Irene Sovetskaya yearns for vengeance.
After a strong suspicion of the Emperor's hand in her parents' assassination, the newly titled Countess desires to spill the blood of the monarchy. To do so, she must be admitted to the royal court, and marryin...
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"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?
