"Though the reading of the Death terrifies most, this card often signifies the need for rebirth. Only by letting the past rot in its grave can one rise from the ashes of their experience. The time has come for you to transform into your better self, to embark on a journey of self-discovery." c: cocorrina

CHAPTER FIVE

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DEATH

        WAR OFTEN SOUGHT OUT GREED. They were disfigured sister fates, hands interlocked in a promise of eternity, and they murmured to the most vulnerable of hearts. The two, often sculpted in Mirzemlan chronicles as lower-ranked deities, were the curators of all man-made misfortune. War was the elder of the two, for it had taken root in all creation, and was depicted as a grisly maiden with swamp-knotted locks and vacant eyes. Irene was unsure where such an image had come from, to begin with, but she thought it had something to do with the rotting appearance of a cadaver—the body became the wasteland of War. 

        Greed, however, was the antithesis of its counterpart, with a sublime face that inspired the feeble into committing abominable acts in its name. Where one thrived in chaos, the other thrived in grandeur. They conquered different terrains, yet always found each other and rejoiced.

        Now, they were linked as one on Tom Riddle's face.

        Irene's hand slackened from his hold, yet he captured her fingers in his, shooting her an insidious smirk that made her feel uncertain. A knot twisted in her throat, but she did not make a scene, not while descending the stairs in front of the entire court. The Tsar's eyes remained on her, his expression strained, resolve cracked underneath a porcelain mask, but he did not dare approach the witch in such an open space, not while she was on the hand of the faux-prince.

        The reticence that had settled in the ballroom faded to a tamed buzz, and Sovetskaya inhaled deeply as she saw the Tsar rise from his throne. Confliction was painted on his features—it was a broken frame that betrayed his lack of assurance. Still, the monarch marched forward like a wounded dog, the crown on his head lighter than the burden on his shoulders. Even if he managed to get rid of Irene tonight, her appearance in court society with the Prince (or the man who looked like the Prince) would cause a dent in the dynasty's popularity with nobles. A  crack had been torn through the alliances already, and all Irene had to do was wedge her sword in it and divide the monarchy further. The Regency needed support from the lower-ranked nobles.

        "Son," called out the Emperor, resting a hand on Tom's shoulder. The boy flinched for the slightest of seconds, so much so that Irene nearly doubted herself. It seemed she had been the only one to have caught the peculiar reaction.  "It is wonderful that you were able to arrive with all the commotion that happened this evening. Now, if you do not mind, a word?"

        The Tsar's eyes slid to Irene with distaste, and the girl hid her concern at leaving Riddle alone with the monarch behind a coquettish flutter of her eyelashes. Though as the man attempted to pull Tom away, her grip tightened on the Prince, and she dug her nails into his bicep to stop him from following.

        "Your Majesty, Prince Thomas must hold his speech in a few minutes. Perhaps, your conversation should be saved for another time."

        "I will warn you of this once, Sovetskaya," bit the Emperor. "I am not sure what game you are playing at. I am not sure what vile sorcery you used to bewitch my son, but when I do find out, and be certain that I will, I shall have your head for this. Now, I ought to talk to Thomas alone. And damned be that speech, it will be postponed to the next festivity."

        For the briefest moment, fear tasted like sour lime in her mouth, something acidic and bitter. But  Irene simply straightened her back and dropped in a half-curtsy, not even bothering to entertain the Tsar's mad talk. With her hands clasped in front of her, Irene shared a pleasant smile and watched as the regent took Tom away, pulling him harshly and shooting a ruthless stare at the witch. Her corset felt undoubtedly tighter as she exhaled the breath she had been holding, and the girl's mouth felt dry from anxiousness. But her plan, thus far, had been a success. 

        The next portion involved much scheming, and some manipulation of the printed press. Sovetskaya had to make sure that, whatever the media outlets decided to publish after tonight, they would not villainize her. It seemed far-fetched, for she had no actual control over it, but with a little schmoozing to the right person, anything could be achieved.

