"the fool represents a new journey, an adventure that glistens over the horizon in all of its naivety. more often than not, it will mark a leap of faith that could lead to greater paths in all areas of life."

CHAPTER TWO

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THE FOOL

Little swan.

The nickname had first been given by Abraxas, a quip at Irene's gracious demeanor. As if her bones had been made of feathers, mellowness beyond malice's veneer. The boy had always deemed that beneath the ostensible crudity, there was a palatial soul. A magnanimous swan with ivory plumes that extended its wingspans from the heavens to the earth and embraced the viciousness of the world, smothering it.

Irene was not entirely certain about that. Malfoy was a fantasist— a man of the night pulsars that glimmered over the impeccable vessels, wind in his sails and ruffling platinum tresses. There was something poetic in his world vision, a belief that he could one day conquer everything if he acquired enough power, have the lithe society at his feet with charm and glamour. As most rich Barrons, there had always been eagerness in his eyes.

The girl was more of a clear-headed person. She thought that one had to push humankind to its knees and have it pepper her feet with kisses of terror; there was no greatness in having things handed. Irene wished to be respected. Feared. Not pitied.

So, whether Malfoy was right about the elegance of her old soul, it mattered not.

If she was a swan, it was because, much like the animal, the girl had a desire to protect her nest from those who would have it crumble in the wind, ripping at the twigs until it fell and shattered. And her pointed beak would dive deep into the organs of anyone who dared become a threat.

Should Irene be a pure swan, then she was the last fledgling floating on a bayou of malignancy, each paddle of her limbs an effort to not drown in the vastness of hatred she felt inside. She was suspended in a state of terror, her face reflected in the surface of a tear-induced lagoon, devilish vines tightening around each member—the last symbol of a fallen seraphic dynasty.

The smell of burning sage made the witch glance up from her spot, eyes sliding from one side of the chapel to the other, trying to spot the Patriarch between the crowded disciples that bowed before empty icons. Their faith seemed a mockery of their virtues, for what pious man waged wars on the famished? What faithful acolyte supported an Emperor that assassinated pagans, spinning the Fate's yarn himself and playing god?

They were plastered saints with crocodile tears, and while they spent their days bowing before altars built on the skeletons of the abused, their nights were lived through silked sheets in brothels and the darkest alleyways of Vespagrad.

Irene caught sight of Patriarch Dimitrov pushing through the back of the chapel and immediately raised to her feet, smothering any wrinkles in the skirt of her Blumarine dress. With a heavy sigh, she moved across the floor, trying to catch the man before he disappeared again.

"Priest," she called out, immediately bowing her head to the apathetic man, who piqued an eyebrow at her. Patriarch Dimitrov was a tall, slim man with an incredibly long beard. It reached well past his first rib, a mixture of grey hues and mayhem of untamed hair. His robes, a shaded emerald common for the clerical division, hung around his wrinkled frame.

"Countess Sovetskaya," Dimitrov acknowledged her with gruffness, "You must know that women are not allowed past the barrier of benches when we pray. It is a right reserved for the men."

Irene barely managed to keep a polite smile on her face, still peeved by the blatant discrimination the Church showed Mirzemlan women, "I know, Father Dimitrov. However, I had some questions regarding the possibility of look-alikes. I have been spending time in the library and—"

With a huff, the man pivoted on his feet, trying to move down the corridor and amongst the benches perched on the podiums around the chapel. Irene, however, refused to back down so easily and followed him with a rapid pace, using her hands to lift the hem of her dress and walk down the carpeted path. Her black round-toed flats almost caught in the material, but the girl managed to avoid face-planting.

"—I have not found much on the topic. But I am sure that, if any official knew something about such oddities, it would be a member of the Church," called out Sovetskaya, shoulder bumping a nun by accident and then shooting her an apologetic stare.

"I do not have time for your trivial conquests today, Countess," called out the Patriarch in a baritone voice, aged hand gripping the railing of an ascending staircase as he turned to give her a pointed look. "Stop chasing fantasies, and better yet, start dedicating your time to finding a potential husband. You are well past the prime age, and your chances dim every day."

Scrunching her nose in irritation, Irene dropped the pleasant facade, her head condescendingly snapping to the side, "My worth does not lay in marriage, Father. A woman should be allowed to keep her fortune without having to write it down as shared income with a man."

"Do not be foolish, young one. You might be written down as the head of the Sovetsky territory for now, but the Emperor will surely solve this matter soon. And the Church will support him."

With that, Patriarch Dimitrov ascended the spiraling stairs, his emerald robes catching the dust on the ground, and Irene watched his figure fade into one of the Church's towers. She sunk nails into her palm to prevent herself from lashing out and felt the magic sizzle underneath. Still, the girl did not allow herself to unleash it, for there would have been no greater crime than to strike a Patriarch using the Pagan Gifts.

