"Temperance marks the thirst for balance in one's life, for harmony. A person that draws this card should consider the blessing of compromise. Beware, for Temperance can also be the calm before the storm."

CHAPTER FOUR

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TEMPERANCE

           IT BEGAN AS MOST THINGS USUALLY DID—with a baffling amount of unwanted anxiousness.

            The sea zephyr was potent all over Vespagrad as the port chimed with Malfoy vessels, golden emblems glistening in the ebony radiance. Irene Sovetskaya watched as crates got moved by burly men, their sailor shirts soaked by salty spray and a dose of transpiration. The festivities of Koliada were a time of celebration amongst the noble folk, with the grand ball taking place at the Palace, and the market buzzing with effervescence.

            Amongst the lantern-illuminated streets of the capital, children pounced around with red ribbons tied around their necks, braids, and hands, a symbol of prosperity and health. The habit had been born out of folklore, for long ago, mothers would protect their young ones from rusalki by performing such rituals. The malicious water spirits were known for stealing human babies from their cribs, and replacing them with changelings—creature-born off-springs that appeared to be human, yet were made of something far more wicked. Such stories passed from generation to generation, bringing life to the Mirzemlan folklore, and Irene's mother had been most pleased by them.

            Sovetskaya's face soured with the fleeting memory. She tried not to ponder over flashes with her parents too much—good or bad, they all brought sorrow. And, even if her Manor was as dreadful as a funeral home, wasting time grieving did her no good. All Irene had to do was seek revenge, and then, perhaps, she could find peace.

            "What a pleasant surprise," mused a golden baritone voice from behind, and Irene turned her head to find Abraxas strutting towards her.

            The beaming sun had always served him well—he looked utterly splendid in its radiance, an angel without wings, or perhaps a demon far too handsome for a mortal's naivety. Although he spent most days at sea, the Malfoy heir remained impeccable, with the most ravishing clothes and bewitching simpers. The saltiness of waves never roughened his hands, and platinum locks remained tousled by the sea breeze.

            "And here I was thinking that you had forgotten about the one friend you had," his jest seemed harmless, though it did hurt Irene's heart quite a bit.

            Abraxas moved across the clearing, long boots clinking against the stone that led to the pier. Irene made to follow, but stopped a few feet away from the beginning of the docking bridge, feeling quite lightheaded. The sound of waves crashing was numbing, and through the wooden cracks of the port, she could see the water moving with swirls of agitation. It could swallow her whole.

           The sorceress shook her head, pushing the thoughts away, yet her hands remained clammy, and her heart drummed loudly. "I was busy. But I would never abandon you for Koliada, so spare me the judgment."

           A passing sailor pushed a few papers in Malfoy's hands, most probably unloading documents. Though the boy's eyes scanned the lines of ink, the smirk on his face as a consequence of his cheeky attitude towards the girl. He shot her a brief look, then snorted.

           "Now, do not be cross with me. It is simple banter," his tone remained potent as he gestured for a few workers down the harbor. "I can tell from the way you are playing with the threads of your gloves that something is gnawing at your mind. So, have at it—how can I assist?"

           Irene has stopped being baffled at how well Malfoy knew her a long time ago.

          "I need you to replace the coachmen of your carriages with my own."

           Abraxas laughed loudly, though the sound died on his lips when he registered the severe expression on Sovetskaya's face. He curiously tilted his head, and his lips pulled in the grin of a Cheshire cat as he leaned against a lamp-post, arms crossed.

          "That is an odd request."

          "I am sure I have asked for far more unbelievable favors."

          "Yes, you have a way of earning your heart's desire from me. But this does seem rather peculiar. Of course, my mind immediately conjures a few possibilities—you are either trying to be as much of a disruption to the party as you can or," Abraxas' eyes changed from humorous to steely, "you are smuggling something inconspicuous inside the Palace."

           Though Irene tried to keep her face impassive, Malfoy immediately picked up on the hesitation. With a puff, he pushed himself off of the post and began walking away from the harbour and down to where crates of champagne were being loaded into extravagant carriages.

           The Malfoy port was known for its bustling activities, as it remained lit by lanterns from sunrise until twilight. Import and export ships crowded the docking sites, sailors continuously lowering crates from the upper decks down to the pier, where the moving crew loaded them onto carriages.

           "Well, I suppose my help is not that important since you have so graciously kept me out of the loop," muttered the boy, and his voice carried a note of betrayal that Irene did not quite fancy.

           "What I am doing is extremely dangerous!" Sovetskaya objected, moving in front of the Baron to stop his tirade. Abraxas avoided her stare, breathing out in irritation before inclining his head in a way that told her to either spill or be gone.

           Sailors passed by them, stealing fugitive glances at the Countess, and she could almost hear their minds wrapping with intrusiveness. Irene was a walking spectacle across the country, and even the Malfoy family's loyal men could not help but gawk.

          Irene pondered for a moment. She knew that she could trust Malfoy with her life, for they were both sorcerers in a world that detested them, and that had created a bond of reliance unlike anything else. The son of the sea had refused to accompany his father on errands that ran for more than a week, as he had desired to stay behind in Mirzemla in order to ensure that Sovetskaya was not alone.

          And it was because of that blind devotion that nothing would have hurt Irene more than to endanger the boy. Her revenge was her own guillotine, and no other heads had to roll. The thieves were a gamble in itself, and they made the operation reasonably dangerous, so involving another sorcerer, a foreigner, would be placing the first ink mark on a death certificate.

          "Go on, then. Those crates will not check themselves, and I would rather the Emperor allowed me to keep my head. I quite fancy my handsomeness."

           She took in a deep breath, "This might sound entirely ridiculous and foolish."

           Abraxas shrugged, pushing a hand through golden locks, "Seldom do your plans lack those qualities."

          "There is a boy," began Irene, keeping her voice low. She eyed their surroundings before grabbing Malfoy's arm and dragging him further away.

          They could not go somewhere unchaperoned after being spotted together, but eyes often perceived more than ears did. When they were far enough that they could be seen but not heard, the sorceress continued.

           "He looks identical to the crown prince. There is absolutely no difference between the two. We will be performing a swap tonight, and then, he will give me access to the Palace."

          Expectant eyes stared at Abraxas, and all the girl wished was for him to agree easily, and for them to move to the next stage of the plan. She was certain they could pull tonight off; it was only a matter of timing and bringing the Knights of Walpurgis into the Palace.

