it has been some time since the last update, so you might have to reread the past few chapters. please remember to leave comments and support this story <3 it gives me motivation to write.

CHAPTER EIGHT

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

THE MOON

THE MALFOY MANOR—an obscene display of wealth and lewdness; power melded in with a sprinkle of something outlandish that marked the nautical bloodline. Compared to the morose and secular properties under the Sovetsky name, Abraxas' residence was flushed with vigor and veneration. It was exquisite, aristocratic, and refined, from its darkly bricked walls that surrounded the vast gardens to the pouring fountain that stood in the middle of it all. The statue that dribbled water onto the circular pond was crafted by one of the most known Samarittan artists, Frederich Hoffman. His touch was evident in the details as the figurine of  Zephyriann, God of Elements, raised his scepter towards the sky, sprinkling water around his sturdy form. The statue itself was dynamic, and lively, to the point where it felt as though the divinity had marked the territory.

Such an open display of veneration was prohibited to most, but the Malfoy legacy was unlike any other. They carried the sea on their shoulders, sailed through all twelve oceans, and had a tight grip on the nautical empire. With their extensive fleet, well-bound connections, and a knack for diplomacy, they had rendered themselves above any Mirzemlan law. Any retaliation from the Regency was done by snubbing them in the press, gossip plastered in bloody ink on the front page of The Vespagrad Bulletin. The prominent anchorwoman, a forty-year-old widow by the name of Vasilisa Federova, was often the fuel of any absurd rumor that surrounded the Malfoy family, especially Abraxas.

Labeled an audacious womanizer who bewitched court women and tried to convert them to the pagan way, the young heir was often photographed and harassed by reporters under her command.

As the Sovetsky carriage pulled to the sac-de-cul that stood in front of the main entrance, a servant scurried to open the door, extending his hand to help Irene out. His eyes remained to the ground—they never met her stare, never looked at her attentively. Though they were hired by the Malfoy estate, the staff was provincial, meaning that they opposed the existence of magical bloodlines in Mirzemla. To them, the Malfoys were visitors, tourists who offered jobs, and blood money was still blood. But Irene? She was a stubborn weed in their coveted garden, something that they could not pull out with the passing season.

"Thank you," Irene kept her manners, turning towards the carriage as Tom Riddle stepped out.

The second the servant spotted the crown prince, his whole demeanor transformed. He repeatedly bowed, muttering words of veneration, though curiosity was stamped between his brows as his eyes kept sliding to the sorceress. Riddle paid him no attention, nodding in acknowledgment before following Sovetskaya inside the Manor.

Abraxas waited for them in the main salon, white ruffled blouse rolled around the sleeves, cigarette dangling from his lips with nonchalance. His inquisitive eyes immediately spotted Riddle, and he narrowed them with skepticism.

"You have gotten so comfortable with my estate that you bring your plots beyond my walls," he sighed, stomping out his cigar in the nearby vase. "So it is you, then? The one who was foolish enough to follow my dear swan into whatever scheme she came up with? I'll tell you what—better you than me. My chambermaid complained about the hair she had to collect from my garments lately; said I was balding due to stress."

"Are you saying I am stressing you?" asked Irene, flabbergasted. Abraxas came to her, kissing both cheeks in greeting and entangling her arm with his.

Paying no attention to her, the heir continued. "But you have quite enough hair, do you not, Thomas? Ah, is it proper to call you that? Should we be using code names, now?"

"Riddle is fine when we are without company. Otherwise, address me how you would the prince."

Riddle remained stoic, unimpressed by Abraxas' wit, and, instead, merely followed the two friends into the daytime chamber. They all sat down, and one of the maids brought a tray of tea and biscuits to fill in the somewhat botched tension of the room.

Eventually, Abraxas spoke, "To what do I owe the visit?"

"Multiple reasons," it was Tom who responded. "I thought it proper we meet, considering the situation we have found ourselves in. Our sources say that a Samarittan ambassador will be coming to Vespagrad for the Koliada Festival. Considering your relation with said country, you would be our best informant on what to expect."

