c: cocorrina

CHAPTER SIX

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QUEEN OF SWORD

IT WAS THE SCREECHING racket of the front gate that made her stir in her bed first, unoiled hinges crying dramatically, followed by the heavy sounds of footsteps slushing through the muddied gardens. Irene's eyelashes fluttered open at an audacious hour in the morning, and she groaned in discontent before pulling her covers to the side and rising to her feet. The sorceress pressed clammy hands against her eyes, trying to blink away the somnolence, then grabbed a robe from the nearby armchair and pulled it over her shoulders.

Mornings were always damp and sullen and dull at the Sovetsky Manor, when the sun barely crawled over the Balaki Mountains and threatened the greyness of the world. Oddly enough, it never quite chased away the dim fog of the estate, as if some primordial deity hung around the corners, clawed hands digging into the joviality of the Manor and obliterating it. The wind whirred against glass panels and it echoed down the long hallways, producing a haunted effect on the residence. Irene sometimes thought it very well could have been, for it had seen so many tragedies that, undoubtedly, a mark had been left on the estate.

Downstairs, overlapped voices signaled a commotion, and Sovetskaya's eyebrows furrowed, wondering what might have caused such ruckus at an early hour. Nadia, the head-maid, was chatting with a suited man by the door, wagging her finger in his face threateningly as her expression contorted into something tintedly aggravated. Irene hastened her steps as she approached the two, trying to understand the situation.

"What is the matter?" she rasped, her morning voice attracting the attention of the two.

Behind the suited man, three others stood outside, and two carriages had been pulled by the front door regardless of the butler's tenacious insistence that they should not block the entrance. The head man's eyes settled on the girl, and in them sparked a concoction Irene had grown accustomed to—the mixture of fear and repugnance that came with being a sorceress. Her throat burned with the words of vexation that she smothered, and her lips tugged in a polite smile. The man who, by now, had pulled out a document from his inner pocket, extended his hand towards her, encouraging the Countess to read.

Irene skimmed the paper, her heart dropping to her stomach, and she felt herself go light-headed.

"No," she whispered, then flashed panicked eyes to the collector. "This cannot be true. You are mistaken—I have paid the coin I owe to the Regency through the continuous work carried out in the mine."

"Our calculations are certainly not wrong, Countess Sovetskaya. You are in debt to the Tsar, and with the mine's inability to perform at its full capacity, we have been sent to collect the monetary balance through reallocation. Now, if you would excuse us..."

He pushed her to the side without hesitancy, as if she were passable matter, then waved his fellow collectors over and proceeded to begin the removal of Irene's treasured art off of the walls. The girl stood in the foyer, dazed and flummoxed, and tried to make sense of the situation. Indeed, the mines had not been producing as much as they had years ago, but the situation was entirely due to the over-exploitation of its resources. The Tsar had knowingly tripled the mining efforts in order to deplete the mountains under the Sovetsky rule, pickaxes digging deep into the rocks and extracting one-of-a-kind crimson diamonds. Still, it was impossible for the exchange to not have covered the taxation and coin owed to the Regency, especially when every household that still resided under Irene's territory always paid their dues on time. She had overseen the finances herself, and the Crown's treasurer had signed on each of the provincial payments.

"This is a mistake," the Countess cried out as one person moved past her with a painting worth two centuries, one that had been passed down through generations. The head-collector, who eventually introduced himself as Locotonent Tarasyuk, jotted down several notes on his paper pad, barely sparing her a glance as she marched over to him. "The mines have covered most of Sovetsky's expenses, and I have the treasurer's signature on all of my due payments."

"The treasurer has been relieved of all of his duties due to suspicions of conspiracy," muttered Tarasyuk, glancing towards her with acidity. He was a well-built man, middle-aged with silver streaks that began from the crown of his head, and he towered over the girl threateningly. A veteran that had fought in the war before a severe leg injury had put him out of business, he now carried the wounded pride of a soldier—bitter and unforgiving.

"Well, that is—"

"If you believe there has been a misunderstanding, then you must seek a meeting with the Emperor himself. My apologies, Countess Sovetskaya, but we must ask you to leave the premises while we collect your debt. And I require your signature on this paper."