          But Abraxas had a different opinion as he scorned her with his stare, "You are right—your plan is foolish."

          At once, his boyish youth seemed to flutter away, replaced by something far harsher. He looked the part of the infamous prince of the sea, made from Zephyriann's altar, God of the Elements. The torrents of water mirrored in Malfoy's vicious eyes, and how ironic it was that the force that had almost taken her life had come to thrive in her most trusted companion.

           "Abraxas, listen to me—"

          The boy shook his head, whistling down a buggy from the stables and coordinating his crew to fetch him a zevack. "I am not allowing you to endanger your life simply because the pressure is getting to you. Are you listening to yourself? You are risking everything, Irene! How do you even know that these people can be trusted."

          She made to protest, but the stableman brought the animal down and tied it to the carriage, and Abraxas opened the door, a set look on the sorceress that told her he was about to send her home.

         "You cannot force me to back down, Abraxas."

            "Irene," the way he said her name almost made her flinch. "Not only are you endangering yourself, but you are gambling with the lives of thousands of citizens. You are about to place a man you do not know on a throne, all so that you can get revenge. What if he brings ruin to this country?"

           Irene shook her head, tawny curls moving freely as she backed away from the boy, "I will not let him. I will be by his side at all times, and if it becomes too much, I will kill him just as well. It will be an easy fit, for he is as insufferable as they come."

           Malfoy's fingers clenched around the door, "Since when do you want to take the crown?"

            "Since the Lebedev dynasty has become a circus. They are not fit to rule. They use our resources to fund their heart's desire, from exotic textiles to renovations of the Palace each year. People are starving, and the Tsar increases taxations only to ensure that they do not have the means to rise against the Regency," her words became fire, each one more vexed than the other. "I have been preparing for this. I have spent years studying politics, court courtesy, art, literature, history, languages—everything there was to learn, I did. I might not be the legitimate heir, but I am better."

            The sound of waves crashing in the port seemed to magnify, as if they listened to Abraxas' turmoil and decided to take revenge on the sandy banks scattered across the coast. Some days, Irene feared the moment the sorcerer would turn the prime age of twenty-one, and he would finally gain access to his full-fledged power. Then, only the God of Elements himself would be able to calm the storms and winds that Abraxas would bring.

            "You might lose your head," Malfoy breathed, and as the initial anger passed from his face, Irene could see the sensitivity underneath. He feared for her safety. He knew, more than anyone else how one mistake could cost them their lives, and if Irene got caught, it would be the end.

            "Every day, I risk losing my head," Irene replied, her voice breaking. "Every day, I wonder when the Tsar will come and take me on some false accusations, and have me hung in the town square as he did with the rest. He has made us live in terror because he is the one that is afraid. The Emperor is a coward, and he will not stop until all of us are gone. And we are not the only sorcerers in Mirzemla, Abraxas."

           Malfoy inhaled a sharp breath, "What are you talking about?"

           "The thieves have magic as well."

           "That is impossible."

           "I have seen it," explained Irene, then moved slowly to close the door of the carriage and wave the coachman away. "Please, trust me on this. I cannot sit and watch as the Tsar destroys my territory, Abraxas. If I wait for the perfect opportunity, I might as well start digging my grave, because there will never be a safe way of killing the Tsar."

            She could see the conflict on his face, and Irene could not blame him. They had been beaten down by fear, and though they liked to see themselves as revolutionists, they did not want to die in vain. But the time for action was now, and no plan had ever seemed as plausible as the swap. It was flawed, and dangerous, yes. However, it was also one of the most brilliant schemes that a usurper had ever done, and if Sovetskaya could pull it off, history would be rewritten.

           Then, those books at the orphanage would truly carry the tales of monstrosity about the Emperor's tsardom, and the world would know the truth.

           "Where are your accomplices, then?" Muttered Abraxas, and Irene's lips quirked upward.

            She gestured down the road, where the Koliada market was in full bloom. Stands of all colors decorated the swerving streets of Vespagrad, each tent having a different merchant wave festivity flyers out front. The aroma of traditional food mixed in with the fragrance of pine was almost overwhelming, and, even from afar, Irene could see countless people walking around with mugs of rich hot wine in their hands. Somewhere deep in the furor that was the yearly Festival of Koliada, the thieves had blended in with the Mirzemlan crowd.

            Still, above the market, Irene could spot a flying raven gliding through the skies, its inky feathers catching the dusky light of winter. She waved a subtle hand, and the bird began descending from the heightened point of the clouds. It disappeared between the tall chimneys of the capital, and Sovetskaya told Abraxas to bring his carriages at the entrance of the market.

            Her steps were fast. There was no time left to waste, as the kitchens would be expecting the supplies two hours before the banquet. The thieves had to be on those carriages.

            The cellar at Borgin and Burkes had been remodeled into a place for captives according to a letter that Niklaus had sent, and it was soundproof, which meant that they could keep the Prince there. Irene was still uncertain of their plan, as they had kept the scheming amongst themselves, and that made her worry.

           But she was well past the point of backing down. The sorceress had to trust Tom Riddle, although the thought itself seemed ridiculous. She would take it one step at a time, and, at that moment, all that mattered was getting inside the Palace. Her enemy was the Emperor, not the leader of the thieves.

           At least, not for now.

           Children pushed past her, running down the boulevard in their best clothing as mothers called out for them to be careful. The main road was congested with traffic as nobility from all over the country came to see the celebrations, and the market drummed with chatter. Amid the tents, stands, and stage-plays, a fantastic evergreen stood as the centerpiece of Koliada. It had been decorated under the supervision of the Regency, but the locals had all taken to tying their own trinkets to the lower branches. They made wishes upon bows of crimson, round ornaments sculpted from painted wood and threads of beads sewn into intricate patterns.

           Koliada had always been quite an unusual holiday for Irene. The origins of the celebrations were tied into the worship of the God of Sun, Koliada, and, as such, into the Pagan traditions. And for all of the hatred that the Tsar had brought upon those who still practiced the old ways, he had never prohibited the winter festivities. They brought in too much commerce from neighbouring countries, and wealthy noblemen from all over the world were more than willing to spend their coin on hot wine and traditional food.

           Emperor Lebedev undoubtedly exploited the continent's history when it was beneficial to him.

            Hatred pooled into Irene's guts, but she smothered it out as soon as four cloaked figures slipped behind her, their faces masked by Koliada costumes. From drawings of vengeful rusalki to depictions of jesters, the thieves had taken to selecting masks that would help them blend in.

