vessel had preserved, she had dragged herself out from the bottom of the water, trudging to the Manor well past the witching hour. Her flesh was not that of the commoner; her blood was not that of the simple-minded nobleman. She was a witch, and witches had the power to survive such incidents.

They called her Countess of the Undead.

She certainly looked the part, and perhaps that is why the name had stuck long after the suspicions of her broken soul had perished. Irene did not mind it. In fact, she much preferred it over other names the people of Mirzemlan had given her, comparing her to creatures of the night, to water nymphs that came back to haunt the living.

The only spirit that haunted the Sovetsky Manor was the umbra of vengeance that scattered over the horizon, a call for Irene to avenge her parents and slay the Emperor.

But it was hard to reach someone who was revered to the level of the gods, old and new.

"Anyhow," she skimmed over the subject, not wanting to dwell on it when there were other pressing matters at hand, "what do you think of the Emperor's son? What a brainless oaf he is. There is nothing beyond those dark eyes; he is poetic beauty and nothing more. A rose without thorns, practically begging for a manipulative hand to pluck it and watch it die."

Abraxas shrugged, "If you are talking about having him pick you as a potential bride, then let that thought go. We both know Thomas Lebedev would rather walk on broken glass than put up with you. His father made sure to brainwash him into believing that all subjects that possess magic are rodents."

"He could outride his father's decision if he wanted to," argued Irene for no reason other than to be against Malfoy's point of view. She knew he was right.

"Perhaps," rasped Abraxas, leaning against the balcony railing and looking out into the night, "but he will not."

Mountains quarreled with the sheath of obscurations. They made the stars look like capsized ships splintered on dusk's pelagic shore. The scenery of Mirzemla never failed to be breathtaking, with its varying landscapes and natural splendor. Half of the country was covered in evergreen trees, with triangle-topped points that scarified against the skies and begged to the gods. Swamps were scattered throughout the pulsating heart of the woods, crawling with night creatures that sought to wrap fleshed fingers around the necks of wandering souls.

Irene loved the dangers and thrills of living in Mirzemla, and it was her love for the country that had prevented her from simply packing up and leaving, starting somewhere far away from the tombs in her courtyard. It would have been easier, certainly. To take on a kingdom was no light task, but Sovetskaya was the youngest Countess in the past two decades, and had the viciousness and bitterness of belladonna flowers— alluring blossoms that dripped with poison.

"What a pity," she sighed, joining her friend in leaning against the railing and staring out into the night, "marrying that brainless baboon would have been the easiest path to the Emperor's death. It was practically an invitation to kill him in his sleep. Use my magic so that I could rot him alive."

Many times, the witch had debated simply striking Lebedev from afar, turning his blood to mercury, having the capillaries inside his brain burst, impaling him with a sword that countered the lithe Excalibur. But there was danger in such endeavours—Irene had to secure a steady ascension to the crown before she could even think of murder, for it would have been a fair game otherwise. It was better to plan, to scheme.

"We will think of something else, little swan. Do not get wrinkles from thinking too much."

Irene snorted, "Yes, I must keep my face intact, for what is a Countess without her beauty?"

The sarcasm did not phase Abraxas, who kept his jestful smirk and extended her an elbow. "Let us head back inside before we are accused of treason for slipping away together. The two hip-bound sorcerers, with our evil potions and pagan ways."

Irene took his offer, strolling back inside with the foreign boy.  She gripped the edge of her scorpion-black gown and felt the material crease under her fingers. The heavy layers of silk and lace had been imported specifically for her, transported on the ships that Abraxas' family-owned as merchants of the Tsar. The outlandish bloodline had settled in the ports of Mirzemla, tensile structures high towers of exotic wealth and prestige, and had disembarked their cargo and shipped it directly to the regency. It was only a matter of time before the Emperor had welcomed them into his land, offering them the title of Barrons.

The orchestra sustained its stringed tune, tones bouncing off of partitures and circulating the room.  They offered solace to the art-stricken souls that congested Emperor Lebedev's ballroom. Irene toyed with the feathered edges of her sleeves, mind whirring as she took in the attendees with an astute glare. Her gaze caught on the Tsar's obnoxious son—Thomas  Lebedev waltzed around in a blue imperial uniform a size too big for him settling his eyes on the witch.