"I see," hummed Malfoy. "It is a good thing that you asked. The ambassador is someone rather...distinct and peculiar. He goes by the name of Gabriel Zima, noble of the Samarittan territory due to his investments in agriculture affairs. His late wife was Mirzemlan, thus the position. She died a few years ago of the flesh plague, leaving Gabriel behind to take care of his daughter, Tanya Zima."

"Zima?" Irene's eyebrows knotted in a frown. "I have heard of that name before. Are they not part of the Luna Kalator?"

Abraxas' face contorted into something unreadable. The Luna Kalator organization, translated into Mirzemlan as The Night Travelers, was a group of nomad sorcerers who abided by different traditions than most practitioners. Believed to have been sanctified—or condemned—by the moon, they possessed the ability to shape-shift into beasts, something that was part wolf and part demon. They were one of the most ancient subgroups of Samaritta, known for their night rituals and sacrifices. During the peak of midsummer, sky-high fires could be seen all over the mountains, eerie tunes carrying out through the forests as the Luna Kalator welcomed the turning of their own calendar, pronouncing their worship to the Pagan Gods.

"Yes," answered Malfoy eventually, though reluctant. "But you mustn't ask them about that, Irene. I beg of you. Settle your curiosity for once and focus on the many other dangers surrounding you."

Sovetskaya bit down on her lip, intrigued. Her stare slid over to Tom Riddle, who seemed just as interested. His face shifted into something calculative, and he leaned against the armrest.

"Their sort," he began, voice modulated, "is stringent, are they not? Their methods of worship are frowned upon in your country."

"Yes, indeed, and for a reason too. There are many ways to practice magic, many ways to hone it—sacrifice is the most powerful way of entrapping its power. The Luna Kalator are powerful, but their curse stains that vigor. Most of them die at an early age, so they live their lives freely. You must understand that they do not define morality as we do."

"And thank Mrithun for that," scoffed Irene, "for if they were as baseless as us, there would be two coups during Koliada."

"That is not what I meant."

"I am in no place to judge how they practice their magic, Abraxas. If I go handing out resentment to others, then I am not better than the Emperor."

"Right," the captain stiffened, his long fingers squeezing the teacup he held in his hands. "Right, of course. All I am saying is that you must be careful. They are guided by the moon, by reverie. The gods know there is nothing more dangerous in this world than a dreamer."

"What are their ties to the Regency?" questioned Tom Riddle, eyes leveling down on Malfoy.

It was hard to discern what he thought of the boy. Nothing bloomed on his face except apathy, which seemed to be the thief's primordial state of being. As much as Irene tried to read him, to look for any furrow in his forehead that might have suggested sentiment, Tom remained cold-blooded. He leaned against his armrest, legs crossed elegantly, and for a second, the sorceress saw a majestic prince, not a scavenger collecting the scraps and bits of her torn soul for his own benefit.

Abraxas shrugged. "I am not privy to their affairs, so how should I know? I imagine there is tension—a free spirit like Gabriel Zima does not like how the Emperor traps magic."

"Therefore, if I were to talk to him privately about supporting a new regime, what answer should I expect?"

"You should expect a blade against your throat."

"That seems to be a common practice of the nobility."

"I quite enjoy it," Abraxas flashed a smile, "in different settings, of course. More private. But that is not here nor there. If you intend to approach Gabriel Zima and ask for his support, you must prepare an extensive explanation of what you plan to do. The Luna Kalators are philosophers, and dreamers, but make no mistake—their intellectual far outreaches what most of us comprehend. They are scholars through and through."

The flames crackled in the fireplace as Irene sipped on her tea carefully. Tom's inquisitiveness was a menace, for if he made any political movement towards Gabriel Zema, it would undoubtedly end poorly for her. Thomas had been known across the continent as a mirage of wealth and handsomeness, but that had never interested the Luna Kalator. Their thirst was of another sort, and only an academic could phase them. Yet, Tom was erudite and educated despite his poverty background. He could easily charm his way through the political salon meeting, earning gratitude and esteem from a possible ally before Irene could even properly introduce herself.