            "The carriages will be here any minute, and the three of you will switch places with the coachman. Aisha, I have a gown for you, and you will have to change in my private buggy," muttered Irene, ushering them towards the front where Abraxas was waiting.

            "Good day to you too, my lady," mocked Theoden, sliding the mask off of his face and giving her a whimsical smile.

            Irene scowled, yet nodded in acknowledgment before signaling Malfoy. She watched Niklaus take the front one, followed by Theoden, and then Riddle. The look-alike's mask stayed on, though his curls were ruffled by the coastal breeze, and sharp eyes settled on her right before he whipped his reins. The three vehicles started down the road, and Sovetskaya felt a knot of trepidation in her abdomen.

            Abraxas moved to her side, eyeing Aisha with uncertainty. Behind him, musicians had started parading down the boulevard, plucking and pressing various instruments as tuneful kolinde resonated through the squares. Dressed in red, silver, green, and golden, they waltzed with merriment, ripe cheeks glistening with the passion of artists.

            Aisha Kayani spoke over the tumult, taking off her mask, "We best get going before sundown, or we will be trampled in the streets by a disgustingly cheerful crowd."

            With that, she pushed through the dancers and headed for Irene's carriage. The Countess pressed her lips together, trying to ignore Abraxas' uncertain gaze, and followed behind.

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            Tom Riddle slipped through the shadows of the Lebedev Palace, his mask obscuring features that would have sent the court spiraling, and his lips pulled in a tyrannical smirk. The staff had begun unloading the crates of champagne through the servant back-door, and the triant of thieves had taken it as an opportunity to offer a helping hand and slip through undetected. Niklaus had promptly used his sorcery to create a diversion, allowing the leader to enter the fortification while the other two moved the coaches to the woody edges of the Regency's estate.

            The thief paraded through the hallways, his dusky robes and Koliada ensemble making him seem one of the night's entertainers. No eyes disdainfully turned to him, allowing the young sorcerer to reach the staff stairs.

            He took in the endless floors with shrewd eyes, pondering for a second over the direction he ought to take. If Aisha's knowledge of Tasilan aristocracy was anything to go by, the royal quarters were on the upper floors of the Southern Towers. The boy moved fast, making sure to walk along the windows so that Theoden could spot him from his flight. Riddle had never understood the shifter's preference for the raven, especially compared to something as vicious or sturdy as an eagle, but it served well on occasions that demanded secrecy.

            Maidens of the Palace passed him, their white uniforms pressed and impeccable, yet their eyes carried fatigue from the Koliada preparations. Riddle almost jeered at the thought—Festivals were nothing more than ways for the Regency to gain monetary satisfaction. Drunken fools stumbling in the Vespagrad streets, women indulging in unscrupulous behavior, and nights filled with the wretched tune of stringed instruments.

           "Fools—all of them," grumbled Riddle as he took another corner, his eyebrows pulling in a frown.

             To engage in mirth was to allow the mind to be influenced by liquor or merriment, and that took away from a man's capability to scheme, to conceive. Such situations would have never been to Tom's liking, though they did provide ample opportunities for petty theft and pick-pocketing among the Festival's locations. The Main Boulevard pulsed with foreign ambassadors begging to be captured by the road thieves, and the Knights of Walpurgis never backed down from a good robbery.

            Growing up at the orphanage, Riddle had learned to fend for himself, to be opportunistic. He manipulated the naive into lending him large sums of money, he scammed travelers for a good penny, and he certainly never felt bad for it. After all, it had been the Regency and the country that had placed him in foster care, with little to his name, and so why should he have felt guilty for taking back what ought to have been offered willingly?

             Pests—the aristocrats were nothing more than whimpering geese, and though they had the means of educating themselves, they rarely did. Their hygiene was poor, their minds were weak, their pockets were heavy. A visionary like Tom Riddle could only play them around his able fingers like golden coins. For that was all they were—shining currency in the hands of the capable.

            The underground world of Mirzemla was a labyrinth, and Riddle had found the path in the early stages of his youth when one rough-cut had commented on how he resembled the prince.

            "Look at this one, ay! Pretty face, am I right? Reckon the Emperor would 'ave a good sum for his head, no?"

             Riddle had gutted him in the midst of the sewers, letting his filthy body fall into the rats' nest.

            After that, he had started wearing face coverings for most of his travels. Few bandits knew the face of the Crown Prince, and even then, they rarely took notice of a lanky kid slipping from tavern to tavern, searching for his family.

            The resemblance had woken interest in Riddle's past, and so the boy had started searching the murky streets of the Dolohov territory around the day of his sixteenth birthday. His family name was foreign, and so it was easy to track down its origins down to a small cottage by the Mirzemlan caves, where a certain Tom Riddle Senior opened the door.

           The look on his father's face would haunt Tom Riddle for the rest of his life.

             Repugnance—the sentiment was not unusual to Riddle, as it was something the children of the orphanage faced in their daily lives. Still, he had come to the doorstep to ask for answers, and had instead been greeted with slurred words of hatred towards his mother, who had apparently requested some low-ranked dark creature to make Tom's father fall in love with her.

           Rusalki.

             The vicious water spirits had given Merope, Tom's mother, some lake plant that could be brewed into tea and used to mimic amorous sentiments, though they only imitated love. They had asked for a hefty price, but Merope had stopped listening by then, and had returned to the Riddle estate and drugged the man. They had been married for years before Merope had gotten pregnant, but the sole notion of childbirth had broken the potion's effects, for Tom Riddle Senior could not love his child, not even artificially.

            Merope had stumbled into the village late at night, her legs quivering as the rain poured down on her flimsy frame, and she had started banging from door to door, begging any midwife to help her with her labour. Eventually, the Matron of the orphanage had opened the door and allowed the woman inside.

           Tom's mother had died during childbirth, and he was glad for it.

             He hated the woman, though he had never met her. She had been desperate for love, for affection, and had sacrificed everything to the rusalki to achieve such a thing. Senseless woman—she had not even asked for the price that she had to pay in order to receive the potion.

             Glancing down at his wrist, Tom Riddle trailed the marking that reminded him of what he truly was, of the blasphemous magic that coursed through his veins.