        Feeling like a drowning swan in a sea of malice, Irene glided through the crowd, trying to ignore the sneers and stares thrown her way. She had expected them. Not only was she ostracized by the higher circles due to her blasphemous sorcery, but accompanying the Prince was something many ladies would have cut their heels off for. Someone jostled her as she advanced to the sitting area, making the girl stumble in her steps and bump into someone else. Hands wrapped around her waist, and through a fiery sensation of panic, she glanced upwards to meet Vladimir Dolohov's face.

        "Come with me."

        It was not a question, nor a request—the words had been muttered as a simple command, and as Irene tried to move away from him, she caught sight of Anya Czermak's feline eyes scrutinizing her every gesture. Undoubtedly, she had been the one to push her, and now, she approached like a hunting lioness, hips swaying side-to-side before she fell in step with Dolohov and Sovetskaya.

         "We ought to have a chat, do you not think so, witch?" sneered Anya, nails digging in Irene's arm as she pulled her inside a small antechamber. The place itself seemed to have been designed for leisure. Divans fenced the walls, royal-blue draperies falling from above and meeting in one cupola of textile, whereas lanterns flickered in every corner. The Czermak heir gestured towards a round table positioned in the middle of the room, and Dolohov dragged the sorceress to one of the chairs.

        Irene sat herself cautiously, her chest heaving. She felt vulnerable. 

        Away from the public eye, Anya and Vladimir had the upper hand because even if the court despised her, at least they did not dare harm her in an open space. Their reputations would have been tarnished. It was a gimmick more than anything, truly. The witch felt unsafe regardless of how many bystanders surrounded her.

        "What did you do to him?" began Vladimir, hands placed on the back of Anya's chair as he stared Sovetskaya down. He had his father's features—the sort of rough-edged profile that only graveyard gargoyles could achieve, and obsidian irises that peeked out from underneath long eyelashes, vexation a typhoon across his face. Admittedly handsome, the Dolohov heir had gained a reputation for being a bit of a prude, never much mingling with the ladies of the court. His father had a deeply rooted friendship with Father Dimitrov. As such, both of the Dolohov children had been educated to abide by the religious requirements of the Church.

        Irene found some amusement in it. The Regency acted as if repentance would change who the Dolohov twins were and where they had gotten their powers. Goddess Twyla remained the one they worshipped, even if it had to be done away from the public eye, and that made them nothing more than hypocrites. How easy it must have been for their family to have the gift of Sight, to become a puppet to the Tsar instead of a threat. Irene's parents had not had that opportunity, and now, as she neared the age of twenty-one, she knew the Tsar was growing impatient. A sorceress with her full-blown powers was almost unstoppable, and entirely hard to control.

        "You will have to elaborate," hummed Irene, settling in her seat. "I know many men that I have interacted with, Vladimir."

         Anya scoffed, "I certainly doubt that."

        "Do you?" Irene raised an unkind eyebrow. "Ask your cousin why he requested two spots on my dancing card last season, and see what he says."

        Vivid, the girl took no time to retort, "Surely you tarnished his mind just as you did with Thomas!"

        "I did nothing to your cousin, just as I did not harm your Prince. He escorted me voluntarily, and just because you are used to having to scheme your way into a date, it does not mean the rest of us ought to use the same tactics."

        "Watch your mouth."

        "I will certainly watch where I put my mouth," Irene gibed, her lips pulling in a sneer that she would not have risked on any other night. Today, though—today she felt impregnable, and although fearlessness was the sword of the senseless and the bibulous, she reckoned she was inebriated on success. 

        Anya's eyes enlarged at the implication of her words. Still, before she could continue her tirade, Vladimir stepped forward, leaning on the table and glancing at Sovetskaya with so much hatred that the witch believed he was projecting. She sometimes wondered how it all affected the twins—becoming marionettes to a regime that would have cut their heads the moment they became a burden. Had the hatred, the propaganda, the aloofness hurt them as it had hurt Irene? Or had they been pampered enough that they could ignore the foul words thrown at their kind?

        "Thomas would never willingly escort you. Whatever it is you have done, come clean, and I will petition for your forgiveness myself." 

        "But—" began Anya, yet Dolohov raised his hand to silence her.