"Sovetskaya," he called out to her as one does to a dog, urging the girl to approach with a slight movement of his hands. Around the prince, court ladies and men parted, creating a passage between the two.

Irene shot Abraxas a meaningful look, then pushed her hair over her shoulder and walked forward, heels clicking against the ballroom floor until she stood face to face with the prince.

And what an absolutely ravishing sight he was—the Emperor's son had been born under a salmon moon, stars almost aligning to foretell blessings for the regency. The Oracles, few sorcerers that served the church and had had their Old Gifts forgiven of sin, had predicted his birth to be a sign of hope, of prosperity, for only he who was delivered by the gods' blessing was to rule next in line. A boy with the face of a seraph, cobalt eyes opening on the day of Saint Tom—he was destined to be the tsardom's salvation.

But Irene thought there was no truth to such words, for Thomas Lebedev was as dull as the paupers that loitered the murky boulevards of Vespagrad, capital of their country. He might have been a sculpture of aristocracy, with inky curls and high cheekbones, but there was nothing beyond the two azure stones that made his irises. The prince was, to put it plainly, a simpleton.

"Word has reached me that you have been requesting counsel with the Emperor's advisors," the prince sighed, watching the girl as she curtsied before him.

"Your Highness, as Countess of the Sovetsky territory, I must only ensure that trading between the capital and my county goes smoothly." Her lies spilled like rose petals from a withering flower, delicate in their fall. She watched with taupe eyes as the prince sniffled and shifted on his feet, clearly not intellectual enough to discuss the issue of commerce.

After the Count had been murdered six years ago, the Emperor had placed an embargo on all imports from Irene's territory, claiming that a young girl could not possibly handle such affairs before marriage. It had been a condescending remark, as well as another way of stripping the Sovetsky name of power. For what good was a noble girl with no actual influence? All affairs had been handled directly by the regency and a council made of advisors.

As such, the diamonds that had been mined from the Sovetsky county were directly transported to Vespagrad, Irene having no say in the pricing or the draining of the earthly resources. Mirzemla was a powerful country divided into six territories, each with its own culture and specific trading habits. Irene's parents had been owners of one, direct subordinates of the Emperor, and now she was to abide by his rules as well.

The witch had no plan to do such a thing.

"I see," Thomas Lebedev mumbled, lifting a champagne flute from the nearby trays and downing it in one move. He then threw the glass over his head, letting it smash against the marble, and pointed a finger at the girl. "I allow you to seek out the advisors, then."

Irene put on a sham smile, then bowed her head. "Such kindness in your soul, Your Highness."

Without another word, the prince pushed past. His crowd of lackeys followed suit, one more schmoozing than the other. Malfoy stepped to the side, ignoring the aggravated looks they threw his way, for everyone knew Abraxas was untouchable. Only the Emperor could harm the import officials.

"Well," he sighed, taking Irene by the hand despite her protests and dragging her away, "I suppose all there is left to do is dance."

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Irene's carriage wobbled slightly. The rocks underneath had it spasm like a dying rodent as it crossed the main boulevard that connected the capital, Vespagrad, to the nearby counties. Inside, the seats were covered in lavish leather and furs, making the most out of the specific Mirzemlan designs. Gleaming silver curled on the walls in obscure swirls, decorating the buggy, and curtains covered the windows that looked out into the night. A single candle illuminated the carriage as Irene skimmed the letter in her hands, her eyebrows furrowed in discontent.

Across from her, Abraxas was sprawled out over the seat, eyes closed as he hummed himself an idle tune. His raven-black suit jacket had been thrown over the edge, and his tie had been unfastened to allow for facilitated breathing. Although his hair was still combed upward in the typical courtesan fashion, strands had begun falling over his forehead, and the boy pushed them away in irritation.

Azure eyes shot to the witch, "Stop fussing and scheming every second."

"No."

"What good does it do to worry over the accounting? You have no control over it."

Irene lifted her stare to the sorcerer, eyes narrowing, "That does not mean I should not know what they are doing with my resources. I mean," she pushed herself from the sofa and onto the ground, not caring for manners, "look at this. They have been depleting the mines for two years. The amount of jewels they are getting lessens every month. If they keep going at this rate, all will be gone in three years. And then I will have lost the last thing that grants me immunity."

"That is what the Emperor wants."

Crumpling the letter in her hands, Irene shook her head. "Time is running out. We must act quickly."