"I will not leave my estate and bequeath it in the hands of your piggish sort!" called out the sorceress, but Nadia pulled her back by the hand, trying to have her stand down from a dispute.

Locotonent Tarasyuk simply pressed his lips in annoyance, then left the documents on the table by the entrance, and joined his group in their unscrupulous doings. With half a heart, Irene watched as they took another painting from the wall, one that had been done by her father's long-time friend and famous painter, Dima Ivanov. Her chest squeezed painstakingly, and she clung to Nadia's arm as the head-maid took her away from the scene and up the stairs. They entered the sorceress' living quarters, the elder woman scrambling rapidly to find Irene a gown to change into, something that would allow her to blend in with the crowd in Vespagrad.

"Where will you go for the time being, Countess?"

Blinking rapidly, Irene snapped out of her thoughts and barely managed to answer, "To the capital. And then to Malfoy Manor."

She changed into a chaste dress, an emerald green that made her tawny hair appear darker than it actually was. It was long and fitted, with corset strings visible on the back, and the sort of attire one might expect a merchant's wife to wear. Irene required something that would not attract attention when she visited the Borgin and Burkes shop. Nadia combed her hair, but all the sorceress could do was stare blankly in the mirror as she watched her dutiful servant thread a string of silver beads through her tresses. Tears threatened to spill, with all things surrounding the girl appearing awfully invasive For years, she had felt like an intruder in her own country, a woman that had been forsaken by the land. Amongst the grievous moments she had endured, her estate and territory had been her nest, the one space where she was untouchable. Now, the Emperor had managed to infiltrate that as well, and Irene knew fully well that he was set on stripping her of everything in her belonging. She should have expected it, really. Tsar Lebedev was vile and corrupt, and Sovetskaya had imperiled his authority by arriving on the prince's arm.

"Will you make sure they do not take more than is necessary?" Irene loathed admitting defeat, but she understood a decree from the Regency was not a thing she could go against.

Nadia gave her a knowing look. "They will not be allowed inside your parents' living quarters."

With that, Sovetskaya rose cradling her crumbling dignity in her palms in hopes that it would not dwindle its grains through her fingers. Her chin was up, shoulders rolled back, and her forehead had no creases. There were innumerable matters the Emperor could take away from her, but Irene's pride and sorcery were embedded into her marrow, and until she lost her head, she would cling to those like a moribund being. The girl dug her hand into her jewelry box, selecting a few items that would be worth enough to keep her alive for a few years if sold on the black market, and stuffed them in her sleeves. They would not leave her penniless.

Making her way downstairs, the sorceress briefly scanned the foyer, which had been almost emptied, expensive silk taken down from the tapestries and walls void of any canvases. Outside, carriages flowed in two opposing streams down Sankt Bazin Lane, the serpentine road that connected the Main Boulevard with the Sovetsky Manor. Not sparing the collectors another gaze, Irene wandered outside and waved her butler to bring her a carriage. Fortunately, the Locotenent had not seized those yet.

The weather had turned cold, and though the snow had given way for the heavy thunderstorms of Koliada, frost still coated the grass, dampening the skirt of Irene's dress. With the help of her butler, she lifted above the steps of her carriage and signaled the coachman to head towards the Malfoy Port. The stones turned underneath the wheels, and her stomach followed the motions as she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.

Her entire life, her family heirlooms—all confiscated by a gluttonous Emperor as a means of controlling Irene. She was not foolish. The girl knew exactly what the monarch was attempting. This was retribution for defying him and accompanying the crown prince at the ball, as if Sovetskaya was some mind-twirling witch that could spin the heir around her fingers. Still, Irene refused to let his constant onslaughts demoralize her just yet. She had it in order to meet with Tom Riddle today and settle the next part of their plan.

The road to the small shop in the capital was windy and chilling, as if the weather had decided to weep for the sorceress and show its solidarity. When the coach finally pulled in front of an establishment, trudging through the back alleyway, Irene almost felt as if she should simply forfeit the mission. She stepped out of the buggy, glancing upwards at the charcoal black building and noticing how the smoke from the nearby factories had begun clinging to the once ruddy bricks. The backdoor was scribbled upon, the edge of a knife having written words of despair in the wood, and as she trailed a hand over the curses meant for the Lebedev Dynasty, Irene felt the burning hatred return to her.