        "You are playing a risky game. As an Oracle, I could always see something that could incriminate you."

        "Or you could fabricate a vision; that is what you are trying to get at."

        "I do not lie about my curse, Sovetskaya," the warning in Vladimir's voice was unmistakable. "Though you might see me as an adversary, I will remind you that we are both forged from the same material, and this offer I am making you is the best you will get. Anya and I...we care about Thomas; we do not want him harmed."

         Crossing her arms over her chest, Irene held his stare, refusing to heed to marzipan agreements. Instead, she shook her head in disapproval, not wanting to seem frightened or liable in any way.

        "Curse?" she breathed, her voice somewhat unstable. "Is that what you truly believe your magic is? You are able to do things that others could only dream of, and instead of accepting it for the blessing that it is, you allow yourself to be poisoned by their corrupted words. Wake up, Dolohov! You will never be one of them, not in your entirety."

        "You are treading on the edge of treason, Sovetskaya."

        "My life should not be considered treason, and you know it," Irene turned fierce eyes to Anya. "Even you know it, deep inside, beyond layers of hatred that you have woven out of privilege and security."

        The other lady stared at her with an incredulous look, and yet her lips did not move to spite Irene or to scold her. Czermak's expression was stoic, repugnance pooling in the creases that marred her forehead, yet something flickered underneath, a spark that did not fit in the ensemble of her being. It was not pity, nor remorse—it resembled fear. 

        But what could Anya be scared of when she held all the power? Her parents, although not the kindest, had nurtured her into becoming a blossoming lady of the court. Tutors from all over the world had been brought to her polished doorstep, their faces eager to educate the prospective Empress of Mirzemla. They had sculpted a future monarch out of a young girl, preparing her so that, when the day came, she would be fit to marry Thomas Lebedev. Czermak had a secure place at court, and a legacy that made her one of the most sought out women, yet Irene saw the hint of worry that passed her face and frowned.

        Then again, all that Irene knew of the girl had come from newspapers and social gatherings. But, perhaps, there was more to her, though Sovetskaya still could not find it in herself to empathize with a woman that had tormented her with snide remarks and silent threats her whole life. 

        A knock on the door cut the tension with a butter knife—it felt sharp edges around Irene—and Vladimir's eyes snapped to the door as his sister stepped inside, confusion cursive on her face. His demeanor changed; he shifted from the cold-hearted nobleman to something else. Well, Irene would not have called it mellow, but there was humanity in his eyes. So few were the people that could bloom empathy in the withered souls of the damned.

        "What's going on?" Her voice was syrupy, but it carried the distinct sharpness of the Dolohov family, as if they scalded their throats with moonlight nectar and it tore down their fibers. Ekaterina's eyes fell on Irene, and she scowled, "Why did you not tell me you were interrogating her?"

        "Because, Rina, you should not—"

        "Not what? Not endanger myself?"

        "Precisely."

        "Well, that is a load of crap if I have ever heard one. Just because I do not have magic, it does not mean I cannot protect myself, Vlad!" retorted Ekaterina, then gazed at Anya. "She does not have any, either, but I never see you treating her like some precious china doll meant to crack."

        A scoff left Czermak's lips, and she rolled her eyes before getting up from the chair and pushing Vladimir to the side. The girl narrowed her stare down on Ekaterina, who stood in the doorway, body half-turned away as if preparing to flee in case Anya's wrath descended upon her.

        "Tell me, sparrow, what exactly can you do in order to protect yourself? Hide behind your brother and play with your little deck of cards, begging that it will miraculously activate your sorcery?" Anya chuckled bitterly, her resentment clear. "You should be grateful you are not unholy, unlike your brother, who spends days bowed before altars to repent for the sin of his curse. It is a blessing that he has taken your burden."

        Ache flashed on Ekaterina's face, her eyebrows curving upwards and her lip finding its way between her front teeth. Body tensed, shoulders fallen, the girl blinked away any emotion from her face and nodded towards the hallway.

        "Father is looking for you, Vlad."