"It is not for lack of trying that we have not infiltrated the court, Sovetskaya. The only way for our sort to be allowed inside the Palace for more than a few hours is through marriage; we have discussed this." Abraxas shot up, stretching out his hands and sighing, "And Lebedev will not marry you. He is as brainless as they come, whereas you are well versed with classics and politics. A man will never marry a woman so above his intelligence; they are threatened."

"Nothing is more fragile than a Mirzemlan man's ego. Just like their performance in bed."

"Delightful," mumbled Malfoy in a lackluster voice, "Good thing I am a foreigner."

"Do not worry; whispers of your affairs circulate the court faster than an attire trend. Last I heard, you bedded Lady Bodrova regardless of her being betrothed to Barron Vistin."

"A Barron had no lands; they are nothing compared to Counts."

"You are a Barron, Malfoy."

"Ah," mumbled the man, pointing an accusatory finger at Irene, "You offend me, dear. I have the sea."

"The sea is not that which can be owned," argued Irene, falling into a familiar pattern of bickering that had followed their four years of friendship, "It is freedom. Land can be conquered; the sea belongs to all countries of the continent."

"But my father controls the trade, and that means he owns the sea." Abraxas laughed, "Your philosophical way of thinking is not applicable in matters of sailing or commerce. I am the richest bachelor in Mirzemla, title forsaken or not."

"And all it will take for you to lose it is one decree from the crown."

"That is why I endanger my life by hanging around you, dear. So that when the day comes, and you murder the royal family, I will be able to coin in all of the nights spent putting up with your arrogance."

Right as Irene opened her mouth to argue, the carriage convulsed fiercely, making her tumble to the side and hit one of the walls. Then, the movement halted altogether, stillness veiling over the space.

"What is happening?" rasped the girl, pushing herself upward to glance out the window. By her side, Malfoy's hands seemed to almost sizzle with magic, his sorcery threads of iniquity that tightened around the atmosphere.

Sovetskaya felt her throat constrict with trepidation. The possibility of an ambuscade had her heart drum against the ribcage, each movement barely cushioned by her coelom. Her hair fell around a pointy face carved from the stony bedrock of Sovetskaya territory, threads of silver entangled through in a chic coiffure, and her gown sprawled around her like a circle of inky darkness.

Peril permeated the perimeter, extending as if particles had accelerated until there was a current ransacking the area, making the hair on the witch's arms raise, and her nervous system deteriorate. The edges of her vision turned darker, and each breath felt like drowning. It felt like a memory of dying.

Part of her knew that she should have never survived the attack. It had been an arrogance against destiny to defy that which had been written down in bloodied ink for her. Alas, that was to be her fatal flaw, hubris, as well as her salvation, for it had been the wings of a fallen angel that had spread in stubbornness and paddled in the Kovak Lake.

And even when others turned noses at her indifference and coinciding nature, Irene never cared much for it. If to drown in the pages of philosophy and acquire knowledge was to be haughty, then she could not bring herself to care. Knowledge was the key to survival; it made her understand humans around them, have them placed like pawns on her chessboard.

Still, in the presence of a possible attack, her mind seemed to collapse in on itself, and despite the number of hours spent imagining an exact moment such as this one, Irene could not find it in herself to rise from the ground. Abraxas had been right. She meant to kill the Tsar but had no means of doing so. Least of all, courage.

But Malfoy acted fast—he was on his feet in mere seconds, kicking the door open and jumping into the boulevard, hands out and ready to cast a curse at whichever road thief decided to ambush them. The boy possessed elemental magic, allowing him to control every shape and state of earthly resources, and bend them to his will. There were multiple applications for such a practice, but the one he used most was controlling the tides and sails of his boats, having them go out into the sea with no chance of sinking.

"It is only me!" screamed out a squeaky voice from the front, and the coachman pushed forward, stumbling to the ground. His oval-shaped face had grown berry red from panic and fright, and his slicked-back hair was mayhem on a shiny forehead. The long blue coat of the Stovesky staff was wrinkled, and the man's chest rose and fell quickly as he struggled to catch his breath.

"Why did you stop the coach like this, you fool?" snarked Abraxas, terrifying eyes settling on the man. With a few large steps, the heir grabbed the coachman by the uniform, pulling him close and sniffing his breath, "You reek of alcohol! How dare you endanger the Countess' life by being so careless?"