Allies were vital. They were the root of any ancient tree of power. Having her claim to the throne supported by other nobles and political figures was quintessential, and so she could not let the thief sink his fangs in the ambassadors before she had a chance to do so.

As another servant walked past and refilled her cup, Irene glanced at Tom Riddle with skepticism. Was this how it would always be from now on? A power wrangle between two vipers, each willing to poison the other as soon as the opportunity presented itself. They needed each other, that was true, but importance tended to dwindle once a person found stability in other places.

"If you were to take my advice," began Abraxas, "I would first focus on establishing Irene's position in the palace."

The sailor waved his hand towards one of the servants, urging him to come forward. As he did, the butler handed Abraxas a newspaper.

The blonde opened it on the table, showcasing it to Irene and Tom. On the front page, the title stood clear as day:" Countess Sovetskaya bewitches heir to the throne—sorcery or infatuation?"

"People believe it to be a hoax, and conspiracies are running rampant across the country, from the Dolohov territory to Rudin's County. If you let rumors spread, you risk losing the common folk and the nobles at once. Nobody supports a woman believed to be a witch and a demon."

Irene pursed her lips. "What are they saying?"

"The tabloids are speculating right now, but they influence the general population. It was not long ago when the war against the magic-bearing countries ended, and so they still frown on any practices. But they are sympathetic, more so than the Regency could ever be."

"How do I control this?"

"Inside men," Tom contributed, crossing one leg over another nonchalantly. "Indeed, the press had a grip on the average peasant, but you know what else does? The neighbor next door. At the end of the day, the tabloids are places of scandal, politics, and power-play. The citizens are displeased with the rulers, and the journalists are an extension of the Regency, so they are far more likely to listen to those who are like them."

Abraxas scrutinized the thief for a second, eyebrows furrowed in an expression that Irene knew too well. He agreed with Tom, but did not want to say it aloud, not when he was still confident the faux prince was venom to the Countess.

Tom ignored the stare and continued. "Belov can easily start whispering through the alleys of Vespagrad. News will circulate faster that way—drunken men in pubs will start talking about your beauty, the tale of a tortured damsel in distress; the women will swoon over the story of two star-crossed lovers, magic and non-magic uniting to build the future. You must gain control of the narrative, Countess, before it gains control of you."

Sovetskaya contemplated it. Becoming a woman of the public meant possibly angering the nobles, but what good was stealing a crown if an angry mob hung you the next day?

"Very well," Irene sighed, placing her teacup on the table in front of her. The butler rushed to pick it up for her, but continued avoiding her stare. "Have your little puppets run around and spread whatever you see fit. But do not try to undermine me, Riddle. At the end of the day, I am the one who knows your true identity."

"Must every agreement that comes from you be followed by a violent  threat?" Tom sighed profusely.

"Violence is the only language you understand."

"Because it is the universal language of our world."

The Countess could not deny that, and so she stood up from her seat, patting down her skirts, and nodded in greeting towards Abraxas.

"We will be making our way then, Malfoy. Thank you for hosting us today."

Abraxas nodded, and, as Irene was about to turn around and walk into the hallway, he grabbed her by the wrist. "A word in private before you go?"

Reluctantly, Irene met Tom's stare and gave him a look. The boy grinned malevolently, as though telling her that no matter how much she tried to conceal her own affairs from him, he would invariably have ears and eyes everywhere. Then, he got up and allowed the butler to escort him to the carriage.

In the solemnity that the vacant salon offered them, Irene and Abraxas glanced at each other, their eyes filled with antithetic sentiments. Whereas the girl felt undoubtedly vigorous, adrenaline rushing through her bloodstream like a remedy, the golden sailor's eyes crinkled with apprehension.

"You are in way over your head," Abraxas uttered at once, his voice hardly audible.