But Irene really wanted to.

Above her, nuns gawked at the obvious rigidness and insurgence in her stance, staring down from turrets and balconies. The Church's cupola ended in a stained glass ceiling, and the face of Saint Toma gazed down, in his hands, a gospel full of meaningless words. Wooden beams started from the four sides of the room and drew to the high walls, where multiple galleries were scattered in an amphitheater style. The smell of sage and myrrh burned Irene's lungs as if it clung to the death inside them, the scarred tissue of her assassination attempt.

She never immensely enjoyed going to the chapel. It made her squirm on the inside with an uncomfortable sensation of impiousness. Irene was not a devout follower of religion, not when it was so rigorous and misogynistic. To her, the faith that Mirzemlan carried in their gods was somewhat ludicrous, for they had never shown themselves to the mortal, only sent scripture through supposed sightings and visions. That made it easier for men like Patriarch Dimitrov to manipulate the "sacred truth." Whatever that was.

With an agitated twirl, the girl stalked through the timber doors of the chapel, walking into the winter chill and pulling her coat around her shoulders. Hazel eyes skimmed the outline of Vespagrad, and the magnificence of it all struck her like a pointed arrow in the heart. From the high tops of the cleric mountain, the valley where the capital had been built seemed to brustle with life.

The architecture was intricate—tall buildings with rounded roofs, some of them colored with vibrant tones, others a bone-chipping ivory, and squared structures that scraped at the sky. Between some commercial avenues, there were arched bridges that passed over the capital's river, all of them fenced by stoned pillars that offered support as carriages carried goods from one place to another. The roads were paved, with lamp posts that shone a yellow-ish hue, reflecting on the faces of the merchants that bickered with consumers from their stands.

Walls surrounded the capital, and the only unfenced zone was the opening to the Rodkov Sea, a vast mass of water that connected the country Mirzemla with three other territories. At the end of the docks, the silver Malfoy sails shone brightly in the dim sun, reflecting rays onto the sandy shores as sailors moved crates of imported materials into the small warehouses scattered amongst the terrain.

Waves crashed against the shore, and although too far to catch sight of their impact, a sinking sensation made Irene's bones rattle. Her phobia of water was something that could not be cured nor overcome. Not until she managed to restore some semblance of balance in her life. Sometimes, overcoming her trauma seemed like an ascending staircase, where each step was another obstacle she had to overcome in order to conquer the nullity she felt inside. Yet, whenever Irene attempted to step further, the hulking Emperor managed to make the stairs creak and wobble, and she would tumble and cascade down, down, down until she was right back at the bottom.

Each day was a fight. Each day was a step.

But to truly push through, she had to eliminate the stressor.

"Countess, your carriage awaits for you," called out the coachman, bowing to Irene before clambering to the buggy. He gripped the metal railings of his front seat, pulling himself upward and grabbing the reins of the zevacks.

With a small puff of hot air, the Lady pivoted on her heels, hands in her sleeves as she walked to the vehicle. Tawny strands fell from her complex up-do, revealing exquisite earrings. They flickered as the light caught in the rouge and black diamonds—a refined gem that could only be found in the Sovetsky mines, as if the underworld gods had anointed the stones of the County with their pure carmine ichor . The diamonds were incredibly valued on the market, although the Emperor had placed luxury taxation on them, making their export almost impossible.

Irene entered the carriage, pulling the curtains around the windows and allowing herself a moment of peace. Then, she unclasped the earrings with fast hands, putting them in a box and stuffing it under the leathered seat opposite of her. The girl pulled out a peasant dress from the compartment, letting soft hands trail the rough patches and harsh stitches. She changed into it with a bit of a hassle, renouncing her elegant attire for something that a noblewoman would never wear.

The witch let her curls tumble loosely around her face, then wiped the rouge lipstick off of her mouth with a handkerchief. She pulled out a pocket mirror, inspecting her costume with a pleased beam.

Part of her knew that the plan was unwise—trying to blend in with the commoners of the village and find the prince look-alike was dangerous. Even more so, she had not told Abraxas of her plan, too worried that he would try and persuade her out of it.

Perhaps, she was being irrational, and her next position at court would be that of the fool, yet the horologe was ticking. Each day she allowed the Tsar to grow stronger would be another day she would have to work in order to make the citizens of Mirzemla fall behind her.

The carriage wobbled as it took the Main Boulevard, and Irene knew it was only a matter of time before they reached the humble village in the Dolohov territory. She moved the blinds by a few centimeters, gazing outside at the wintertime luster. The eventide hoarfrost had begun thawing, making way for the snowflakes that descended from cotton puffs of granite. As the winter season scoured the country, more and more houses had started getting prepared for Koliada, the Mirzemlan holiday that occupied the latter part of December.