            The boy had not known that he was a sorcerer, not until the day he had confronted his father. Amid the yelling and wrath of the man, something darker had awakened in Tom, a bloodthirst that could not easily be satiated. Riddle Senior made to grab him by the arm, a knife in his hand, but Tom was faster. He kicked the blade out of his father's hand then knocked him over the door frame. They brawled on the floor, trying to reach the dagger and end the other, but the sixteen-year-old had grabbed it first.

            Then, with a quick move, Tom had plummeted the dagger into his father's chest. And that had triggered his magic.

           As well as his curse.

            The mark on his wrist, one that had started out as a washed-inky line, had extended with each killing. Now, the veins on his right arm were threads of darkness, extending from the joint to the middle of his forearm.

            "Excuse me," a voice chimed from behind Tom, and the thief turned briefly, eyeing the guard with cautiousness, "You are not allowed on this floor level. All entertainers should be—"

            Riddle did not let him finish his words, his dagger slashing the man's throat almost instantaneously. For a few moments, consciousness seemed to dawn in on the guard's face, fear fused in with something tangible, and Tom could almost savor the death on his tongue. It pleased him so—seeing puny mortals succumb to their flaw of moribundity only reminded him of his intention to escape it, to stop the curse.

            "It is not polite to interrupt me," mused Tom, kneeling over the dying man, and counting the seconds before he drew his last breath. The blood dripped from the cut, dampening the alabaster tiles in iniquity, and the sorcerer yearned for the liquid unlike anything else. It fueled his magic—an anointing for the unholy.

            "Eretik de sange," murmured the guard in Mirzemlan before finally letting go.

            Tom scoffed at the old-fashioned title, before leaning over the sanguine and letting his hand brush it. Lips susurrated a hymn, and he felt the inkiness on his hands swell, trailing the paths of his blood vessels. The boy's eyes mooned over with a sensation that resembled rapture, though it was followed shortly by the scorching of his sorcery. The killings, the blood—they served as combustible for whatever spell Riddle craved to cast.

            Blood magic was a sly force. It did not belong to any Trickster or God, but rather, to the lesser dark creatures—rusalki, zmei, varkolaks, vodyanoi, zevacks. Monsters that lurked the adumbrations, often malicious, and struck bargains with desperate humans to pass their magic on. As such, it referred to the division of Sporadic Sorcery, an often deadly curse concealed in the form of a blessing, one that slew mortals before it returned back to the ground, allowing the beasts to gain more power.

             Tom cleaned his dagger on the man's uniform, then continued his path leisurely, not even bothering to fret over the possibility of the body being found. A few weak guards could not stop him. They never did.

             A knock sounded on one of the windows, and Riddle shot an irked glance toward the bird hitting its beak on the glass before walking over and opening in. Theoden shifted in the shadows, his dark cloak clinging to his human form as he wore a lazy smirk.

            "The carriages are near the royal gardens," he explained, matching Riddle's march towards the living quarters, "Niklaus is waiting by the door, and will cast a distraction spell, should we find ourselves in trouble."

             "There will be no need for that," muttered Tom, his eyes settling on the two grand doors that led to the Prince's chambers. Two guards fenced the entryway, their armour heavy and their swords sharp. "Follow my lead."

             With that, Tom slinked through the statues of the hallway, using their height as cover as he neared the patrol. Down the corridor, the light of the candles fluttered as two more men marched down the steps. The blood sorcerer shot Theoden Nott a look, tilting his head to the stairs.

            The shifter rolled his eyes, then his body started shriveling until he was nothing more than a tiny mouse scurrying around the castle. He began after the patrol on the lower level, and Tom focused on the one by the door. His hand flew forward, gesturing toward them, and the boy then concentrated his energy into his sorcery, temples pulsating as his blood pumped faster.

            "What in the Emperor's name?" Muttered one of the Mirzemlan men, touching the wet spot under his nose, where sanguine had begun dripping down. Tom flicked his hand again, and he toppled over like a broken doll.

            His partner took out his sword, though he found no threat as he scanned the corridor, and instead leaned over his friend's body, eyebrows pulled in a scowl. Two figures appeared from the stairs, dressed entirely in the uniform that all of the Tsar's men wore, and Riddle almost cursed Nott for not finishing his task. Then, after a second glance, he discerned the young faces that approached to be those of Theoden and Niklaus, who had somehow contrived to take the clothes of the guards.

             "What is happening here?" Queried Nott, his pitch theatrical as he peeped at the knocked-out soldier. "Well, well. I suppose this year's plague might have come earlier than expected!"

            Tom aspired to drain his blood then and there—the ravaging sickness would not come for another two months.

           Still, the guard's face creased with worry, "The plague?"

            Theoden jostled Niklaus, who shot him an exasperated look, not wanting to obey his ridiculous jest. Regardless, he cleared his throat and proceeded, "Indeed. I have heard that it traveled with the ambassadors from Samaritta. I suggest you head to the apothecary and request for your blood to be tested."

             "Foul thing it is, I heard it takes down the strongest men in hours!" Continued Theoden, eyes enlarging comically as he puffed.

            "I suppose I should go. Will you take care of Adrian?"

            "Yes, of course," declared Theoden, throwing a hand over Niklaus' shoulders and grinning at him. "We will certainly take care of Adrian, right?"

            Belov grunted an affirmation before jabbing Nott in the side. They both watched as the guard started descending the stairs, and then Niklaus immediately pointed his hand toward him, casting a chaos spell that had him stumble down the steps and hit his head against the balustrade. He was out in a matter of seconds.

            "That went well," whistled Theoden, stuffing his hands in his pockets before nudging Adrian with his shoe. "What do we do with this one?"

            "Wipe the blood from his nose and have him leaning against the wall. They will think he was just another intoxicated soldier on duty," muttered Tom, stepping out of the shadows and joining the two Knights.

             Niklaus obeyed him almost immediately—he had always been the keenest to follow orders out of the three acolytes, eager to get on with the plan. Theoden, on the other hand, was a heedless soul, who toyed with his opponents before defeating them. It was the animalistic impulse, Tom discerned, something that related to his sorcery.

            Once they were done with the guard, Riddle motioned for the two mages to flank his sides as he pressed a hand to the grand door. It swung open, revealing a lavish bedchamber, with a baldachin and multiple lounges dispersed over the sitting area. At the desk, Thomas Lebedev was hunched over a piece of paper, scribbling down the discourse he was supposed to hold at the end of the Koliada Ball.

           "Oh, the escort is here early," he muttered, not even sparing them a glance. His hand stopped moving, as if he was pondering something, "How do you spell monarch?"