"Abraxas, settle," mumbled Irene as she stepped out of the carriage as well, a pale glare clinging to her complexion as dull eyes analyzed the circumstances.

"The carriage broke down, Lady Courtesy," the servant stumbled with his words, barely remembering to use her title. He gestured towards one of the wheels that had fallen to the side, making the buggy lean slightly.

At the front, two zevacks used their breaks to sniff the snowy ground, trying to look for something to graze on, but to no avail. They were creatures of the night, one of the few species that had been domesticated by the Mirzemlans, with their incredible speed and muscular bodies. Most men mounted them in battle, swinging swords from the backs of the impressive creatures. With their conformation a mixture between a horse and a bird, they looked all the more intimidating in the darkest hours, when they let umbrae veil them.

"Where are we?" Irene questioned, frowning at the surroundings. Somewhere in the country-side, no doubt, if the unpaved surrounding paths and the lack of any stately buildings were to go by.

The boulevard was a long, two-way street that connected most counties with the capital, bordered by towering lamp-posts that echoed themselves in patterns of three. The overcast azure stood above them, crowded clouds gathering and enveloping the moon as webs of lightning struck the expansion of the universe. In the distance, mountains stood pridefully, clothed in fauna that made them appear as monsters sizing the world. Snow had blanketed most of their surroundings, almost translucent as luminescence cascaded from above. There was something enigmatic about the scenery, something wholly unsettling.

"We are a few minutes away from the nearest town center by foot. You can ride the zevacks there while I wait here for help. It would be dangerous to stay out in the open during the night," argued the coachman, stumbling from his alcohol-ridden blood.

The Countess could not help but agree. Road thieves were a ubiquitous threat to any travelers that used the boulevard past sunset, a hazard to the safety of the nobility. With their metal swords and harsh hands, they ambushed without thinking twice, and most of the time there were no survivors to tell the tale and identify the attackers.

Irene suddenly felt incredibly susceptible to them, her waist bare of any weapon. She had spent hours sparring with a personal trainer at her estate, her needle sword an extension of herself. Still, it would have been reckless to go to the Palace armed, especially when her magic was already a threat. Any sorcery practice had been banned, save for the few Oracles under the church, and as such, Irene was usually left defenseless.

That is why she needed to find a safe way inside. She had to be cautious.

Abraxas brought the zevacks forward, saddling them promptly before helping the Countess mount the beasts. Irene tightened her hands around the reigns, taming down the zevack with an effortless command. Her gown pooled around as she kicked her leg into the side of the creature, and they set into motion. The girl's cape rippled in the breeze behind her, and she barely registered the vibration of Malfoy's own transport over the whirring air in her ears. There was liberty in riding; she enjoyed it a lot. The awareness of the heart speeding up along with the galloping sound, the world hurling by as thunderbolts struck the sky, silver light stroking her visage.

Thunder rumbled like an omnipotent king, and Irene made the zevack dart by faster, the ghost of a smile on her lips as the sight of a rusted town peeked over the horizon. Plank walls, bricked edges, haystacks—all strewed amongst the muddied snow as the witch and her friend pulled into the opening. The houses looked crooked, wire fences barely protecting the yards from being invaded by the few stray dogs that yelped to be let inside, terrified by the sight of the zevacks. The streets were muddy, paved with small pebbles rather than concrete, and vegetation grew wild to the sides, endless areas of untamed land surrounding the few paint-chipped buildings. Smoke eddied from several chimneys, and some windows held flickering light as villagers moved in front of their candles to peek through tinted glass and catch sight of the two friends.

"It has its own charm," decreed Abraxas, shrugging passively. His gaze fell on Irene, who had a slightly repulsed look on her face, "Ah, there comes the arrogance and snobbism. Typical for you library rats."

"Library mouse," corrected the girl as her beast carried her forward in a slow-paced gallop, making her hair bounce, "Do people truly live like this? That house right there—it does not even have proper windows. They are broken and boarded."

"Most of the kingdom lives like this, Countess. The Tsar made sure to increase taxation in areas that do not provide enough resources, and that means that every penny goes to the regency, and most Mirzemlans can barely afford their everyday lives."

"How should they pay more if they do not have resources?"