        With that, she twisted, plum-colored dress dragging at the floor as her heels clicked away, and Irene allowed her stare to linger on the spot where the girl had been. She knew that Ekaterina had been born magic-less, and that had made her the less favored twin her whole life. Sorcery bloomed in those who could withstand the strain it caused on the body—power was corruption, after all—and though it was common for descendants of magical lines to inherit the gifts, it was not certain. Magic was a living, breathing thing, and it chose its hosts cautiously. Unfortunately, there had been instances where, as it became vexed with its curator, it turned on the sorcerer, and became parasitic. Sporadic Magic was one instance where the sorcery was simply greater than one man could hold alone, and it eroded the being until they turned to dust. Bloodbenders, shadowmancers, nether conjurers—their lives were the price required for such greatness.

        More so, Ekaterina should have been grateful that, with her being mundane, the duel for the title of Oracle would never happen. Instead, both she and her bother would be able to live their lives serenely, and watch the other grow old. Nevertheless, part of Irene understood her sorrow—she was deprived of her birthright, and though they lived in a system that punished people like them, she had to feel powerless in comparison to her sibling.

        War and Greed. Irene wondered which one suited Vladimir, and which one suited Ekaterina.

        "I shall get going, then," muttered Dolohov, running a restless palm across his face, then glaring at Sovetskaya. "This is not done."

        "I very much believe that it is."

        The boy sneered, then grabbed his coat from the nearby divan and stuffed his hands in the sleeves. He all but burst out of the antechamber, undoubtedly anxious to meet his father, and left Irene and Anya alone. It was Czermak that broke the putrid silence, her words slicing through.

        "You are playing with fire, Sovetskaya."
        Irene shot her a glacial look, "No, I am playing with death."

        Anya pursed her lips, then pushed cherry locks over her shoulder, and marched out of the room to undoubtedly find Thomas. Unbeknownst to her, the girl would never see her possible lover again. Not if Irene got her way.

        The sorceress had not decided what she would do with the actual Crown Prince yet. For now, he would be stored in the basement of Borgin and Burke's, under the constant surveillance of Niklaus Belov, but what about after? Once Irene's slender fingers wrapped around the crown and she sat on the throne, would she be able to give Thomas Lebedev his freedom? The thought itself made her stomach churn, because, as much as she wanted to be the one to murder the Emperor, she could not bring herself to think about harming his son. He was wicked, yes, and most certainly just as rotten, but Thomas had not ever hurt her himself— at least not to the extent of murder.

        But his survival would be a thorn in her side. Noblemen would rally behind him if they ever found out about the ruse that Tom Riddle was, and it would cause civil unrest, division. The legitimate heir was a symbol of the old ways, and if Sovetskaya truly wanted to control everything, he had to be killed at some point, or at least imprisoned until the public admiration would shift. Irene had to play the long game—just because she had gained entrance into the Palace did not signify that she had achieved all she needed. There were many other factors to take into account, and the common folk's perception of her courtly arrival was one. 

        The citizens of Mirzemla found her unholy. That would pose the main problem. They carried no empathy for her because, in their eyes, she was a lesser being. But, if Irene would be able to show them that she cared for the country more than Emperor Lebedev ever could, they might eventually accept her. Especially with Tom by her side.

        Groaning in frustration, Irene covered her face with her hands. That bloody thief! Why was it that the gods had blessed him with the Prince's face, making him the key to everything? It had to mean something, but Sovetskaya was not sure what. Identical structures, yet born from different mothers—that was almost unheard of, a myth that belonged to archives and chronicles. What had made such a thing possible?

        Irene was unsure, but the girl was determined to find out.

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            As soon as she returned to the ballroom, Abraxas was by her side.

            "I have to admit—you pulled this part off."

            Irene gave him a cocky smile, the sort of tug at the lips she reserved to spite the boy alone. Malfoy gazed at her for a moment, then scoffed and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

            "That does not mean, however, that you are not being imprudent. On the contrary, the whole salon has been buzzing, and—" he stopped a servant as they made their way to the corner where Aisha was tucked, picking up two glasses of champagne, "—it is only a matter of time before you get caught up in your lies."

            "I will worry about such entanglements when I trip on them. Now, save your judgment and tell me what you have heard."

