𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐒

by

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐭

PROLOGUE

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SHE GAWKED AT THE BLOOD ON HER HANDS, her mind whirring with queasiness. Irene Sovetskaya trailed sable eyes over the two cadavers that were sprawled over the king-sized bed, limbs tangled and bodies distorted as their last moments were met with a struggle.

Like a marionette that had had its cords cut, she crumbled to the ground at once, tears scalding down glazed cheeks as a weeping tumult escaped rosy lips. Fawn locks framed her edged profile as she lowered her head to the marble floor, forehead touching the cold surface as the mourning of her parents wrecked her body. The waft of poison pervaded the chamber, an unmistakably acidic scent that had torn her mother and father from inside out. It melted organs and tissue until all there was left was a bloodied jumble, not even the shell of the people they'd once been.

"Papa," her call waved as she dug nails into the fox throw-over of the bed, hauling herself from the ground and stumbling. The sight was barbaric—bloodied vomit still dripping from the edges of the mattress, fear still a shattered mask on Count Sovetsky's features. Even in his old age, there had been juvenility between crinkles of distress, like the rivers that ran from their estate down to the capital, carrying vessels and boats with rich goods.

On the other side, her mother was nothing more than a withered blossom. Irene could barely bear to glimpse at her agonizing expression—vacant eyes, lips separated with the ghost of a parting wail. Such as the lilies that bloomed during springtime at the Sovetsky Manor, the Countess had been a refined beauty amongst court-scrapers and social climbers. Portraits of her genteel visage had covered the Maison's walls since her arrival from the neighboring territories.

Spots overflowed Irene's vision as she lurched backward, knocking over a sculpture from one of the desks. Her sobs still turned tides of sorrow and had them clash against the fractured shoreline of her soul. Dainty fingers wrapped around the fabric of her ivory nightgown, tainting the material with the sinful sanguine of her parents' assassination.

The door to the master bedroom flew open, yet all Irene could hear was the muffled voice of what must have been one of the guards panicking, though she could not register it over the static ringing in her ears. Irene barely registered the heavy hand on her sleeve, pulling her away from the gruesome murder scene and through the crowd that had begun forming outside the door. Her vision was clouded by dewdrops of grief, and the air in her lungs had turned sodden, glacial. As if the world was attempting to smother what little flickering light she had left and exile her to the land of reverie, right along with the Count and Countess.

The winter climate bit at the girl's skin as the guard hauled her through the gardens. Irene's mind felt a sense of dread conquer her as she glanced around the courtyard—torches had been lit along the pathways of the Sovetsky Manor, flames swaying in the harsh zephyr and making shadows stretch along the deserted courtyard. The moon rocked through turbid clouds, letting few laced rays caress the ivory-coated soil as the night called out to darkness.

Church bells echoed from somewhere in the distance. The chime rang out three times, an ode to death's veil and a calling to the scythe that had dragged along the neck of her territory's nobility. Her family. Irene's eardrum pulsed in the same sonority, the girl's sobs a harmony and a eulogy, and suddenly fright cascaded upon her body.

"Where are you taking me?" she called out to the guard, whose hood covered most of his face.  Yet, as she began to regard the stranger with apprehension, one thing stood as clear as the snow beneath her bare feet and the blood encrusted under her nails—he was not wearing the Sovetsky uniform reserved for all guards.

At once, Irene attempted to pull away from the stranger's grip, psyche cracking with panic as everything around her distorted. The ground beneath seemed to rot; the grim yonder above wailed and bent to envelop her in tenebrosity. Her nightgown sparkled in moonshine as she struggled against the invader's arms, kicking her legs and attempting to scream for help. With one swift motion, the man covered her mouth with a thick material, preventing her from biting down on his flesh.

Through teary eyes and nauseating dizziness, Irene continued to put up a fight, yet her vigor sizzled by the moment, the inside flame that her mamushka had called stubbornness bowed to the certainty of death. It went without saying, in her mind, that whoever had managed to capture her had also assassinated her parents, and was trying to tie up loose ends. The fourteen-year-old girl tried to conjure a chant in her mind, something to summon the sorcery that pulsed through her bloodline, yet her powers had not come in yet. They would not come in until her sixteenth birthday.

"Quiet down, Lady Sovetskaya," the guard breathed as he pivoted and dragged her almost limp form, heading through the wooded lands on the familial estate. "Your struggle is aimless. The nobility will be cleansed of your pagan ways."

Irene barely registered the Kovak Lake as it extended through the rocky edges of the clearing, the impressive body of water one of the most prideful landmarks of the Sovetsky territory. With a depth that not even the bravest and brightest researchers could determine, it was a mass grave for sunken labor vessels and ill-fated adventurers. The luna reflected over the glass surface, sinking deep beyond the first contact and illuminating the shallow edges of the lake. Nothing rippled the facade, as if it were a portal to perdition. It resembled a black hole that engulfed the horizon as water nymphs sank fanged teeth into the corpses that littered the bottom.