"Pull the carriage somewhere by the docks," ordered the girl. "We will be heading to the Malfoy Manor shortly after."

The coachman nodded dutifully, and Sovetskaya ignored the pang of concern that stretched over his face. There was something tragic in watching a swan fall from grace, pure white feathers scattered over the horizon. Irene moved to the door and knocked on it with the courtesy of an authentic court lady. When an answer did not come immediately, she simply pushed the entryway open, stepping inside the confined space of the Borgin and Burkes shop.

It seemed, at first glance, at least, to be selling antiquities. Old instruments of various sizes and shapes were dispersed throughout the chamber, though Irene struggled to attribute a specific name to them all. There were books, of course, yellowed in the corners and leather-bound, and multiple porcelain artifacts that were hidden behind the glass panels. Warning messages were situated in front of some of them, and dust crowded in the slight dents of the exposition.

Irene navigated through the salon, squinting to see through the dim, emerald light. She could taste history on her tongue—objects from various countries had been sheltered under one room, and, if she inquired, the sorceress was sure that Niklaus Belov did not have the proper documents to justify their apparition. Contraband. It was the only reasonable assumption considering how the shop was stuffed in one of the most dubious districts of Vespagrad.

Crack!

Irene's whole body stiffened, the girl immediately backing into the wall, ensuring that at least one of her sides was protected. Her eyes scanned the empty room, attempting to source the origin of the noise, though there seemed to be little movement. In the corner, a pot had fallen to the ground, pushed by something invisible.

"Show yourself," the girl called out, eyes narrowed and jaw set. Her newly whetted sword was hidden behind her cloak, though she hoped it would not have to be put to use.

A shadow crawled from the end of the salon, moving through two wooden pillars. At first, it was something small, a figure that could be described as feline, but it quickly shifted and expanded, dark haze encompassing its frame. As the inkiness shed to light, a boy stepped out, lips pulled in a tight smirk.

"My apologies, Lady Sovetskaya," Theoden snickered, stuffing his hands in his pockets and moving through the stacks of books that crowded the far-right end of the shop. "Niklaus keeps me as a watchdog whenever he steps out for his dealings. I heard someone come in through the back door and decided to investigate. Apologies again if I scared you."

"Barely," mumbled Irene, relaxing her shoulders and approaching the boy. "Where is everyone else?"

"Do you find my company to be so lacking?" Theoden gave her a roguish grin. "Pity. I would argue that my presence is rather entertaining."

The sorceress narrowed her eyes, "You are arrogant."

"Only the best people are."

"Some might disagree with your mindset."

Theoden leaped onto the counter that transactions were carried at, eyeing Irene with curiosity, as if what she was stating was thoroughly audacious. The sorceress was unsure what to make of the boy—he seemed to never be serious, as if the world was his playground and he was a hound trotting around unchained. Still, there was something underneath, a sort of iniquity that she could not pinpoint specifically.

"Nott, quit provoking the girl," exclaimed a voice as the front door opened, allowing the frigid breeze of winter to invade the surroundings. Niklaus' white hair peeked from underneath a top hat, which he removed and shook off by the foyer, allowing the few droplets of rain to drip onto the wooden planks.

He glided moved through the shop's chaos like a sailor, as if he knew every turn, every step like a well-drawn labyrinth. If the store had belonged to Irene, it would have been much more orderly, but she supposed the Chaos Sorcerer quite fancied the disaster of his establishment. It was messy in an organized way, as though every stack of books had been placed somewhere precisely, creating the illusion of a disorderly mosaic.

Theoden rolled his eyes, peeved, "I was entertaining your guest, as I am usually known to do."

"If by entertaining you mean driving them to the point of insanity, then yes."

"What an awful thing to say to your best comrade," scoffed Nott, crossing his arms over his chest.

Niklaus shot him a weary look, as if they had danced this waltz before, and he had grown bored of the same steps. Belov draped his coat in the door hanger and marched over to where Irene stood. He bowed politely, and Sovetskaya recognized such gestures to be one of his traits—he was a well-mannered young man. Certainly not the sort that one would have expected to be in a road thief gang or run a contraband business. Then again, perhaps it was precisely that illusion that allowed him to do such things.