"The Emperor could care less. The Lebedev dynasty is known for many things, but their compassion is not one of them," explained Malfoy, dismounting his creature and dusting off his pants. "You should use this as a learning experience. If you are to become Empress, you must know your people."

"But the noblemen are the ones who have the power. Is it not them whom I must appeal to?"

"The nobility has money, and that translates into power, yes. However, they are far outnumbered by the common folk. Many Tsars have been overthrown by angry mobs—peasants with angry pitchforks. You should know this, what do your books teach you if not history?"

Irene shot him an irritated look, "I do know history," her voice broke, "but a civil revolution would never work for me. They always put their own to the front; they would never back a Countess. Besides, what territory are we even in?"

"Dolohov's territory."

"Ah," scoffed Irene, "The Oracles."

"You judge a lot."

"Only when I must," muttered Sovetskaya as she stepped down from the creature, making sure her garment did not catch onto the saddle. She clasped her coat tighter around her neck, feeling the cold bite at her limbs brutally. Her hands were exposed to the weather, so she dug them into her pockets and pulled out a pair of gloves. To her despair, she noticed they did not cover the fingers, but put them on nonetheless.

"The Dolohovs have the power of the Sight; that makes them useful to the Tsar, and they do what they must do in order to survive," mused Abraxas. "Vladimir Dolohov is not a pleasure to play cards with, but he is enchanting if you look past the brooding stares and the inhibitions. Being the church's lapdog has its disadvantages."

Irene made no further comment on the topic and continued to glimpse around the village with apprehension. A few people had opened their doors, snarling at the two as they made their way through the plaza, dragging their beasts by the reins. The witch knew they had to find some shelter soon, or the cold would have their fingers fall off. Her breath fogged as she sighed, and with intrusiveness, she stopped in front of a building that had a readable sign in front of it.

"Wool's Orphanage," she read out loud, turning to face the platinum-haired boy behind her with a questioning look.

He lifted a menacing eyebrow, "Fits you."

"Sod off."

With that, they sauntered into the fenced yard, the creatures whining when they tied them to a nearby post. They could withstand the cold, for they were dead beasts; soulless. No commoner would have approached them out of fear, their exaggerated frames being more than the average Mirzemlan.

Knocking on the wooden door, Irene held her breath and waited. A robust woman opened the entrance, eyes enlarging when she caught sight of the two travelers dressed in exquisite garments, and mistrust took over her face. A white apron clung to her provincial dress, made of rough material and with holes around the hem. Her locks were in a tight bun that pulled at her forehead, making her eyebrows ridiculously heightened.

"My friend and I are looking for a place to wait for our carriage to be repaired," spoke Irene, adopting the speech of a court-grown girl. Impressions were perpetual, and inciting fear with power and status was an ace in a deck of cards.

"We do not take guests," came the curt reply, and the woman made to close the door, but Sovetskaya pushed her foot into the threshold, her jaw tightening in exasperation.

"We will compensate you for your trouble," continued the witch, "It is only around an hour or so. We will be robbed on the streets, and we wish no harm."

If bandits were to attack, Abraxas and Irene would only have two options left—either die at the whims of the rough-hands or use their magic and be accused of treason by the Emperor. Either way, the two were foolish not to take weapons with them and stuff them in the carriage. It would not happen again.

The Matron scrunched her nose in thought, eyeing Abraxas over Irene's shoulder. He was a somewhat lanky boy, yet underneath his suit shirt and long jacket, muscles from sailing would have posed a threat. But one charming smile from the sorcerer and the woman seemed to agree, opening the door wide enough for the pair to step inside.

The orphanage was a small, snug place. Children of all dimensions were strewed over the common area, where four tables were placed facing a blackboard, and some chairs had been toppled over. The staff worked around to clean the space, dusting off the fissured wooden floor, wiping away the charcoal stick marks from the surfaces, moping down the podium near the board. It was, without a doubt, the village's attempt to educate their youngest. Irene trailed her eyes over the bookshelves in the far corner, noticing the scarce resources, most of them outdated by at least three decades.

Towards her right, a living space was separated by a cardboard door, and the girl caught sight of numerous bunk beds crowded in the area, two children sleeping on each mattress, sometimes three. Trunks stood in front of each structure, some having ragged clothes spill from the insides, and a few children dug through theirs, trying to find their sleeping wear.