           Then, he twisted in his chair, finally facing Tom, who still had his mask on.

            "Who are you? I did not ask for anyone to bring a performer," Thomas stood up, his movements lacking elegance, almost lanky. He shot Niklaus and Theoden a stern look, "What is the meaning of this?"

            His naivety almost made Riddle want to seize the candle holder from his desk and strike him over the head, but he thawed his glacial fury, Irene's words eddying in his mind. They needed the ludicrous excuse of a Prince for further schemes, and so, he could not harm him just yet.

             The sorceress' face throbbed at the back of his psyche, scalding and bothersome. She had the insolence of a court woman who thought her position of privilege meant her way of reasoning was more reliable. Indeed, she was well educated, if the boundless library Riddle had seen at the Sovetsky Manor was anything to go by, but that did not make her superior. She was still starry-eyed, an idealist in a ghastly cosmos, and her unswerving unwillingness to bloody her hands would lead to her end.

            Initially, Riddle had resolved to kill her when the swap had been made, but he was not a man who behaved on impulse. He had deliberated over the arrangement for endless nights, staying up to estimate the benefits and downfalls of letting the Countess live. She was a loose end, a person who knew of his true identity, yet had no loyalty to the criminal. That made her dangerous. It made her a flaw.

           And Tom Riddle detested flawed things above all.

             Still, she was valid in assuming that her upbringing brought insight into the Mirzemlan ways, and considering the fact that the Knights were primarily foreigners, mixed, or orphans, she had a skill they did not. And Riddle was nothing short of opportunistic.

            Though the idea of flaunting her around like a maiden and pretending to be interested in marrying her made the man want to gauge her eyes out, it had to be done. The plan was revolting, but Tom knew that one thing would ensure that it went by without a riotous perturbation—he was incapable of love.

            He was unsure why and thought it to be a side-effect of being conceived under a love potion, but it was the truth. Riddle had never been able to feel anything but revulsion, hatred, and wrath. Even the faintest hint of admiration or delight was directed at himself and his ingenious ways of thinking. The boy regarded those around him as disposable objects, and the only people who had proven to be worth the trouble of socializing had been the Knights, with their potent sorcery and undeniable strengths.

            Tom had collected them like artifacts—they were part of one of his bigger plans, a need to secure seven lines of sorcery for something that could change the effects of his curse forever. For eternity.

            "Did you not hear me? I asked a question," stated Thomas Lebedev, suddenly moving toward the group, but Riddle raised his hand and took off his mask, stopping him in his tracks. The Prince stumbled and stammered, "What is this?"

         They were indistinguishable. From the curve of their nose to the height of their cheeks—even the trivial birthmark below their jawline. It was as if gazing at two droplets of rainwater. Tom wore a nefarious sneer, something entirely autocratic and vigorous, whereas Thomas cowered with fear. Their similarities ended with their appearance.

            With a flick of his wrist, Riddle had Lebedev crumbling to the ground, forced to bow by his own blood as the sorcerer controlled him. Tom shot his acolytes a look, "Seize him."

            They moved fast, each grabbing one arm of the Prince and forcing him forward. The boy shot Riddle an outraged stare, "You abomination!"

            "Perhaps, it is you who is an abomination, and I who should be normal." inquired Tom, his tongue caustic as he neared the heir. "Now, tell me—what should I change in for my speech tonight?"

            "Your—," Thomas choked on his words. "I would never help your poisoned sort. I will die before I give you any information!"

            The sorcerer narrowed his eyes, his tolerance wearing thin. His digits clutched the hilt of his blade before he held it against the Prince's neck, watching the boy's eyes swell.

            "Is that a promise?" snorted Tom. "Because if you are set on dying for your pathetic country, I might as well have my fun with it."

            Riddle hoisted a finger, and the heir opened his mouth, tongue rolling out on command. Bulbous eyes stared up at the sorcerer as he placed the tip of the dagger against the muscle, dragging it slowly, threateningly.

            "And if you intend on not saying a word to me, then perhaps, I should ensure that it is because you were unable to, and not because you were foolish enough to disobey me."

            Niklaus kneed the Prince in the side, having him squawk out a response, and Tom lifted the blade for a moment, "The black coat on the hanger by the bed, with the golden shoulder pads."

            A treacherous smile—the maestro of the thieves moved to grab the garments, undressing swiftly and throwing his rags over the mattress. There was no need to fumble with modesty. At the orphanage, all children changed in front of each other, and so the boy moved fast. With the white blouse against his skin, Riddle swiftly understood how awful his own clothes had felt. He put on the dark coat, then glanced in the large mirror by the dresser. His sable waves were unkempt in a uniquely orderly way, adding to his juvenile charm, and so he barely ran his hands through them before returning to the heir.

            "Excellent. See how smooth things are when you cooperate?" Tom jeered, his nose scrunching with distaste at the teary eyes of the Prince.

            It was odious—seeing such turmoil on a portrait that echoed his own. There was nothingness beyond those nautical eyes, Thomas Lebedev's brain being the size of a bird's without a doubt. He was made of a sheer material, so effortlessly readable and manipulable, that Tom could not help but query if only fools ever ended up in positions of power.

            "Grab him and let us get him to the carriage," affirmed Riddle. "Kayani should be downstairs by now, and I do not like being late to a party."

            Niklaus seized the heir, pushing him forward despite the struggle he put up. Thomas whined, "I will scream!"

            Tom sneered, before strolling through the motions of another spell, and observed Thomas' mouth fasten shut, as if the blood vessels in his lips had suddenly spasmed in a closing motion. He was an utter laughingstock.

            "When someone takes you captive, you do not normally tell them you will scream before actually doing it," sniggered Theoden from behind, shaking his head in disbelief.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

            There were many ways that the night could play out—fate was a foxy deity that often relished teasing mortals. With its braided roads and endless bifurcations, there was seldom a predefined way of anticipating the future, and even Oracles struggled with understanding the paths of their visions.

            The abrupt stop of the buggy almost made Irene fall out of her seat, but her hand wrapped around the metal decorations on the wall. She gazed outside the window, her eyes taking in the beauty of the Palace, all made of corrupted ivory and deceitful politeness. Though it sheltered such vicious souls, the building itself was majestic—long turrets dragged at the sky, their peaked roofs caressing darkened clouds. Tall gates opened to the Grand Entry, an avenue fenced by buzzing lanterns and short bushes that extended up to the entrance's dozens of steps.