"I see you have arrived well."

"Barely," stated Irene, nodding in acknowledgment as Belov pulled out a seat for her. "The Emperor's men decided to pay me a visit this morning. Took everything of value from the Sovetsky Manor under claims of my taxes not being paid."

Astonishment flashed across Niklaus' face, and he turned to look at Theoden, whose expression had soured drastically. Irene assumed that, beyond the ruse of helping her in exchange for heaps of riches, the group of thieves did not like the Tsar much.

"What a bloody cocksucker," spat Nott, irritated. "Striking against you because of a walk down some posh stairs. Reeks of insecurity, if anything."

"Have you spoken to Riddle?" asked Belov, muffling out Nott's protests.

"He said he would try to meet the rest of us here today. Still, I imagine the Emperor has reprimanded him as well. He might be under constant surveillance."

Theoden scoffed, "As if there is anything that would stop Riddle from having his way."

Allowing the words to settle in the room, Irene simply leaned against the back of her seat, crossing her legs and letting herself breathe for a few seconds. Theoden seemed to take the hint that she did not want to be bothered until Riddle arrived and slipped beneath the stairs to a chamber she could not see. Belov muttered something about placing a pot of tea on the fire, then stepped out as well.

In the silence, Sovetskaya began musing about what her next step should be. She needed permanent residence in the castle. That was the only way she could maneuver the political world from the inside and hopefully get her hands on the Emperor. Her stomach churned at the thought of finally getting her vengeance. The thirst for it screeched; it tore her from the inside to the outside. Abraxas had told her, on multiple occasions, that her need for revenge had become an obsession, and that it would poison her.

Alas, Irene had made herself immune to poison. Paranoia had transfused her soul, and now there was no outrunning her desire for spilled blood. She had thought that the Emperor had already taken everything from her by murdering her parents, but, if today proved anything, it was that the man would not stop. Not until she was in the ground, nails puncturing her coffin, unable to escape.

Irene did not intend to let that happen.

Niklaus returned after a few minutes, carrying two cups of steaming liquid, and handed one to Irene.

"What about Theoden?"

"He does not like the way I make tea," shrugged Niklaus and the girl left it at that.

Irene drove her hand into her coat pocket and took out a small pouch of crushed herbs. Then, she ground them up more and sizzled them in her tea. Bringing the cup to her lips and scalding her tongue, the sorceress felt undeniably whole as the poison slipped through her mouth.

Her eyes settled on Niklaus Belov, who, in all ways that mattered, held himself with indisputable elegance. His posture was proper for tea time, which was rather unusual for a man who claimed to come from a modest background. Again, Irene was stricken by the oddity of him being a thief, and could not help the suspicion that settled in the bottom of her stomach.

"This establishment," she began, "belongs to you?"

Almost as if he was startled by being spoken to, Nikalus raised perplexed eyes, then nodded sheepishly. "It was my parents' at first, but they died a while back in a street altercation. Now, I run most of it, though Theoden is the brain behind the operation."

"Really?" questioned Irene, surprised. "He does not seem..."

"Intelligent?" cut Niklaus, narrowing his eyes. Irene had the decency to avoid his stare, cheeks flushed. "Nott is a whole lot to deal with and, in more ways than one, he tends to bring trouble wherever he goes. He likes to play jester and amuse those around him, but that boy has a quick, steady mind. Though Riddle orchestrates most of our activities, it goes without saying that Theoden has the street smarts to keep us out of trouble."

"He has unusual charms."

Niklaus snorted, amused, then his ears immediately reddened at the uncouth sound. He settled the cup on the small counter near the two of them, then cleared his throat. "You will find that people tend to surprise you when you least expect them, and Theoden has a knack for being unpredictable."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Well," began Irene, raising her eyebrows in wonder, "you do not strike me as the sort that would be out and about at night, trying to rob people."

Niklaus' whole demeanor changed, and he narrowed his eyes, vexed by something Irene had said. "And what exactly does a thief look like to you?" he inquired bitterly. "Why do you assume that a person must be at their lowest to commit such acts? I am wealthy; you are right. The shop makes more than enough to keep all of us well fed and clothed, but have you ever considered, even for a second, that one does not have to be financially unwell to do such things? That those who commit acts you deem to be vile can be the rich, the ones who live in comfort?"