Smokestacks let out fiery soot, and Irene watched it eddy before disappearing in the gray yonder. Evergreen trees had been positioned in the front of the small yards, illuminated with lanterns and bulbs, ornamental beads, and talismans.

The landscape shifted as they arrived in the village, and Irene instructed her coachman to pull the carriage between the woods. She gathered the skirts of her dress before stepping out into the snow, leathered boots making a pleasant sound as they pushed through the ivory blanket.

"Wait for me to return," she mumbled before making her way to the small rural center.

In the twilight gleam , it appeared to be much more charming as people droned through the murky paths, carrying out their mundane chores and briskly interacting with each other. Some hauled wooden boards behind them, lumberjacks and agriculture masters of all sorts. The wobbly structures whined as children ran out into the snow, throwing themselves onto the ground and making snow angels. The scent of pasture and livestock was prevalent, mixed in with the aroma of burning logs in stoves.

Irene moved through the crowd, trying to retrace her path from the previous day, before her eyes settled on the same sign that had attracted her attention the first time— "Wool's Orphanage".

For a few seconds, she stood in her spot, trying to push away the squirming sensation of uncertainty that scalded her nerves. The witch had not been able to shake off the paranoia since she had first seen the prince-lookalike, almost as if he was perilous beyond imagination. Still, he was highly exploitable, and the girl knew she had to take her chance.

Her plan was not precisely sound—she knew that if the boy agreed to help her, Irene could use his face to trick and deceive noblemen into thinking she had Prince Lebedev's support. That did not take out other problematic factors, as she was not sure how she could ever capture the prince by herself and make the swap.

But she was desperate, and often people in such conditions were willing to risk everything.

Her knock on the door was abrupt, hesitant. Irene could not ignore the way her teeth chattered, or her collar seemed too snug all of a sudden. She wanted to pull at the itchy material, yet the door swung open, revealing the woman that had greeted her previously.

"Good evening," Sovetskaya's smile was forced, yet carried a practiced sympathy that could mislead most people, "I am here to inquire about a boy."

The Matron shifted on her feet, eyes narrowing in skepticism, "You do not seem the age for children, Miss."

Irene's face flushed with chagrin, "No! That is not what I meant. You see, I am here to see...well, to see a boy. He has azure eyes and dark curls, truly a sight to gaze at. I believe he is around my age, and—"

The scoff that left the Matron's lips scorched Sovetskaya's courage, "We do not hold anyone over eighteen years of age. Whatever boy you thought you saw, you must have been mistaken."

She made to turn and go back inside, but Irene stopped her once again, "Then, perhaps a staff member. He looks like—" her words almost died on her lips, "he resembled the crown prince."

At once, the woman spat at the ground, her face contorting into a bottomless scowl that showed vexation and wrath. Her words turned into a tirade as she tried to pry Irene's hands away from the door.

"Curse on the crown prince's name and the Tsar! Curse on the nobility and their thieving ways!" The Matron seemed to struggle as a few children gathered behind her, mud-covered shoes squeaking against the beaten wooden planks. Knitted hats covered their tiny heads, and reddened ears peeked from underneath.

Irene let the door go, and it shut with a loud thud.

She sat in the snowfall, letting the crystals catch in her curls and raven eyelashes. Ripe cheeks glistened with melted flakes, and Irene pressed her hands against her face, worry making her eyes shimmer.

Had she imagined the boy? Had her mind been so desperate that it had started playing tricks of her?

Or was this a manifestation of her power?

Irene raised her gloved hands, glancing at them with wonder. Witches and wizards first became aware of their gift after their sixteenth birthday, and it manifested in its most potent form after they turned twenty-one.

The witch had suspected her power to be a fluke at first—a jest given by the Pagan Gods. The servants had called it a predisposition for misfortune, an inclination to stumble onto the most grotesque accidents. Her parents had been the first, as she had founded them mutilated and breathless in their beds, a sight that would haunt her sanity for years to come. But the torment did not end there.

The next one had been a gardener that had fallen off a ladder while tending to the plants hanging from the second story of the Manor. Irene had discovered him soon after her sixteenth birthday, a mess of mangled limbs and fragmented bones. Ivory plumes had jabbed through his skin, allowing sanguine to color the ground below as if trying to imitate the grieving masterpieces of the most morbid artists in the land.