Irene pressed her lips together, vexed. "You never had much faith in me, to begin with, but I thought we agreed that I shall proceed however I please, for there is no other way. I thought I had your support."

"You do, but...." Abraxas toyed with his collar, and only then did the girl spot the sweat starting to color its edges. "That was before I met him. Tom Riddle is crooked to the core, Irene, and if you believe, even for a second, that he is on your side, then you are wrong."

"I am well aware of who he is."

"Are you? Or are you aware of the veneer he presents you? Because I have met many men like him throughout my life, little swan, and they like harming women like you. They like taking until all there is left is bone and skin. I must tell you, this will not end well for you."

"Whatever happens with my life is meaningless. It is a token that I am willing to risk in this game, so long as the bet allows me to play. It never mattered much, to begin with, but now it is all I have left, and I will give my everything."

"It matters to me, though."

That singular moment felt unraveling—a volatile flurry of beliefs and uncertainties floating in paradox. Irene felt the weight of her dear friend's words settle like gravel across her back, and she comprehended something that, although she knew had existed all along their years of friendship, had suddenly become much more palpable. Abraxas cared for her, for her life, and the thought of losing his closest friend and companion was shattering him to the core.

Irene wanted to assure him, tell him that she was certain she could do this, and that his trepidations were unfounded. Yet, the lies hung from her tongue and dangled, never entirely slipping off. For what good were such exchanges between them? They knew the crude reality of their country and, most importantly, their predicament. Aimless fluff would not have settled Abraxas' heart. He was well accustomed to Irene's marzipan untruths and her sham persona of dauntlessness.

Therefore, the Countess settled instead on telling him the truth. "They took it all from me this morning, Abraxas. They came under the pretense of unpaid taxes for the mines and my territory, and took all I owned—antique paintings, jewelry, family heirlooms. All collected to be thrown in the Regency's treasury. For the most part, anyway. I suspect they will make a show out of burning some pieces to spite me. They are slowly stripping me of power, until I am bare and broken, and so what do I have left to fear or lose?"

"Your life is worth everything, dear. Power is nothing if it is attached to a weak soul."

"I expect them to strip me of my titles come the end of Koliada."

"And even without all of those, you will still be left with more than they could ever have. Titles, money, jewelry—all distractions from the true root of your capability."

Sensing where Abraxas was trying to get at, the Countess frowned. "My sorcery. You believe it to be a weapon."

"Your greatest."

"It is weak. Untrained and raw."

"It does not have to be."

A short chuckle of satire fell from her lips, and Irene shook her head in disbelief.

"That is precisely what the thief told me. For someone who believes him to be a tyrant, you seem to agree with him a lot."

Irene was uncertain why she was somewhat defending the thief. Abraxas was right in depicting him as a serpent, but his insistence on doing so repeatedly and calling the girl's plan foolhardy was getting on her nerves. The Countess had never liked being told she was being impetuous. Her whole life had pivoted around books, academics, etiquette—she had shaped herself into a future monarch. It was her calling. Her birthright, even. Perpetual hostilities from her dearest friend were unwelcome.

The boy frowned, "I called him a viper, not an idiot. There is no doubt in my mind that Tom Riddle is the sort of man capable of taking you exactly where you want, but—"

"Good, then. That is all I desire," burst the girl, tired of the back-and-forth.

Tying her scarf around her neck, Irene twisted on her heels and began making her way down the corridor. Abraxas followed suit, exasperated noises dropping from his mouth. They bickered like siblings, the two of them, always on each other's tails, yet this felt foreign.

"What happens after, Irene? When he is the crown prince, all the power in his hands, and capable of ending you with one order?"

"I kill him."

"Not in this state; you cannot. Your powers are undeveloped, and you would never get close enough to strike him. He would never allow you to grow strong enough to harm him."