"Miserable sight, is it not?" whispered Malfoy from her side before pushing the witch from the back. Irene could only hold her breath, her eyes taking in every detail. How did she not know people endured such conditions? For six years, she had drained every history book in her library of knowledge, reading on the happiness that the regency had brought to the realm since its instauration centuries ago.

Propaganda. The upper class was the one who wrote the history, the winners.

"You can wait here," mumbled the Matron, gesturing towards one of the tables in the far corner of the common area. Several children dashed by, jostling and tugging as they tittered and ran to the bathing sites, and her nostrils flared. "Excuse me."

With that, the woman chased them down, twisting her apron for punishment and calling for them to stop running. Irene sat down at the table, placing gloved hands on the wooden surface and trailing the roughened edges. Scribbles and engravings were permanently adorning the oak, names meant to be forgotten, nobodies to the universe. This was the mark they had left on the world, and Irene clenched her jaw.

She could not be forgotten. The girl would not allow it.

The crown had taken everything from her. They meant to leave her name nothing more than an engraving on the mausoleum they had financed, but the witch would fight with bloodied fangs if she had to. Irene Sovetskaya would be written down in the history books. No matter what it took.

"Your forehead is creasing," sighed Abraxas, leaning against the back of the chair and pursing his lips. "I have to find the lavatories. Try not to set the orphanage on fire, little swan."

The girl regarded her friend as he got up and left, his posture impeccable as he made the eyes of the staff turn. Malfoy was a ravishing man, and his parents invariably condemned Irene for not marrying him. But it would not have been proper—they were friends, and both of them were happy with it.

Besides, Irene could not marry just any man. She planned to marry her country.

She pressed her fingers against her gown, trying to find warmth and ignore the coldness that had not left her body since the day of her attempted drowning. Sometimes, the girl wondered if it was the Kovak Lake's water that throbbed through thin veins instead of blood, icing her beyond bones and ligaments. Her psyche certainly yielded to the notion, for her nightmares were plagued by retellings of the tragic narrative, and not even in her sleep could Irene find peace. There was something rotten inside, almost as if part of her had indeed died on that fateful night six years ago—the ghost of a memory that haunted a chapel inside her consciousness.

Some nights, she wondered back to the incident. Irene had closed her eyes; she had given up. Then, almost as if the gods had decided her fate had not been fulfilled yet, a flash of vigor had crawled from the depths of her marrow and out to her limbs, electrifying everything until the girl managed to push through the surface. The assassin had been long gone, scared off by some hounds that bellowed out into the night to the side of the lake. Through tears and aches, Sovetskaya had rebirthed, seeking out a second chance.

Irene did not pay attention to the rumors that circulated the Manor, those that called her undead. She felt alive. At least, as alive as one could be in her circumstances. Still, sometimes, in the middle of the night, when she woke up from a dreadful terror, there seemed to be something putrefied in her. There was numbness at the tips of her fingers; there was a void inside her soul. The girl could never get rid of the burning glare of her skin—the look of a corpse.

She knew, for she had stumbled upon the cadavers of her parents.

The sound of something falling over had the witch snap from her daydream, and she gazed upward to see a few children fussing over the books they had sent to the ground. Without another thought, Irene stood up and made her way over, having them scatter away in fright. She glanced down at the volumes with pity in her heart, then kneeled to gather them in her arms, not minding the way they pressed against her bones.

Irene hauled herself up, and wobbled slightly from the weight, watching the tower of books threaten to fall.

A hand reached out and stabilized it.

"Careful," a smoky voice called from behind, and Irene felt herself halt. There was something that brought queasiness to her stomach, that prevented her from twisting around and facing the stranger, almost as if peril had tapped her shoulder and waited for her with a knife in its hand.

She did not move; instead, she let the hand wrap long fingers around some of the books and lift them from her hold. Only when two volumes were still in her arms did the girl dare glance from the corner of her eyes at the intruder.

He was breathtaking.

His profile faced her as he scrutinized the books, systematizing them in alphabetical order on the shelves, and it was as if it had been crafted from the most luster diamonds that the Emperor dug from her mines. Susurrating lagoons merged around his pupils, depths that had maidens capsize like ruined ships and willing to sink to his conviction. His locks had the slightest waves in them, some strands hanging over his forehead as he leaned down to reach the shelves, for his height was that of soldiers and sculptures.