After that, Irene had stumbled into the servant quarters well into the night, her nightgown sticking to her body as she wandered around, mind too hazy to sleep. That is how she had uncovered the cook's body in one of the pantries, her body ridden with pustules from a ravaging plague. The foul, putrid waft had made the young witch halt in her steps, eyes taking in the sight of the cook's open mouth, as if the parting wail had shuddered her whole. Spiderwebs had formed around the decaying corpse. Irene had stared at it, morbidly fascinated, until the candle's wax had slipped from the holder and onto her skin.

Multiple such instances had occurred throughout her adolescent years, and as such, the Countess of the Undead had become quite familiar with the realm the servants thought she ruled. Rumors had begun circulating like birds in flocks, wings ripping the air with tension whenever she stepped into the room.

Could the Countess be responsible for the misfortune that surrounded her?

One year into her magic journey, one thing had become clear—it was not calamity that trailed behind her expensive gowns, coloring her cheeks with darkness and tenebrosity.

No. It was death.

Irene Sovetskaya was the follower of the God of Death—Mrithun. As such, her family had used the mines as a place of worship, opening their arms to his gifts. He had bestowed a unique ability to the bloodline, and had Irene's parents still been alive, she would have known how to handle it better.

Mrithun was a wicked trickster and had made Death surround the witch from the moment her soul had opened itself to sorcery. Without the guidance of an older mage, it had taken Sovetskaya years to understand that she was drawn to Death, to its deceiving plays and torturous delights.

She somedays wondered if it had been Mrithun that had saved her from drowning, wishing his lineage of worshippers to continue and spread, rejuvenating the magic world. Perhaps, Irene thought she owed it to him to take the crown and bring back the wizarding society.

Irene shook her head, trying to push the thought away. The boy she had seen could not have possibly been a spirit. He did not carry the pellucid lure of parted souls, not when his eyes had been so astute and his stare disdainful. Where could he be? If the Matron was truthful, then the prince look-alike was not under the guidance of the orphanage. Had he been a visitor?

With empty hands, Irene pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, trying to pass through the crowd of commoners without being noticed too much. She found the carriage where she had left it, sparkling between the trees as the last tangs of twilight evanesced through the atmosphere. The cerulean color of the buggy made it easily noticeable, and the low whines of the zevacks had the witch sigh with irritation.

The coachman bowed, but Irene did not stick for chatter, entering her compartment with the weight of failure on her shoulders. The door closed behind her, and the witch did not bother changing back into her previous attire. Her limbs were stiff with distress, and she pursed her lips before glancing towards the windows.

The Dolohov territory faded behind as the carriage moved forward, the scenery unwinding until all that could be seen was the hills of fauna and flora that separated the next County from the current one. The Main Boulevard extended until the horizon seized it in dawn-tinted fangs, lampposts flickering alive as the wheels turned against the paved road.

Irene wondered if Abraxas would be meeting her for dinner or if he would be stuck with his father in the Port, going over the most recent imports and counting the profit. Nowadays, the bachelor was always busy, and long-gone were their evening tea meetings and garden strolls. With age came responsibility, although Sovetskaya often found herself lacking in such a category. Since the Emperor had taken control over the mines, the Heiress could only fill her time with poetry, literature, and art.

Not that those would ever become dull to the witch, yet she coveted purpose in a somber world, and she wished to use the brushes that her education had handed her to color the realm.

"Settle down!" Called out the coachman from the front, and Irene felt the carriage pick up its pace, wheels rotating rapidly and making the insides sway harshly.

The girl grabbed hold of one of the metal beams that decorated the sidewalls, holding onto it for dear life as the buggy reached unfathomable limits. Her heart raced, and she glanced outside the window in dismay, seeing the world blur past her.

Then, out of nowhere, she noticed a figure riding another zevack by the vehicle. The person's body was covered in a long, dark coat, and their face was concealed by a silver-ornated mask.

Road thieves.

Irene felt fright overwhelm her, and with a quick move, she threw open the leathered seat in front of her, pulling out the needle sword that she had hidden. The carriage wobbled again as another rider came to the left of it, the hooves of his beast kicking up the dirt. The sound of air hitting the sides of the coach fiercely made the witch's ears toll, and she leaned forward to throw open the small window that served as a communication means with the coachman.

"You have to go faster!" She shouted as another thud came from above, almost as if someone had jumped on the roof of the buggy.

"I am trying—" started the man, right before a large hand clutched him by the collar, throwing him off from his seat.

The witch shrieked as a hooded figure plummeted into the coachman's seat, seizing the reins of the zevacks. The intruder turned to peep at her, mask glinting in the effulgence of the moon, and the only thing that could be seen beyond the petrifying disguise was a steely pair of eyes.

The thief pulled onto the beasts, having the buggy come to an abrupt stop, and the movement made Irene's body fly to the back of the compartment. Her head pounded against the metal decorations, and the world started revolving before her. A small whimper left her lips, and she raised a hand to the apex of her head, feeling a wet spot in her hair.