            The boy extended a glass to her, and she accepted it gratefully, bringing the liquor to her lips and letting it drown out the worries that clogged her throat. It tasted oddly without her usual dose of poison, as if her body had grown so accustomed to the deadly herbs that it now begged for them. Still, Irene shook that thought away and, instead, attributed the churning of her stomach to her nervousness.

            "That you washed his bloody brains, of course. And now they are wondering if the Prince is even fit to rule, for what fool would willingly touch a filthy, disgusting pagan?"

            "Your words are ever so flattering."

            "Those are their words," Abraxas scoffed, then his eyes found her face, and he scrunched his nose. "Mine would be far less praising."

            Irene ignored his jab and furrowed her eyebrows, "So, they believe him to be under a spell or dimwitted. Funnily enough, they are right about the second part. Thomas Lebedev was never a bright one, but Riddle is intelligent—you know what that makes him?"

            "A genius?"

            "Dangerous," Irene let her eyes trail the ballroom again, attempting to spot the thief and encountering the harsh gazes of the court. Noblemen gawked at her as if she was some prohibited fruit, undoubtedly wondering what could have been so startling about her that the Prince himself would endanger his reputation only to have her. Ladies batted eyelashes in an attempt to flutter away the jealousy of their gazes. Sovetskaya pitied them all, not for their envy, but for the triviality of their existence. 

            Gossiping was a sport amongst the higher folks of Mirzemla, though they acted above it when confronted. Irene had heard rumors about others, how Locotenent Pavlov had gambled his way into heavy debt and had been forced to sell his wife's jewelry on the black market of Vespagrad, resulting in the two sleeping in different beds. Divorce was frowned upon by the church, and unless someone declared one party of the marriage insane or poisoned them to their grave, the spouses would have to endure their hatred for each other at home and put on their best act in public. Because that was what court life was—a stage for the ablest actors and actresses to perform their pantomimes on.

            It was not uncommon for a noble to have an affair. Such was the way of their country, where indulgence was not a sin, but a virtue, and sexual pleasure was one of the most sought-after pastime activities. Marriage was for wealth, power, status. Irene sometimes wondered if her parents had been happy in their relationship, if there had been any rocky moments that might have resulted in infidelity. She had only ever seen them beaming, their eyes focused on her with such warmth that they radiated, but her young mind would have idealized their bond either way. Still, the sorceress hoped they had had a blissful marriage, considering that she would not.

            The thought of marrying Tom Riddle made her sick to the stomach. Sovetskaya knew it was the easiest access to the power she needed, yet she wished that it would not resume to that, and she would be able to kill the Emperor before going forward with the ruse. She shook her head—the sorceress had to keep her mind clear on the task at hand. Riddle was not the predominant threat, at least not until the Tsar's body was cold and underground. Afterward, though, she knew that either she killed Tom, or Tom killed her. They both craved the throne, and alliances only lasted so long.

            "You seem troubled," murmured Abraxas as they reached the alcove where Aisha was seated. Her dupatta was thrown over a chair, and the Force Wielder stood in her spot rigidly, eyes scanning the crowd as if it were a threat.

        "These are troubling times, after all. But worry not, for darkness allows us to seek light."

        Aisha let out a scoff as she heard them approaching, "Is that not a wonderful mentality to have? Cannot say I share it," she said, eyes never leaving the crowd, though it was not fear that they carried, but rather longing. "Light only finds the worthy. Monsters are meant to live in the darkness."

        Sovetskaya raised an eyebrow, intrigued, "You fancy yourself a monster?"

        "That is what I have been told, at least. Not that I dislike it one bit. I have accepted who I am, which made me take my destiny into my own hands and evade the life I once had. The person who I was before—she let light smother her and whip her into submission, all because she could not accept that she craved for things that others viewed as wrong."

        "Murder?" jested Abraxas, swirling the champagne in his flute with disinterest.

        "Among other things, yes," breathed Kayani, then shifted her crude stare to Sovetskaya. "But now is not the time to get philosophical. Riddle—well, the tsesarevich was taken to a private salon to discuss the Tsar. He should be back any minute, and the court will have its eyes on you. Now is your time to sink or swim, Countess, because everyone is waiting for your next move."