Irene laughed bitterly. "I would not have to touch him to kill him, Abraxas. You underestimate me, but you forget I am the only living descendant of the Mrithun, God of Death. There are things you do not even—"

Catching her words quickly, Irene stopped in front of the entryway, hand on the doorknob. She had almost allowed herself to slip out what Tom had told her in regard to her death. Long ago, the Countess would have never kept such a secret from the Baron, but things had changed. She was not sure it was wise, but Irene was not taking Abraxas' recalcitrance kindly, and feared that hearing the fragility of her state would be their tipping point. Who was to say he would not intervene, then, if he knew that Tom Riddle was the only person who knew precisely how to kill her?

The Malfoy heir was foolish enough to believe that he could get her on a ship and sail her away to safety. But Irene was the last descendant of an archaic magic line. Wherever she went, chaos would ensue, enticed by the darkness that adhered to her sorcery.

Irene shook her head, "Anyhow, I have made my decision. Respect it, Abraxas. I am more than capable of handling my own life."

"I cannot watch you kill yourself, Irene. I simply cannot."

Irene threw a quick peek over her head, "Then step aside."

With that, the sorceress strode outside into the coldness, cheeks flushing from the temperature. Her heart thumped underneath her fur coat, thoughtless and gullible, and though tears welled in her eyes, she bit them back. Irene had vended her own bliss for a grander purpose, something dignified. She should have anticipated discord to follow suit. Things could not stay the same in her life, and she had to lose some to win some. Regardless, she wished Malfoy would come around, and understand why she craved vengeance.

Waiting by the carriage, back leaning against the golden swirls that ran up the sides, Riddle curled an eyebrow in inquisitiveness. "The discussion must have been a miserable one."

"Do not even start."

The coachman opened the door for the heiress, allowing her to step inside, and Tom followed.

"Your friend does not like me much."

"He is not a fool."

Tom hummed, drumming long digits against the window in indifference. "Fascinating fellow. He has what many covet—sway across the continent, accumulated generational wealth, a sailing empire. Shameful he will never have the one thing he yearns most."

"And that is?"

"You."

Irene's eyes boggled in stupefaction, and her body immediately recoiled at Tom's answer.

"You have thoroughly misperceived the situation."

"Perhaps I have terribly misunderstood what you simply choose to overlook, but one way or another, that man treasures you. As a friend or as more, you are everything he cares for."

"Because you know so much about love."

Tom's jaw clenched in aggravation. "I know a deadly ivy when I see it catching root in someone's backyard."

"You fancy gardening now?"

"It was a metaphor."

"A terrible one."

The boy sneered in frustration, then inclined back into his seat, scrutinizing the sorceress. "You acting obtuse will not change the gravity of my words. But be nonchalant if you so desire; it matters little to me what you make of your relationships, so long as they do not distract you from the task at hand."

Irene glowered, "My relationships pose no interest to you."

"I believe they might very well do, considering we have found ourselves in an entanglement. And I am skeptical how the bourgeois will take to it, but it goes without saying that they will not value promiscuity on your side."

The most nuanced peal of laughter fell from Irene's lips, and it tasted bitterly against her tongue. "Are you questioning my virtue?"

"I am not," Tom decreed, "but it would be foolish to assume that people will not target it. Women face persecution in many ways in our society, whether we accept it or not. It is the way of things, especially for ladies of the court—your chastity is a virtue you might wish to hold onto, even while you let go of everything godly."

"Right," Irene breathed, feeling the wobble of the carriage as it took to the boulevard that led to her territory. "What does it matter if a woman is poison, so long as a man believes he is the first one to be intoxicated by her?"

They sat in taciturnity after that, which was reasonably abnormal for the two. Discord always passed between them like a moving pendulum, creating dynamism in their relationship when all else failed. Irene found Tom Riddle repellent, yet to say that the way in which the man challenged her did not titillate her heart would have been a wretched lie. He stirred within her the sort of madness that made her burn, which eradicated her ultimately, but also made Sovetskaya feel alive. The licks of flame only further mobilized the darkness she felt within, until it metastasized and became something substantial, a force that could douse any darkness.