            Multiple aristocrats had already pulled out front, damsels showcasing delightful gowns made of the most exquisite textiles. They batted decorative fans, hiding saccharine simpers behind a meaningless gesture, for the coldness of winter made the accessories useless. The gentlemen greeted each other, waving their sturdy hats down as a sign of respect and kissing hands of wives and mistresses. The crowd was a pulsating mass of everything scarlet and golden, though the Mirzemlan fashion remained impressive.

            Some had painted streaks of silver all over their body, whereas others had doubled the laces of their corsets, wrapping themselves like presents. From afar, Irene could even spot a man who had decided to wear a snow-colored cape that dragged behind for meters and meters, glistening jewels sewn into the material as if he was a moving constellation.

            The sorceress glanced down at her gown, trailing the golden material with an unconfident hand, and wondering if she should have chosen something more spectacular. Irene had not wished to stand out tonight, but perhaps mundanity was the easiest way to become eye-sore.

            The carriage pulled out front, and Abraxas pushed the door open and stepped out before the coachman could reach it. "The lady is changing."

            The gate closed, and Irene suddenly felt entirely flustered by the sound of Aisha undressing herself and slipping into her garments. Her cheeks flushed with modesty, and the girl moved her eyes to the ceiling.

            "Should I step outside?" Irene questioned, her voice squeaky. She had never been one for public displays, even if her manners often came across as prudish to those who surrounded her.

           Kayani scoffed, "Have you never seen a woman naked?"

          Words tumbled out fast, "Have you?"

          Though no answer came from Aisha, the slight quirk of her lips before she opened the door was telling.

            Irene blinked a few times before following behind, mind buzzing. She had never been with anyone before, man or woman, and the question itself seemed scandalous. Bedding someone would not be proper for a lady of her title, not before marriage, and the last thing Sovetskaya needed was to be accused of adultery.

            Aisha Kayani's attire was solely splendid as she moved to sit by Irene, her darkened waves loose around her face and hovering below her shoulders. The heaps of red and golden material hung to the floor, lacey patterns decorating the hems and the end of her sleeves. The dupatta's material was thin, almost transparent as she wrapped it over her shoulders, allowing the golden circles on it to cover her body.

            Malfoy led the way through the crowd, and Irene pretended not to notice the disapproving stares that the court passed around. She knew their presence was never welcome, but until they found a genuine reason to dispose of her, Irene would keep returning to the court.

           And soon enough, she would be there to stay.

            The main foyer was just as awe-inducing, with gold plaquing the chandeliers than hung over marble floors, and arched columns raising the ceiling. Butlers swarmed around, offering glasses of champagne to the guests, and Sovetskaya bit down a smile. The thieves had made it to the castle, then.

            Her hands felt suddenly clammy, but she chose to ignore the trepidation in her chest, the way it seemed to suffocate her. Instead, Irene moved to the ballroom, taking the stairs that led to the main floor. The festivities were in full swing, with silky drapes of red and golden falling from the ceiling in a circle around the waltzing center, and stopping a meter above the head of the tallest guests. On them, the Lebedev emblem glistened pridefully—the swan that held a cross in its beak, feathers ruffled and eyes deadly.

          "The Regency certainly opens their treasury for such events," muttered Aisha from the side, caustic eyes seizing the moving couples across the dancefloor.

          They were like a sea of diamonds, shining brightly and joyously as they waltzed with their hands clinging to each other, bodies close and eyes hopeful. The sound of the orchestra tuned in over the loud voices of the guests, and though it was almost blinding, the ballroom's shimmer seemed to be dimmed by one thing.

            Across from the stairs, the Emperor and Empress stood on their thrones, a table of delicacies sprawled in front of them, although ostensibly untouched. Tasters moved around, spooning the stews and cutting the meat before moving on to the potato salads. The Tsar himself appeared to find the hassle quite dull and dreadful, if his scorching eyes were anything to go by.

            "When is the prince supposed to make his appearance?" Questioned Kayani, following Irene as she stepped down the last few steps and took to the floor.

           Socializing had never been a forte, but she had to somehow distract Thomas Lebedev's lackeys, lest they decided to search for him.

           "When the clock chimes the precise hour."

            Abraxas, who had picked up on their conversation and followed Irene's line of sight to the table where the Dolohov twins and Anya were seated, seemed distressed, "That is not enough time to capture a prince."

            His words were hissed, low, and worry marred his forehead. Irene took in a sharp breath, knowing that time was essential. She bit down on her agitation, and made a slight signal to Aisha and Abraxas to stay behind and mingle.

            With her chin held high, she walked towards the infamous trio, heels clicking against the floor. Vladimir Dolohov was sitting to the right of where Thomas Lebedev's throne was, his posture tight and poise. Sharp edges built a ravishing face, though there was something rather tense in it, as if no amount of liquor could subdue his brooding. He was a well-versed scholar and a favorite of Father Dimitrov. As such, his vestments were relatively modest, a black coat threaded with golden strings over a white blouse.

            By his side, Ekaterina Dolohov toyed with the food around her plate, dreamy eyes taking in the waltzing couples as her head rested against her hand. Fabulous curls framed a sweetheart face, and ebony eyelashes batted with credulity and sincerity, as if she was nothing more than a romantic heart yearning for an adventure. Her dress, a striking violet that was often associated with Goddess Twyla, was serenity in a thread.

            Irene felt her steps stagger as soon as Anya Czermak settled cruel eyes on her. She tilted her head with a scrutinizing stare, the champagne flute pressed against her sultry lips glistening in the chandelier light. What an absolutely enchanting sight she was—midnight red waves pulled in an elaborate up-do, feline stare captivating enough to draw in the strongest sailors. If Ekaterina was a page broken out of an amorous novella, Anya was carnal paragraphs read only in the most secluded chambers.

            "I would say it is a delight to see you, Sovestakay. But I find that pointless pleasantry is for those who have something to lose in the eyes of the public," muttered Czermak, her smirk disdainful.

           She placed her glass on the table, then took a luxurious fan, opening it in a rather provocative manner and fluttering it over her face. Irene's stare slid to Vladimir, who watched her with narrowed eyes, undoubtedly assessing her for her immoral powers, as if he was not a pagan as well. It was often the sinners that judged others the most.

           "You should not be here," he bit down on every word, cruelty his mother tongue, and his jaw clenched with vexation.