        The corset that held the upper part of her dress suddenly seemed much stiffer than it had been that morning, as if anxiety had gripped its strings and tightened them until she was suffocating. Irene ran her hands down the sides of her dress, trying to smooth it out, and avoided answering promptly. Instead, she let her gaze take in the ballroom, with its tall ceilings, crimson curtains dangling from the clear ethers, and sparkling splendour. The orchestra—a collection of the most gifted musicians in Mirzemla—bellowed over the lively chatter, accompanying the sounds of feet stomping on the marble floor in fast dance steps.

        In the middle of the festive crowd, two jesters twirled and jumped to the rhythm of the barynya dance, the folk steps out of sync with the delightful music. Still, the people around them applauded, throwing red ribbons onto the floor in their merriment, and swaying from side to side as they tried to imitate the jovial tapping. One of the jesters, a woman that wore a beautiful embroidered skirt, twirled graciously, one hand holding a handkerchief and whipping it around in circular motions, before throwing it up in the air and catching it in an elegant jump. Her boots—red as blood—continued tapping, and she found a partner from the surroundings, bringing a perplexed man into the ring and dancing her way around him.

        While the court remained entertained, Irene spotted a figure emerging from the back-drop curtains; face tightened in apprehension at being lectured. Tom's eyes found hers immediately, and as he began approaching her, the sorceress felt her chest tighten with panic. What was it about the boy that stirred such fear in her, as if he were one second away from diving his fingers into her ribcage and plucking her heart from its wretched nest? Instead, the boy dipped his head respectfully, as if to acknowledge her, though Irene wondered if he knew how out of character he seemed at that moment. Thomas Lebedev had never shown her any respect.

        "A dance?" Riddle asked, extending long fingers her way, and Irene gawked at the invitation. 

        "Has the Emperor not scolded you enough for accompanying me here?" Sovetskaya inquired, her eyes carrying a silent question—how badly had they angered the Tsar? Still, she could not ask that in public, not when the people surrounding them watched them like hawks, blood dripping from the claws they would sink in her flesh if given the occasion.

        "The wonderful thing about there being only one heir is that I do not become lithe at the hands of the Tsar. Nevertheless, yes, I do suspect that his blood pressure might rise again at such open defiance." Without waiting for her acceptance, he grabbed her hand, pulling her close. Tom's lips slid to her ear, breath hot on her lobe, and then he continued, "Though, that is what you desire, is it not? For his blood to pump faster, stronger, until his heart is overridden by grief, or poison, or whatever fate you decide to bring upon him. And then, to watch him fall to his knees, lips tainted crimson as he chokes on his own vitality, begging for your mercy, just as you once did."

        The macabre words ripened her cheeks, bringing a lively flush to her face that the passers-by would have attributed to something sinful, scandals whispered suavely in her ears. Irene's throat clenched, though her body reacted in two different ways—goosebumps covered her skin at the thought of the Emperor's death, her surface responding greedily, delightfully, yet her insides whined with queasiness. The image painted itself in lurid hues, and she attempted to blink it away as Tom pulled her towards the center of the ballroom.

        She scrutinized him from behind. He wallowed in the grandeur, allowed the attention to feed the withered creature he concealed within; a child starved of recognition and appreciation. Irene could almost count the ribs of his soul, a being so deprived of everything that made the human humane. And then, Riddle turned towards Irene, his hand snaking around her waist and gripping tightly, so much so that she felt immobilized. The slight upturn of his lips—it told of the way he regarded her then; not as an equal, but as a triumph, a foolish girl he had deceived.

        But the demonic glint was gone in a second, replaced by the same icy charm that had baffled her the first time they had met each other. With so many interchanging masks—the demon, the ice-prince, the intellectual—it was difficult to understand who Tom Riddle was.

        "They are watching," his lips found the side of her face again. "Behave, dear."