Irene's fingers tightened around her cup, perplexed at being lashed so openly. "I did not mean—"

"Of course, you did not mean it. Just like you did not mean to assume that Theoden was an idiot simply because of what he does, but you seem to be oddly ignorant for a woman who wishes to reshape a country," scoffed Belov. Then, he collected himself, the anger passing from his face. "There are multiple reasons why someone would turn to a life of robbery, and not all of them are about money. Revenge is one thing, as you might know. Power is another factor. The Knights target aristocrats, and we do it for a reason that is none of your concern."

Shame scalded Irene, and as a prideful woman, she held herself back from reacting and confronting Niklaus. The man simply sat up, moving to another end of the room and occupying himself with sorting through the stacks of artifacts.

Ignorant? It was not the first time someone had scolded Irene for being ignorant of the needs of others or for holding unjust beliefs. Her status and her fixation on her revenge had undoubtedly played a part in sheltering her from the world, and now a romanticized version of her surroundings constantly played on loop in her mind. Indeed, she had expected a road thief to be of an inferior social and financial status because that is what her books had told her. But, now, faced with the reality of the Knights, it seemed such an idea was being challenged.

Uneasiness married Irene's forehead, and she stared aimlessly at the liquid in her cup, seeing her hazel eyes' reflection. How could she even gain the support of the citizens when she hardly knew anything about them? It seemed as if, as lost as Tom was in the palace, Irene was just as dumbfounded in the streets of the city, too detached from reality to fully understand the lives of those she did not know.

Sighing, she placed the cup on the counter, making sure it was empty so as to not leave poison around. While Niklaus continued filing through his inventory, Irene moved around the room with curiosity, trying to make sense of the objects that surrounded her. There was something peculiar about the room, a sort of feeling that called to her, though she could not explain what it was or where it came from. The sorceress briefly scrutinized the shop, trying to figure out where the pull was coming from, and started in its general direction.

She walked up the stairs and to the second floor, where the tapestry on the walls had been burned by cigars and pulled off of the insolation. Her hand trailed the markings, wondering who might have made them, until her fingers rested on a doorknob. Indeed, the pull was stronger there, almost magnetic, and Irene blinked rapidly, trying to settle the tumbling in her abdomen.

Something told her not to go inside, especially since she did not know if Niklaus would allow her to wander through his shop without guidance, but Irene could not shake the feeling away. Before she could let her mind push her away from acting, the sorceress turned the metal doorknob, opening the door.

As soon as she stepped inside the chamber, a potent feeling of smothering obscurity overwhelmed her. Irene trudged through the space, found a gas lamp, turned it on, and then gazed around the room. It was not decorated, and newspapers covered most of the timber floors, a thick substance layered on top. All across, tables and cabinets filled the space, and on every surface, there were some oddly shaped figures that Sovetskaya discerned were made out of clay. Buckets of water were stationed near every crafting space, though they had turned a murky color from the material. A pottery room.

Eyebrows pulled in a frown, Irene only stepped further inside, nearing one of the crafts. It was shaped spherically, with lines drawn into the argil. The sorceress kneeled before it, taking a better look and noticing the sigils—ancient and dark, meant to keep something trapped within.

"What in Mrithun's name?" mumbled Irene, suddenly feeling queasiness overwhelm her.

The clay had taken a reddish hue, which was unusual considering the terrains surrounding Vespagrad, but the blatant display of sorcery unnerved her more. How could they repeatedly practice their magic without being tracked by the Emperor? Irene had considered picking up her practice, but fear had stapled her down to the rules sprawled out by the Regency. Perhaps, she had been fool enough to let the Tsar weaken her.

Taking a step back from the table, Irene turned to investigate the rest of the room. There were cupboards and wardrobes pushed against the walls, as well as a canvas perched upon an easel, with an abstract image painted over the ivory material. Slowly inching towards it, Sovetskaya could barely make out the details, though, after careful analysis, she understood that someone had illustrated the Sovetsky Manor.

Still, it was not the home she once knew, but a vestige. The walls had been torn down, disintegrated like sand, and the lattices shattered inside. The balcony she had stood at every morning was half destroyed, and in every window of the Manor, a washed-out figure gawked out, eyes trailing the boiling lake. Irene's whole stomach turned, and her throat constricted as her eyes finally fell on the water mass, where one cadaver floated above.