           "We did not ask for a jester," added Anya, raising eyebrows in sham surprise. She had the theatrics of an actress—all mockery of naivety and hurtful smiles.

           Irene clasped her hands behind her back, digging nails into her skin to prevent the wrath that danced beneath from overtaking her. Instead, she plastered a smile that would have fooled the Pagan Gods.

           "I came to wish you well during the Koliada Festival," her words were almost convincing. "After all, it is expected of all court women and men to pass by and give their best regards to the Crown Prince."

           Anya scoffed, slamming her fan down, "I long for the day we will not have to see your face once a month at such gatherings."

           Sovetskaya smiled. She would make sure they saw it every day, not just once a month.

          "But, where is the Prince?" Irene questioned, eyebrows furrowing in wonder as she tilted her head to scan the crowd.

          "Ah, you are here to gravel at his feet yet again, are you not? Wishing he would wed you?" Czermak's words turned mocking, lips in a dulcet pout as her eyes enlarged with sham pity. Then, her face switched into something serpent-like. "Thomas will never ask you for your hand, witch."

          Irene glanced at Ekaterina, noticing the way she flinched at the word. She was not sure if the weak Dolohov sibling was grateful to be powerless, or if she yearned for the magic that her brother possessed.

          The orchestra fell in an odd key, and all heads turned to glance at the artists with bewilderment. Guards began walking around the perimeter, sliding through the party-goers with fast steps, hands on the hilts of their swords. Irene's eyes caught Aisha's from across the dance floor, and there was a spark of panic on the thieve's face.

          "I must go," muttered Irene, heart dropping in her chest as agitation overwhelmed her.

            She did not wait for the lackeys to answer and, instead, pushed through the slowly rising furor of the attendees, trying not to spill any champagne from butler's trays or step on a nobleman's shoes. Irene grabbed the skirt of her golden dress tightly, rising it to allow for a faster march, and climbed the steps of the ballroom to meet Kayani's worried expression.

            "The guards have been tipped off on a possible intruder," Aisha spoke fast, hand gliding over a risen part around her hip—her talwar. "They found one of their own with their throat pulled out in the gardens. I have not heard from Theoden, so I am unsure if the swap was successful or not."

           "Was it Riddle that killed the guard?"

           "It could be," muttered Aisha, eyes narrowing. "Spare me the lecture on not killing anyone."

           Irene scrunched her nose, "Well, now we have a situation on our hands thanks to your leader's insatiable bloodthirst."

           Something passed over Aisha's features, almost a hint of amusement, though there was something crude to it. Her lips pulled up in a smirk, "You have no idea."

           Sovetskaya scoffed, trying not to let Kayani's attitude distract her from the unnerving situation. With calculative eyes, she glanced around the ballroom, spotting an unguarded door that would allow her to slip into the Palace's corridors without being spotted. All she needed was a distraction.

          She twisted to Aisha, "Are your powers useful for causing trouble?"

          "Niklaus is the Chaos Sorcerer, not me," muttered the girl before sighing, "Though, I suppose there are certain things I could do."

           From the corner of the salon, Aisha elevated one hand over her navel, reaching out for her dupatta, a gesture that might have seemed entirely normal to anyone around them. Still, somewhere around the extensive buffet, a candle toppled over, the flames quickly enveloping the table cloth. The fire stretched around, taking to the red silk dangling from the ceiling. Screams erupted almost immediately as attendees stumbled backward and away from the fire. The Palace's staff shouted words of action, barging in with carriers full of water.

           Irene slithered through, appearing to be nothing more than a worried noblewoman fleeing from danger as her gaze fell nothing short of disturbing. The guards did not even glance at her as she slipped past them and into the foyer, taking the commotion as cover. The sorceress took the corner, her pulse racing as she realized that she had finally infiltrated the safety of the Palace, even for the slightest moment.

           Lips pulling in a dashing smile of victory, Sovetskaya discerned that this was the farthest she had ever gone, and with enlarged eyes, she took in the grandeur of the Regency's place of stay.

           Though the corridors were illuminated by three-wicked candles, light seemed to decay the further she walked into the heart of the Palace, as if nothing godly could ever thrive in a nest of felonious activities. The large windows overlooked the Tsar's gardens, where snow fell softly around pointed, bleak trees, and an unfunctional fountain sat with its frozen depths. Her heels snapped against the alabaster, echoing through the empty surroundings, and her hands tightened around the gown's skirt.

          The merriment died on her lips as soon as Irene realized that she did not know her way around the Palace and that Tom Riddle could be anywhere.

          Her moment of contemplation was brief. Through the long curtains that covered half of the windows, she spotted three figures pulling a fighting captive through the snow.

            Pushing the door that led to the gardens open, Irene walked into the freezing weather, not caring for the way it bit at her exposed collarbones, or how it drenched her gown. All she could focus on was Thomas Lebedev's weak frame being pushed forward by Niklaus and Theoden, and Tom Riddle's menacing stare—all rogue and unsettling.

            "What happened?" Hissed the sorceress, falling in step with them as they struggled to push the prince to the hidden carriage between the outline of the Mirzemlan woods.

            Thomas Lebedev's wild eyes settled on her, and although he looked identical to Riddle, the lack of intellectualism and poise seemed even more apparent after meeting the thief. "You! You nasty, foul witch! You will burn when my father hears of this!"

           "Shut it," muttered Riddle with monotony lacing his voice, as if he was a master-player dealing with the fussing of a beginner.

           Thomas' lips snapped shut, fear a worrisome mask on his face, yet he continued pushing against Niklaus' iron grip. The tall boy seemed unfazed, though there was the slightest hint of irritation on his face. When they reached the carriage, he opened the door with a flick of his wrist, and it slammed against the vehicle loudly, causing a ruckus. Irene's eyes widened at the control he had over his magic whenever Trickster Silas was not toying with it.

          "Tie him down to the backseat, and make sure one of you stays with him," Riddle instructed, dusting off the clothes he had taken from Lebedev's closet. "We will pass by the store tomorrow."

          He looked imperial—his costume was that of a prince, with padded shoulders glistening a golden hue, and the raven material of his long coat making his features honed. Curls had been whisked in a neat hair-do, although they were not gelled back as Thomas often wore them, and marine irises sizzled with something harsh, malicious. Though he looked the part of a dashing prince, there was something inexplicably broken about him, irregular even.

         Once again, Irene wondered if she had willingly sold her soul to a demon.