Adrenaline pumped through her body, and she made to kick the door open, yet right as her foot moved, the whole right side of the carriage burst into bits. Some of the wooden structure scratched at her porcelain skin, and Irene covered her face in a frenzy. She could taste paranoia on her tongue, and it was galling.

The witch used the momentary distraction to push through the dusty air, her sword still in her hand, and she swung it with a twirl, striking against something. A piercing scream rang out through the night as a body stumbled forward, Irene's sword deep into the man's leg. Using momentum, the girl pushed her foot against his abdomen, sending him to the ground right as metal slashed through the wind. She barely intercepted the coiled sword and used all of her strength to keep it from slicing her face.

Someone grabbed at the back of her dress, but Irene spun, using her weapon to cut the material. The loss of tension made the criminal stumble backward, and the witch used that as an opportunity to escape. She could not tell how many thieves had attacked her, but there had to be at least three, and that was not a favorable odd for her.

Her leather boots pushed through the snow as Irene ran into the dense trees, her provincial dress cut on the side and exposing lace socks. Frigidity gnawed at her skin, yet the calls that she could hear from behind made her push through the shadowed forest. The luna shone over her head, barely visible through the webs of branches that made the stars and galaxies seem fractured. They created the illusion of entrapment, as if freedom was unreachable, a glimpse of the cosmos.

All around her, charcoal-colored trees seemed never to end, and the low hum of a creak pulsed through the atmosphere. Owls chanted gloriously, yet all Irene could focus on was the twigs snapping all around.

"Come out and meet us, Countess!" Called out a feminine voice, the slight hint of an accent hard to place, and Irene cussed in a low voice. How did they know her status?

Sovetskaya felt tears freeze on her skin and inky eyelashes, and the world spun as the ache in her head persisted. Her hand touched the area she had bumped again, feeling the warm liquid between her digits. Irene's fingers numbed as she brought them forward to gaze at the blood. She wiped it on the long skirt of her vestments, not caring for the way it stained it crimson.

Her feet were icy, toes numb as she toppled and tripped over a few branches. As her face collided with the snowy ground, Irene felt everything spin around her, the adrenaline barely keeping her mind clear. Confusion pushed through her awareness, and her sight could not focus. Her movements sagged, and she slightly gripped the needle sword in her shaking palms.

The calls rang out behind her, amusement fusing in with warnings of surrender, as if they were predators, and she was nothing but a startled little mouse. Irene gulped before trying to look around for an escape.

Her eyes settled on a taller tree, and she pushed herself up from the ground, hands holding onto the branches for stability. Irene cursed at the tearing sensation in her arms as she tried to pull herself upwards, throwing her leg over the twigs. Slowly, she climbed upwards, trying not to think about the pain in the back of her head.

Once she had higher ground, she glanced around the forest, trying to spot the bandits through the entanglement of nature. Below her, four figures waltzed around gradually, their movements untroubled and poised, as if the hunt was entertainment to them. The witch supposed it was, for they seemed to be reasonably experienced.

Her mind whirled around the way the side of her carriage had burst into bits, and she frowned deeply. Magic. It had to be. By the nature of the attack, it was most likely something tied in with Force Sorcery, an ability to manipulate all physical forces—gravity, tension, pressure.

Lost in her thoughts, Irene did not realize that the figures had stopped underneath her tree, although they did not glance up. They simply stood a few feet below her, almost as if waiting for something. Frowning, she realized that only three people remained.

"Caw!"

The noise almost made Sovetskaya tumble off of the branch, and she leaned towards the raven that swooped in and alighted on the twig in front of her. Its obsidian feathers seemed to be dark enough that they could summon black holes to submerge their bodies, and with admiration, she discerned that its beauty was inexplicably enchanting.

Then, right before her eyes, the raven's figure shifted into something else, and Irene shrieked as a boy hung from his legs off the branch, a mischievous smirk on his lips.

"Watch out for gravity," his rugged voice broke through, a condescending ring to it.

"What?" Irene barely managed to mutter before the boy placed one finger on her forehead and pushed her off the tree.

Air whizzed past as her body sped towards the ground, locks of hair obscuring her view of the stars as she plummeted towards certain death. Irene's vocal cords constricted, and she could not even manage to let out a shriek of horror, too shocked by being pushed.

Right as her body was about to collide with the terrain below, it stopped in the air, levitating a few centimeters above the ground. Her eyes barely registered the thieves standing beside her before her whole form was thrown against a tree, limbs unable to move.

"What a pretty little thing," purred the same pistillate voice that had taunted Sovetskaya before, and the witch felt the edge of a sharp curled blade trailing the edge of her face.