"Do you like it?"

With rheumy eyes, Irene turned to face Tom Riddle, who stood in the doorframe, leaning against it with composure. If he registered her distress, the way her breath had accelerated, or how her whole body trembled, he chose to remain silent on it. Instead, a grotesque smile spread across his face, as if he took pleasure in her misery. With elegance, the boy stepped forward, but Irene only cowered away, knocking over a small jar of paint.

It smashed against the floor, coloring the newspapers in vermilion, and only then did Irene see the titles stretched over the paper. All of them were referencing the murder of the Sovetsky line, and how the daughter had survived a drowning accident.

"I took my liberties with it," hummed Tom, as if completely unaware of how utterly horrified Irene was. He did not even look at her, but rather, at the painting, as if it was some sort of desire he could not quench. "Of course, after I saw it in person, the image shifted completely. I had only seen it from across the Lake. Your guards secured the area rather well, and not even my magic could get me close enough. Even then, I knew there was something oddly enchanting about it. You see, a man like me rarely finds beauty in things. Everything is so perishable, so wasteful. But history is what remains even after the grave has been dug."

Tom reached over Irene's shoulder, and the girl flinched for the briefest second. Still, he only touched the painting, entranced by something she could not see or understand.

"That is what the Sovetsky Manor was to me—a legend, history. And I found it remarkably beautiful. A place where catastrophe had struck, meant to bring an end to one of the purest bloodlines in the history of Mirzemla," Riddle blinked slowly, and it was painfully clear now, in the faint light of the room, how unhinged he truly was. "A place where death was defied."

The way he said those words—they curled around Irene like a serpent, stifling her breath. The sorceress was not sure what exactly bothered her more—the way Tom glanced at the painting with pure awe, or the way he eventually shifted his gaze to her, and a flicker of something grossly impure sparked from within.

"Why would you ever paint me like that?" Irene spoke eventually, still not wrapping her mind around the fact that Tom had been watching her for months. Had the attack on her carriage been planned then? She had thought that he had simply targeted her for her wealth, that he had not known her exact social position or story, but that thought was quickly shut.

For a few seconds, Tom said nothing. He merely stared at her, as if he was trying to figure something out. Then, he clasped his hands behind his back and turned to face her completely.

"I told you," he stated, somewhat annoyed, as if he believed her to be a simpleton for not understanding. "I painted a legend, something that fascinated me, not you specifically."

"That is me floating in the lake, you absolute sick bastard!" Sovetskaya shrieked, her voice fracturing. Eyes moving to glance at the illustration again, Irene started feeling faint. The memory replayed in her mind, and the depth of the Kovak Lake pulled her under. She could almost see it in front of her eyes again. She could feel the burn in her lungs.

"Yes," confirmed the thief, "but you were nothing more than a fairytale until two weeks ago. You see, for the longest time, I have been fascinated by the concept of death—"

"Obsessed, you mean," snarled the sorceress.

Riddle narrowed his eyes. "Do not interrupt me," he stated coldly, his voice not carrying even a hint of emotion. "As I was saying, I sought out ways to defy it. I happen to suffer from a terrible condition, which you might know as Sporadic Sorcery. Magic that is parasitic, that kills its host."

As if to prove his point, Tom put out his forearm, then raised his sleeve. Covered in inky lines that would have traced out the pathway of his veins, the boy's forearm glistened under the luminescence of the room. Irene immediately knew what it was—a curse. A spell that marked the boy and would eventually bring his early demise. It told of a trade made between a human and a demon.

"You are dying," whispered Irene, her breath suddenly slowing down.

"No," snarled Tom. "I am not. I will not die because I am not weak."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"Everything," breathed the boy, "and nothing at the same time."

"That does not truly elucidate anything."

"You did it before. You were supposed to die that night. There should not have been any survivors, but you somehow managed to withstand being drowned. Except, if my theory is correct, you did not truly survive."

Irene tightened her fists, "What do you mean?"

"You are dead."

He stated it so nonchalantly, as if he had not delivered a glorious punch to Irene's guts, having her lean against the wall to find support. Vision blurry and fingers gripping the wall for stability, the sorceress glanced up at the boy.