          "They found a murdered guard," her voice was accusatory as she narrowed her eyes on Tom, who began walking down the cobblestone path, not even bothering to wish his acolytes farewell.

          Irene nodded in their direction, though Nott and Belov were too distracted with the buggy, and then followed Riddle. His steps were graceful, confident, as if he was indeed the Crown Prince of Mirzemla, not a pauper or a thief.

          "A distraction," explained Tom before opening the door and gesturing for her to pass.

           Sovetskaya stepped inside the Palace, the dampness of her gown suddenly unbearable, and she winced at the blade-like sensation against her skin. The warmth of the corridors would undoubtedly dry it, but Irene was uncomfortable.

          "Is that what life means to you? Nothing more than a chess piece to use and distract the opponent while you make a move for the crown?"

          "Perhaps, if you were willing to risk a few pawns yourself, you would have reached check-mate without needing assistance."

          Irene scoffed, "You are a monster."

         The boy stopped a few paces in front of her, hands clasped behind his back as his figure stood in the light of the candles. Irene frowned, and watched Tom pivot on his feet, a sly smirk on his face. In the dim radiance of the room, with shadows caressing the edges of his face, Tom Riddle appeared to be less human, more demonic. It was as if darkness had birthed a soul like his, made from tenebrosity, and periwinkle eyes shimmered with duplicity. Irene wondered whether he would sprout dark wings, and sink venomous fangs in the curve of her neck, feasting upon vitality and sorcery.

          Step by step, he approached the girl, towering over like a perilous storm over wasteful lands. "Monster?" He inquired, an amused scoff leaving parted lips. With a steady hand, he moved one strand of curls behind her ear. His fingers trailed the edge of her neck as he leaned in, whispering in her ear, "That word that does not even do me justice."

          Riddle stepped away, dark stare challenging, and Irene's throat tightened. In the empty corridor, the boy could have easily killed her now that he had taken the identity of the Crown Prince. They would have not even questioned him, for the body Tom had left in his wake could have easily been used against the sorceress.

          "You still need me," Irene breathed, almost sensing the murderous intent in his mind, "You will never be able to navigate the court without my knowledge, and they will either think the Prince has gone insane, or they will suspect witchcraft."

            Tom tilted his head, analyzing her, "Indeed, I do. That does not mean I trust you."

            Sovetskaya straightened, trying not to cower before an impostor, "The sentiment is shared."

           The boy smirked, all wicked and corrupt, "Well, this ought to be delightful," he muttered before gesturing towards the doors that led to the stairs of the ballroom.

           The fuss had simmered down as the fire had died out, and the attendees returned to their exuberances, tipsy on opulence and flirtations. The dance continued as women twirled in wonderful skirts, and men placed hands lower than they would have done habitually, teasing and flustering. The court was awaiting their Prince's arrival, though the Emperor seemed reasonably troubled. Undoubtedly, the murder had been passed as a creature attack, or perhaps brushed by as nothing more than the barbaric pride of Mirzemlan men.

           Irene raised an inquisitive eyebrow, "Surely, you do not mean..."

           Through dense eyelashes, Tom Riddle shot her a roguish look as he extended an inviting hand toward the sorceress, "Is this not what your heart desired? To be presented as the Prince's possible fiancee, and to gain entrance to the Palace?"

          Flustered, Irene spluttered, "Yes, but," her words seemed choked, "I did not expect you to be so easily persuaded."

          Tom hummed, "I might be cruel and prideful, but I am not a fool. Navigating the court will not be an easy task, and once a thief gets a taste of power, they hardly ever let it go. So, I will strike this deal with you—I will get you close enough to the Emperor for you to take his life. But beware, Sovetskaya," he shot her a sly glance, "I am not your ally, nor your friend. I have never been one to shy away from stabbing others in the back."

          "Is that a threat?"

          "It is a promise."

          Irene pondered over his extended hand. Abraxas had warned her of this—she was handing a crown to someone she did not know, and although their shared interest would be enough to assure that they could somewhat function in tandem, it would not last forever. After the Emperor was dead, the throne would be taken by whoever had more power, whether that meant sorcery or support from the people.

          She needed Tom Riddle to gain entrance to the Palace, to be presented as the Prince's prospective bride, but after that, their alliance would turn into a competition for a crown, and both parties seemed entirely aware. He was not on her side, regardless of the current situation. Irene could not trust Riddle.

           Still, her hand wrapped around his elbow, and she tried to ignore the proud smirk on his face. The proximity was smothering, and the sorceress could feel Riddle's body heat through his coat. Her lungs spasmed as she inhaled deeply, trying to build up courage for whatever lay ahead.

           With a flick of his hand, Riddle signaled a guard from down the hallway to come and open the door for them. The uniform-dressed man almost stumbled in his steps as he saw Irene on the arm of the Prince, though he made no comment on it, his rank too low. The entrance swung open, revealing the glamour and the radiance of the Koliada festivities.

           At the motion, all heads turned toward the two as they stepped into the limelight, and Irene watched their expressions change from mirth to mortification as they recognized the sorceress. By her side, Riddle maintained his composure, and she anchored to his fortitude, tilting her chin upward.

           "Tsesarevich Thomas Lebedev of Mirzemla, first in line for the throne," announced one of the butlers, and then his eyes fell on Irene. He stumbled with his words.

           "And Countess Irene Sovetskaya, Heir to the Sovetsky Territory," stated Irene, gaze narrowing on the man as he hid his distaste behind a flabbergasted expression.

           He echoed her words, and they fell like droplets of poison in the deadly reticence of the ballroom as Tom and Irene began ascending the stairs. Through the crowd, the sorceress could spot Abraxas' conflicted face, somewhere between proud and warry, and Anya Czermak's flaming visage as she slammed a glass of champagne against the table, having it spill on the table cloth.

            The acclamations started gradually, barely covering the vibration of Irene's heels against the ivory stairs, and the vigor that pulsed through her veins was unlike anything she had ever felt. It was intoxicating, surreal—ichor scalding her throat and having her thirst for more.

           Through the haze of disturbance and stupor, Irene Sovetskaya's gaze fell on Emperor Lebedev, who stood up from his throne, jeweled wreath a decoration and nothing more. Disbelief plagued his visage, as if he could not quite believe that his own son had brought the enemy deep beyond their lines of protection.

           And Irene savored the spark of alarm in his eyes.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

hi. idk what this was.

thank you so much arrcturus for creating this wonderful playlist for MOS!!