In front of her stood a feminine form, cloaked in dark robes and face hidden behind a silver mask, yet her onyx hair was pulled into two tight braids—a coiffeur that was fairly uncommon on this side of the Rovak Sea but certainly fashionable in Tasila, the country across the water. It was known for its majestic mountain temples and rich soil, a strong competitor for the most excellent economy across the continent.

With wonder, Irene recognized that the weapon being held against her throat was not a sword, but rather a talwar, with its curved sharpness and beautifully decorated hilt. Used by most warriors of Tasila, it had become an emblem for the country, for only they could forge such light and complex weapons.

"Aisha, step back from the target," an authoritative voice ordered from the back, and the girl obeyed. Still, she kept her weapon in her hand.

Irene remained stuck to the bark of the tree, feeling as if another force was holding her from moving. The shape-shifting boy jumped from the tree, landing on his feet gracefully, and the girl could not help but wonder if it was him who had thrown the coachman from the buggy.

He was the only unmasked one, his face the personification of a Hunting God, and grey eyes shimmered with delight at the sight of the captured girl. There was something ghastly in his smile, almost unhinged, and not even when he pushed a hand over his dark hair did the shape-shifter stop gawking.

"I thought she would put up more of a fight," mumbled another thief, taking off his mask to reveal Nordic features. Unlike Aisha and the other boy, he was most certainly not a foreigner, his hair one shade away from pure-white and his eyes a profound algae color. There was tautness in his features, as well as disappointment.

The shape-shifter sniggered, "Settle down, Niklaus. Surely we will have another chasing round after we raid her Manor."

"As if I would ever lead you back," spat Irene, fighting against the hold and trying to keep her blood pumping. Her body had stiffened from the cold, and in the darkness of the forest, she could barely discern which way she had come from.

The fourth man tsk-ed, his hands moving to untie the mask from the back of his curly hair. As soon as the disguise was removed, Irene had to bite her cheek to hold herself from screaming due to fury. Standing before her, the prince look-alike was unquestionably a physical person and not a demon that had adhered to her powers. He was as mesmerizing as he had been on their first encounter, obscurity pulsating in bright eyes and a stoic expression on his face.

If his partners seemed to have enjoyed their little game of cat and mouse, the boy before her had the audacity to appear bothered, as if it had been a waste of his time to chase Irene down. The same intellectualism clung to his visage, something that Sovetskaya could not quite articulate, yet saw it on the faces of the most illuminated scientists of Mirzemla.

"You," breathed in Irene, trying to push the shock away, "Why?"

"I believe introductions are formal, although your name matters little to me considering this interaction will be brief," rasped the look-alike, his lips quirking up for the first time in a supercilious smirk. "My name is Tom Riddle, although I suppose many might confuse me with the crown prince, Thomas Lebedev."

Flabbergasted, Irene spluttered, "But you had no reaction when I asked if you were the prince at the orphanage."

A peal of high-pitched laughter resonated from Aisha, who rose her palm slightly, making Irene's head snap upward. So, it was her—the Force Wielder.

"Riddle has a flair for being vicious. Is that not right, Nott?"

The shape-shifter nodded, joining in on her jest, "I suppose it is."

Irene frowned, trying to make sense of their words. Then, realization dawned upon her like ice-cold water. She shuddered at it, not wanting to believe that she had been so senseless. Tom Riddle, the thief, had been the one to have her carriage malfunction on the first night, possibly using one of his mages. Then, he had most likely waited for her to arrive at the orphanage, using his similarity to the prince to agitate her. Only a noblewoman would have reacted to the semblance, and that alone had given away her status, making her prey for the band of rascals.

"How did you know I lived in a Manor?"

"I did not. You just told me."

Vexation and fear struck Irene at once, and she knew that she had made herself a target for the boy without even realizing it. He had tricked her, and she had fallen right into his trap.

"You deceived me," spat out Sovetskaya, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Aisha move forward, placing her weapon underneath her neck before breaking her magic hold.

Irene stumbled forward, but the other girl quickly pulled on her hair and held her chin up with her talwar. The witch kept herself from gulping, knowing that the edge was sharp enough to pierce her skin at the slightest move. Her thoughts clashed and burned as she thought of a way to escape, perhaps use her powers. But what good could that do? Would she drive them to a random corpse, much like a banshee, then hope that the odor was appalling enough that the thieves would scramble to run?

That itself was a jest, much like Irene's underdeveloped magical powers. In moments like this, she envied the foreigners for being allowed to practice their magic before coming to Mirzemla. With the ban on sorcery and her high status, Sovetskaya did not want the target on her back to expand by practicing that which was forbidden. She had hoped that once she was at court, she would be able to have some security, and delve deeper into her books.