Such thoughts brought newfound clarity to the Countess. She quizzically gazed at Tom Riddle and pondered what he felt in her presence. Not much, to be certain—she doubted he ever felt much of anything, really—but Irene was an enigma to him.

An obsession, even.

Riddle had been watching her for a long time, dissecting her life from afar, and fantasizing about her sorcery. What secrets fermented within the premise of the Sovetsky Manor, the haunted, chilling estate that housed the Countess of the Undead? Irene wondered if the reality of her had met Riddle's expectations, and found that assuming that she was less than he wanted festered an uncomfortable sensation within.

Irene did not want to be Tom Riddle's opponent. She wanted to be his enemy. His equal.

Her nails dug into her skirts, and Sovetskaya continued to hold her cryptic eyes on Tom, even as he remained impassive, and merely glanced out of the window with a languid expression drawn on his portrait. The Countess wanted him to consider her meritorious, mighty—part of her marveled at him, and that shrill pinch of her psyche beseeched him to return the favor.

Not that Irene would acknowledge it.

With a woeful ache, the Countess leaned back into her seat, and finally averted her arid stare.

Perhaps, she was gradually sinking into the same obsessive temperament that Tom Riddle had portrayed.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The gates to the Sovetsky Manor stood ajar, and no candlelight flickered in the sullen windows, plummeting the estate into distinguishing obscurity. The zephyr surged around the grounds, having the charcoal trees undulate in the bleakness of wintertime. Mud trails had turned the chaste whiteness of snow into a shameful path towards the central gallery, where the collectors had previously gathered to move Irene Sovetskaya's assets out of the house. Like a vanquished scarecrow, the butler lingered on the front steps, head sunken between his knees, tie unfastened, and gloves thrown over his shoulders.

When the carriage pulled into the opening roundabout, Irene merely pushed the coachman to take Tom Riddle back to the town center, too mortified to have her vandalized belongings flaunted before the faux prince. Sovetskaya's dignity could take only so many wounds in the span of a few hours.

She scurried over to the butler's side, taking Adrian's aging hands into her own, and pulling them to her forehead. They stood there for a moment and lamented. For her fallen parents, the maligned Sovetsky name, and the losses that would follow. Irene knew that with her assets frozen and gone, it was only a matter of time before she would have to let go of the rest of her staff, throwing them back into a lifetime of destitution and service to the Mirzemlan aristocracy.

The conflagration of the Emperor's act boiled her skin, and Irene raised grave eyes to her family estate, querying if there was indeed a hex that had withered her lineage, or if the gods had some grievance to hold against her.

Palls of grayness amassed over the heightened turrets of the Sovetsky Manor, and occluded the dimming sun from bringing soothing warmth to the heiress. With half a heart, Irene aided the butler up, and assisted him back into the central gallery.

Inside, the Manor had been ravished, expropriated, and desecrated by the Regency's men. With an anguished expression, Sovetskaya neared the grand staircase and glimpsed upward, where once there would have been an artwork of a more youthful version of herself, cradled in her parents' arms. Now, a shredded canvas hinged loosely, filth plastered over the portraiture. The eyes had been poked in, hollow, and Irene could only quash a quiver at how much they reminded her of the vacant sockets of her father's corpse. Still, it was not that which brought the most solemn sense of fear to her bones. No. The intruders had done something far more malevolent.

Irene quietly made her way up the stairs, eyes trained on the once gratifying painting, and pressed her lips in a fine line of resentment and misery. She held her poise, sensing the gaze of her staff that had huddled at the bottom of the staircase, eyeing her with pity and somberness. Instead, the Countess merely lifted a quivering hand and reached to the blood-inscribed words that had been blotched over the canvas, right over the visages of her family. She knew, then, that this would be her final warning.

KILL THEM ALL. KILL THE PIGS.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

hello <3 long time no see lol. as summer is approaching, i hope i can go back to writing at least one chapter every week. hope you all are still interested in my stories <3