        The stringed instruments picked up again, though the melody was solemn, as if they mourned for the sorceress too, as if they knew she was dancing with the devil. Irene tried to tell herself that her caution and nervousness were dismissable, a side-effect of the evening, yet she could not shake off the sensation that the turbid emotions were a premonition. Riddle began the dance, raising their united hands as he led her backward, then twirled her leisurely, like malleable clay in his hands. Every time her steps inclined away from him, he reappeared by her side, placing cold palms against her hips and lifting her in another spin. Though gracious, the cavort felt more like a game in which Irene had not yet deciphered the rules of play.

        She had not understood what Riddle was playing at, but she knew he was one step ahead, in dance and ambition all the same.

        With another movement of his arm, he dipped her down on her back, one hand on her hips, the other on her nape to support her. Riddle allowed her to stay in that motion for a second, her stability dependent on him, just as her aspirations were. Irene narrowed her eyes at the thief, and he smirked, then hoisted her up before falling in another side-step. The music flowed, couples swirled around them, stealing flabbergasted glances at the two.

        Tom brought her against him, covering the ballroom floor as he leaned to discuss again, "Was your life worth a kingdom, Sovetskaya?"

        She knew what he was asking—the rash decision of their cooperation had been propelled by the Knights chasing her in the forest. Irene had brought a stranger in the palace, but that was what she needed, a being that would not hesitate in playing dirty by her side. Tom Riddle was an accomplice as much as he was an adversary. Irene had sold her soul to the devil, and she did not regret it one bit.

        "Revenge is worth everything."

        "That is a perilous thought to have, Countess. If someone becomes too besotted with revenge, if they focus on the unbound hatred toward another, they may lose track of their true beliefs and worth." 

        "Is it something else that motivates your miscellaneous ways?"

        "Indeed, I am a man who covets power above else, and that, to me, is worth everything."

        "Are they not of similar standings?"

        "No," stated Riddle, moving to her side and wrapping his arm around her as they moved in a circular motion. "Revenge is an act of war; power is a matter of greed. You would willingly give yourself up in the name of your quest, but I shall always value myself above all else. Your focus is on another, whereas mine is on me."

        "What if vengeance is how I seek power?"

        "Then you are a fool," the statement stung Irene, and she glowered at the boy, whose eyes remained apathetic. "If the only way for you to be mighty is to weaken another instead of strengthening yourself, then it is only a matter of time before you will wound up dead."

        His hands, she realized, were icy, as if his sickness saturated his being, clinging to his bones. Nevertheless, as she gazed at him, Irene could not pinpoint any sign of malady, Riddle's face an immoral blessing from the gods. Her eyebrows furrowed as she recalled the way he had handled Thomas Lebedev's capture, and as he twirled her once more, she started questioning him.

        "What sorcery do you possess?"

        Tom glimpsed at her. Then, his attention shifted to the orchestra, who ended their melody with a courteous bow to the crowd. Acclamations blanketed the salon and the festivities began dwindling down for the night, the exhausted crowd dispersing amongst the multiple polished statues. The Koliada celebrations would resume the next day and carry throughout the end of the coldest month, though other events would be held mainly in the town square. Riddle inclined his head towards Irene respectfully, ending their dance.

        "Tomorrow, you shall meet the rest of the Knights at Borgin and Burkes around nightfall. I will try my best to find a way to visit the shop and slip out undetected, though I reckon the Emperor will be keeping an annoyingly close watch on me," he hummed, nodding to himself before clasping his hands behind his back. "We shall discuss your residence at the Palace tomorrow, should we see each other."

        Pivoting on his feet, the boy marched away from her, leaving Irene in the middle of the ballroom. As she watched Tom escape, fists tightened by her side, she queried if he would prove more of an obstacle than an aid.

        And if he were to be Greed, then she would become War. Irene would make sure that, just like the deities, their fates would be strung unitedly. Should she go down, the sorceress would take the thief with her, and they would both drown in their pond of malignancy.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

yeah, sorry it took so long to update. i finished my other series and then decided to take a break from wattpad for like three weeks.

i considered unpublishing this book due to the fact that the world-building puts sooo many people off. but to be honest, this is the only thing that i have written that i like.