The only extent to which she knew to use her magic was to siphon Death from corpses and the moribund, then wield power to cast curses or rot away at flesh. But the limitation of her circumstances made it that there were no nearby graves that she could channel magic from, and without a solid connexion for Mrithun, God of Death, the sorcery was weak.

"Indeed, and it was quite easy. When Niklaus spotted your carriage approaching after the ball, it was considerably simple for him to use his Trickster magic to have your wheel malfunction. Instrumental power he has—creating illusions, accidents, apparitions."

They began moving through the forest, the thieves' cloaks making them appear as church disciples heading towards a commemoration. The white-haired boy sniffed by the side, making Irene glance at him from the corner of her eyes as Aisha pushed her forward. He did seem to be a follower of Trickster, with his unusual hair color and the way he appeared reserved, contained, as if one sudden move could birth chaos.

Chaos Sorcerers were unpredictable, and their magic was the hardest to hide, for their god, Trickster Silas, was not known for his intention to help his magic stay alive. He relished entertainment, toying with his believers in moments of high intensity, as if they were mere puppets on strings, and he was directing a tragic comedy.

"But it was not until you gave me that flabbergasted look that I knew you were a court woman. You see, growing up in the village, few people had ever known what Prince Lebedev had looked like. Seldom does the regency pass through the more underdeveloped areas. I suppose that played to my advantage," continued Tom, his voice stern and his hands clasped behind his back as he led the group forward.

It was easy to discern that he was their leader, with his calculative mind and ingenious schemes. He was the prey that drew the travelers of the Main Boulevard in, having them right in the clawed grasp of the road thieves.

"Will you stop digging your nails into my sides?" Snarled Irene at the Force Wielder behind her, but Aisha only sniggered, sinking her fingers deeper into her flesh.

Tom hummed ahead, stopping in front of a bifurcation before gesturing towards the right. The shape-shifter and Niklaus darted forward while the rest of them stayed behind. Riddle turned judicious eyes to Sovetskaya, his side-profile of ever-lasting beauty, and she wondered what magical power he could have possessed. Indeed, such a group of skilled mages would not follow a commoner, no matter his intellect.

"Then, you never gave me your name," finished Irene, his plan so obvious now, "so that I would certainly come back, drawn in by curiosity. When I returned to the village, you either paid the Matron to pretend you had not been there, or perhaps you truly did not work for the orphanage. That made me feel crazy, thus letting my guard down."

"Gaslighting is one of my specialties," muttered the boy, raising a challenging eyebrow.

"You must be proud, you conniving serpent," hurled Sovetskaya, almost flinging herself at him. Aisha's weapon made her stop from her erratic movement.

"She has a temperament," muttered the foreign girl, unimpressed.

"Do not fret, Kayani," ridiculed Riddle, "Her seconds are falling through the clepsydra of time. The minute Niklaus and Theoden return, you can slice her throat, and we will take her coach back to her estate."

Dread flared inside Irene, and she felt her legs go underneath her. Aisha held her upward, snarling in her ear to stay put, but all Sovetskaya could hear was the sound of the approaching buggy and her life draining before her eyes.

Death was something she wielded, not a flaw she succumbed to.

Right as the carriage pulled forward and Riddle turned to give Aisha Kayani the sign, Irene spoke out, "Wait! What if I had a better proposition for you?"

Intrigue flashed on Tom's face like the burning flame that Mirthun used to light up his temple candles, and for a second, she wondered if it was him who should have become the follower of Death instead of her. Though, if her assumptions were correct, Tom Riddle struck her as the sort who sailed away from it.

"Oh, is this not adorable? She is trying to bargain for her life?" hummed Aisha, and Irene felt one of her braids scratch against the back of her neck.

"I am not!" Began Irene again, eyes settling only on Tom, "I am talking about the reason I came back. You might think it was only because I was curious about the similarities between you and the prince, but that is not all."

"Are you suggesting there is more to the story?" mumbled Riddle, skepticism drawn on his face like an obvious card-play.

The buggy pulled in front of them, Niklaus standing on the front seat and holding the reins, a black raven perched on his shoulder. It flew to the roof of the carriage, then Theoden Nott transfigured back into his usual boyish form.

"I do enjoy a good story myself," he jested, feet dangling from the edge.

Tom eyed her for a moment, thoughts obviously whirring beyond the broken fragments of ocean beauty, and then he raised his hand, making Aisha lower her weapon from Irene's throat. Her hold persisted, and Sovetskaya knew that she could not even dream of grabbing her own sword from her strap before the Force Bender would have her pinned to the ground.