Irene's mind whirred at once with perplexion as the familiarity of the face dawned upon her, "Prince Lebedev?"

The stranger glanced towards her with disinterest, probably taking her mumbling for crazed rambling. Irene queried, for a few seconds, what the prince might be doing there. She was sure that he had stayed behind at court, throwing empty glasses of champagne at servants and having them dance for his amusement. But the person in front of her—it had to be him. Right?

Except, there was something peculiar in his stare. Obscurer. Thomas Lebedev was nothing more than a hollow portrait of elegance, but the man beside her carried an astute expression, as if one look from him could have the witch unravel her deepest fears. And he would not even have to ask her, only glance at her face and somehow know.

In his features, there was shadowy despondency, the personification of a tragic play. Melancholy had never seemed as engrossing as it did then, for between dark eyelashes and cobalt eyes, there was probing corruption, a spectacle that made Irene's sides twist with apprehension.

There was something incredibly wrong about the boy that stood before her.

He must have been older, perhaps twenty-one or so, and no doubt a member of the staff. An exact replica of the prince in terms of looks, and he had somehow not been discovered. Of course, Irene supposed few noblemen passed through these parts of the Dolohov territory.

"So?" questioned the stranger, making the witch realize that he had spoken something to her. At her bulbous, naive eyes, he narrowed his stare, and there it was again—depravity, iniquity. Something so terribly wrong. Something that made Irene want to turn around and run. "Would you pass me the books, or do you intend to take them back to your Manor and read about the alphabet?"

Irene felt irritation spark at his condescending tone but obeyed his request nonetheless. "How did you know I lived in a Manor?"

"I did not," again with the scornful attitude, "You just told me."

He pivoted on his feet, fully facing her now, and Irene felt her insides twist. The boy looked exactly like Thomas Lebedev. There might have been certain disparities, for the way he carried himself was much more poised than the prince, although ironically.

"Who are you?" inquired Irene as he began moving away from her, barely sparing her a glance.

"Hardly your business."

Another spark of irritation. Nobody, at least not below her station, had ever dared speak to the Countess like that. And this man, whoever he was, was indeed no royal, not with his calloused hands and tattered sweater. Even if he was as fascinating as a jewel, an accessory that any court woman might have wished to have around her neck, the boy was rough-edged. He needed polishing. And Irene liked diamonds.

She could not help it—the resemblance made her mind twist and turn. There had to be an opportunity in this; the girl was simply not sure of how to use it yet.

Was he a bastard of the Emperor? It would have been a possibility, except no two siblings could look this similar, not unless they were twins. The Oracle's words had had half of the kingdom watching the Empress give birth to Thomas Lebedev, and surely someone would have taken notice if there had been another boy born. He would have been praised just the same, scalded in wealth and admiration.

But the man before her was no prince; he was a mere pauper.

"I could have someone force you to speak to me, are you aware?" called out Irene, her fists tightening to her sides.

The man stopped, hands in his pockets, before turning to shoot her a questioning stare. He took her in—the raven vestment that clung to Irene's frame, making her appear less of a rambling corpse and more of a lady, the fibers of silver embroidered to her roots that fell from the top of her head along with her chestnut curls, the fur coat that covered her otherwise exposed shoulders and sweetheart neckline. Eyes moving back to her face, the stranger scoffed.

"Are you Countess Dolohov?" he asked, satire in his voice.

Irene frowned, "No, but I—"

"Then you have no power here," the boy cut her off and turned again, walking into the staff quarters.

The girl stood in her spot, face crimsoned from humiliation and resentment. She wished to drive her needle sword through his ribs for his insubordination, for daring to speak to her the way that he had. Irene wanted to hurt him, and it should have scared her, but it did not. And even when Abraxas came back, telling her that the carriage was out front waiting for them, all the witch could think of was how much she wanted to hurt the stranger. How much she desired to have him beg for forgiveness as she impaled him on her sword. But she could not touch him. The girl could not hurt him.

Because Irene needed the man.

She needed him to take the crown.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

thank you so much for reading! sorry that it took so long for tom to come in, but fear not—he will be very much present from now on.

also let me know if you are confused about the world building!! this is a little more out-there than the seven devils, but i really like that i can explore and create.

speaking of the seven devils/virtues—i am working on the next chapter! hopefully out in the next two days.