"What?" she whispered.

Tom nodded, unfazed. "You died that night. That is what I believe, at least." As if to demonstrate his point, he extended his hand, fingers just close enough to touch her. "May I?"

Flabbergasted, Irene nodded and watched as the man took her hand in his. The touch was gentle, though not in the way one might have expected it to be. Tom handled her as if she was the answer to all of his problems, an epiphany that had dawned over him like a blessing. Regardless, the appreciation was inhumane, in an objectifying way, as if it was not her that mattered, but her story and her powers.

He lifted one finger, placing it against her wrist, and Irene stiffened. Tom raised his head and met her stare, and it was then that the girl realized how close they were. Her back was pressed against the wall, and the boy's chest was right in front of her nose. An uncomfortable sensation settled over Irene, though it was not danger, but unusual awareness of every spot where their bodies touched.

"You have no pulse," hummed Tom. "I did not feel it when we danced, and I do not feel it now. I also cannot control your body or your blood because your heart no longer pumps it."

If her heart no longer worked, then why did she feel it thud against her ribcage as his breath fanned over her cheeks?

"You are wrong," rasped Irene, pulling her hand out of his hold and cradling it to her chest. "I feel alive."

"Feelings are deceitful, wicked things," Tom stated as if it was the most common knowledge. "Your mind mimics the symptoms of a living person because the sorcery that pulses through you is that of Lord Mrithun, God of Death. Death does not affect you the way it would others. It fuels you. It powers you. You age, you eat, you breathe—death was never meant to stop a sorceress that wields it."

The notion seemed unusual. "Then, why did my parents die?"

"Because they were not you. For whatever reason, your God has decided to bless you with such power. I must admit I do not understand the full extent of your magic, but," Tom stopped, glancing at her fiercely, "I would be more than willing to discover it."

Irene was not sure she wanted that, though. She had entered her alliance with Riddle believing that it would get her what she coveted—the crown. Now, though, it seemed as if the boy was out for more.

"What do you get out of it?"

"Immortality."

He said it with such ease that Irene was not sure she heard him correctly.

"Excuse me?"

"Sovetskaya, I do not intend to die because of my curse. I will not accept such weakness, and you are my way out."

"How could I even help you?"

"That is not for you to worry about," smirked Tom, sly as a fox. "The only thing you need to do right now is kill the Emperor and undo the wards against sorcery. They are a nasty thing to slither around, and though I have managed to keep my group untraceable, it would be much more advantageous to be able to practice without constantly watching over our shoulders. I will get you inside the castle in the next few days, and then we will begin. We will take the Tsar down."

"Until the time comes for one of us to defeat the other for the Crown, right?" Irene glanced up at him, feeling the fight return to her body.

Tom gave her a wicked smirk. "Precisely."

"I could just let you die and take the Crown."

"You could," hummed the boy, "but even after the Tsar is dead, you will need my presence for a while to settle the Regency. If you simply dispose of me, chaos would follow you, and it would only take so long before they hang you. Besides, without me, you will never be able to master your sorcery. You have not practiced and are weak, but I know my way around magic. I will train you, you will heal me, and then we will kill each other."

"That seems rather counterproductive."

"Only if you lose."

"I do not intend to."

"Nor do I," stated Riddle, stepping away from her and walking over to the door.

He stood by the entrance, waiting, and Irene knew what came next. They had to interrogate the crown prince. Still, the headache behind her temples was becoming a nuisance, and she wondered if she could face Thomas Lebedev.

Tom shot her a menacing stare. "Is revenge still worth everything, Sovetskaya?"

The words were familiar to her. She had muttered them at the ball, but now, they carried a newfound meaning. Just how far was she willing to go?

Irene glanced back towards the painting, to the ghosts that roamed around the Sovetsky Manor, turning the ruined panorama into a melancholic ode to tragedy. The small cadaver that floated on the surface was still visible, and the sorceress dug her nails into her palms, fueled by irrational fury. She saw it, then. She saw what Tom had tried to illustrate. A legend—the Countess of the Undead.

"Always."

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

sorry for the long wait lol. if u are still reading this, ily <3 please remember to vote and comment because it helps me a lot! thank u!