"Do tell," mused Tom, blinking lethargically, as if she were a jester presenting a show before a King, begging him to spare her life. In a way, the analogy was accurate.

"What if I told you I could get you inside the castle?" Questioned Irene, and suddenly everyone's gazes sharpened.

Tom tilted his head, wavy hair brushing against his forehead, "I would call you a fool."

"Nobody gets inside the castle without royal permission. If you could not tell, most of us are foreigners, and the regency finds themselves intimidated by any outsiders," quarreled Niklaus, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the cabin.

From on top of the carriage, Theoden agreed, "Not to mention; we are sorcerers. Hardly the sort they interact with."

Irene pondered telling them of her powers, before concluding it would have been foolish. They would have certainly requested a magic display as proof, and that could have been an easy way of getting something to dangle over her as a manipulation tactic. What if they turned her in for breaking the law? It was four against one, and even with her noblewoman status, Irene knew the Emperor was looking for a way to lock her up for life. Or execute her.

"But they would not know that," Irene was quick to contradict them, "With my status as a Countess, I am usually invited to many events that are held within the palace. What if..."

Her voice trailed off, but Tom narrowed his eyes, suddenly curious, "Go on."

"What if we made a swap? You and the prince. With your highly gifted group, it would be an effortless task. During one of the balls, I could distract the prince's lackeys, allowing your group to capture Thomas Lebedev."

The reticence that settled between them was unnerving, and Irene knew her plan was far-fetched and dotted with flaws. Many things could go wrong, but if anyone could do it, it was the skilled group before her. Would stealing a person instead of an object be that different?

"I have met many desperate people during my career as a thief. Often, they beg for their lives, arguing that they have families at home. Children, wives, mistresses. Sometimes, they even try to offer those assets to me. I care little for such useless things," admitted Riddle, moving through the snow and towards Irene. He stopped right in front of her, using one finger to tilt her chin up. "Never has someone offered me a country."

"That is because they were not brave enough to do so."

"Or not foolish enough," he murmured, eyes trailing her features as if he were trying to decipher every tic of her face, anything to show that she was lying.

"Perhaps, but often fools are those willing to risk everything for what they believe in."

"But why would you offer me such a thing? Surely you do not weigh your life above a country?" inquired Tom, moving a few steps back as if he was starting to lose interest.

Irene shook her head and watched Riddle raise an eyebrow at her, "No, but we would both benefit from such a deal. You will get a crown, and I will come close enough to kill the Emperor."

A laugh scalded her resolve, and Sovetskaya threw Nott an irritated glance, not fancying the patronizing twinkle in his eyes.

"She wants to kill the Tsar! Truly, this attack might be the most amusing one we have ever encountered. What a pleasant night."

"You have no idea what I am capable of," sneered Irene, her body moving forward before anyone could stop her. She raised her sword against his neck, making the boy lose his easy-going smile. "He has taken everything from me, and I intend to do the same. Now, you can kill me and go back to your filthy ways, or you can help me. And then, we will have all the power we ever wanted."

Theoden Nott whistled, vaguely impressed by the intensity of her gaze.

"What makes you worthy of our trust?" Riddle continued questioning her, "More importantly, why would we not simply kill you after you help us infiltrate the castle?"

Irene's answer came almost immediately, "You need me as much as I need you. I know the court, the politics, the alliances, and betrayals among the nobility. You will be lost in an endless maze if you kill me."

"I could learn," argued Tom, narrowing his eyes. He certainly did not appreciate being talked down upon.

"Then, we will just have to wait and see. Perhaps, I will prove myself more useful alive than dead."

The boy smirked, "Is this what it is? A pact on your life? What would Mrithun, God of Death, say of you toying with your life so easily?"

I am not sure, but I will ask him in my prayers if you so desire.

Irene bit down the remark, plastering a sheepish smile on her face, "Perhaps, I am confident in my skills."

"Unwise," mumbled Riddle.

Then, he made an abrupt move towards her, and for a second, Sovetskaya thought he was coming to end her life, scythe in his hand and bone dust on his tongue. Then, he opened the door to her carriage, holding out his hand to help her get in. Reluctantly, Irene accepted it, his touch burning her skin with blasphemy, then stepped inside the vehicle. She sat down on the leathered seat, eyeing Tom Riddle with uncertainty.

"Niklaus, take the Countess back to her Manor," Tom announced as Theoden leaped off of the cabin and moved behind his leader. Aisha copied his movements, nose scrunched in irritation.

A hum of agreement was heard from the front of the carriage. Right before he shut the door, Riddle gave Irene a knowing look.

"Expect us in a few days. I suppose we have a regency to overthrow."

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

tentative map of Mirzemla

and so it begins!

thank you so so much for the support <3