Irene felt the iciness of the lake like a stab against her bare feet, and barely acknowledged the man behind her, too focused on the radiating pain that almost made her marrow disintegrate. Soon enough, she was brought to her knees, nightgown drenched, and the first ripples shattered the mirror-like surface. The assassin grabbed her by the braided crown around the apex of her head, tugging at the locks harshly before forcing Irene's face down in the creek, pushing hard until her nose collided with the sandy bank.

The pulsating pain of coldness was nothing compared to the alarm that sounded through her body as she took one big gulp of water to accompany her terrified scream. It tore at her insides, twisting everything with agony, and the girl clamped her mouth shut, trying to push against the assassin, but to no avail. Her skin would have surely bruised and hurt from the tight hold on her neck and head, had everything not been numbed out by the torment of being drowned.

Darkness crept around the edges of her vision, and Irene began to feel the numbness expand until her ribcage hurt from not breathing in. And she wondered. She wondered what would happen if she simply allowed herself to breathe. Only a little. Her psyche shattered, and her instincts told her to switch between tactics, to open her mouth and allow the liquid to enter and excruciatingly collide against her insides.

The pressure in her temples persisted as her muscles began losing energy, legs no longer thrashing with the same vigor, arms sprawling over the sandy shore as her cheek rested against it. Give up. Give up and reunite with your parents. She breathed in.

Irene Sovetskaya's last thought before her eyes closed was that the assassin was wearing the Tsar's badge on his sleeve.

And then her flame snuffed out.

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The servants huddled around the halls, handkerchiefs drawn as the guards carried out the bodies of the Count and Countess, the corpse of their daughter yet to be found. Some wiped away tears, some sniffled into the arms of their lovers, yet none could stop the whispers from caressing open ears. The Sovetsky bloodline had been one of the few families that still possessed the Old Gifts, that carried the Pagan Gods' magic alive in their veins. With continuous discord amongst court officials on whether their presence should be allowed in the Emperor's circle, worries of assassination had begun to run rampant.

And what a pity it was that they had proven to be true.

Long gone were the days where the Royal Brigade pulsated with sorcery and rituals, old magic meant to unbalance the natural way of faith. For when the civilians of Mirzemla, the territory under the rule of Emperor Lebedev, had turned to the new religion hundreds of years ago, all had fallen apart.

And as long as some were viewed as unnatural, as pagans amongst the court, there would have always been a threat to the Emperor's tsardom, for what was more intimidating than a servant that could strike you down with a mere blood ritual?

Still, an execution would have done them no good, for families like the Sovetsky carried tremendous amounts of power in the territories of their counties, and to imbalance a society was to risk a revolution. As such, all matters had to be dealt with in private, through subtle means of assassination and politics that made the toughest hearts tremble.

"Where is the daughter?" murmured a voice through the crowd, making helpers turn their faces around to scan the perimeter. Indeed, the disappearance of the young Lady made the circumstances seem treacherous, and the brutality of the attack suggested a novice hand. Had the Lady killed her parents in order to take over the estate? It was not unheard of. The monarchy of Mirzelma was a barrel of gunpowder waiting to crack, and all court politics only involved sneers hidden in smiles and "friends" with poniards veiled under their palms.

Even so, nobody had thought Irene Sovetskaya capable of such cruelty, with her long soiled locks and sable eyes, a reflection of the earth that the Manor had been founded on. Most servants had accompanied her since birth, and as such, knew that there was not one bad bone in her small body. She was a child, after all.

A scream of terror rang out through the salon, and the sound of feet paddling against marble floors to find the source of horror almost muffled any panic that rose through the crowd. A young servant stood in the corner of the room, eyes widened to the size of precious china, fingers trembling.  She held onto her white apron and pointed towards the door.

"Rusalka!" the terrible cry rang out, and frenzy spread through the gathering as men and women alike shouted in fear at the mention of the dark water spirit. Creatures rarely wandered past the edges of the woods and sauntered into the estate, yet the mere mention of rusalki was enough to have the staff bolting in the other direction.

Few dared push through to glance at the entrance, and indeed, in the doorway stood a nymph like no other. A ragged white dress clung to her frail figure, drenched, as drops plummeted to the marble floor with little plops. Her chest moved rapidly, as if every breath of air was piety and sage, burning inside her vessels, whilst ichor doused her cheeks. Locks of tawny hair clung to the being's ashen face, hiding it from the trembling servants as the figure advanced.

"It is Lady Sovetskaya!"

At once, two maidens stepped forward to help a trembling Irene and support her, fussing over the discoloration of her skin and the deadness in her eyes. The signs of drowning were still etched on her face, like a morbid rendition of the art that covered the walls of the most exquisite museums in their capital. Skeletal fingers wrapped around the wrists of the women, and Irene stepped forward. Her eyes were still unfocused, mind still in a disorganized haze.

"My Lady, is there anything you wish us to bring to you? Anything you want?" asked one of the servants in a hysterical voice, fussing over the newly orphaned child as if they had not been whispering murder accusations moments ago.

When Irene glanced up through wet strands of hair, the man in front of her paled, turning the same shade as his uniform. Gone was the puerile light from the Lady's eyes, and instead, in the depths of her irises, there was an erring smoke that seemed to engulf any sacredness.

"Revenge," her rugged voice broke through, "I want revenge."

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hi! very nervous about this. thank you for reading.