Rất tiếc! Hình ảnh này không tuân theo hướng dẫn nội dung. Để tiếp tục đăng tải, vui lòng xóa hoặc tải lên một hình ảnh khác.
"Burn her! We must get rid of the Devil and any of his advocates!"
"Feed her to the wolves! Let her feel the same pain our daughters and sons felt!"
"The lions! They're more vicious!"
The tsar had submitted to his sickness a few fortnights ago, leaving no male heirs and a court on the verge of collapse. The tsaritsa had escaped the news through a constant state of drunkenness, unable to comprehend or accept her husband's death and her newfound responsibility alike. She had never chosen to become tsaritsa for the sake of its name: she had chosen to become the tsar's husband for the sake of its name.
His daughter, however, could not afford the same period of grief that her mother was bestowed. Henceforward, she spent the days fending off disobedient judgements and the nights maintaining a flawless composure. Yet, it seemed the more she fought against the illusory perception that the kingdom and the court had put so much effort into creating, the more she sunk into the irreversibility that other's opinions provided.
^^^
"How are the defense lines today, General?" she asks, a trace of a smile clinging to her pink lips. She attempts to display geniality for the man she knows is planning her assassination, for if she didn't, he would stage the coup within days, not weeks.
"We've lost some territories, gained others," he informs, his expressionless visage never betraying emotion. His words are vague because information is powerful, and giving her any would be akin to submitting to her authority.
"Thank you, General," she assents, allowing her smile to comfort his wayward thoughts. She walks past him, her black-laced train gliding behind her as a shadow, commanding the attention of every man in the room. It didn't take much of her conscious effort to draw attention to herself, but black was by far one of the prettiest colors against her fair skin, and at that moment, they all recognized it.
She had grown accustomed to the staring early into her childhood, never finding comfort in the spotlight, yet never shying away from it either. It was just another aspect of being a royal and just another aspect of being beautiful - the loneliness - and she had no choice but to accept it.
It wasn't long before dinner had concluded and she had decided on retiring to her chambers. The days were repetitive and motionless; it was the nights that she had become more wary of. It was the nights when new rumors were bred and old ones crept out of the shadows.
She swept into her room as a phantom, the night casting ghostly shadows across her visage. Two maidens await her, a nervous disposition coloring their actions. They had all heard the whispers, only reaffirmed by the fact that her servants were often temporary, and found it difficult to maintain their composure in the face of what they believed was pure evil.
She had grown accustomed to this as well.
"Tsesarevich Natalya," one of the maidens greets, dipping her head with respect. She bends her legs stiffly, fear clinging to her rigid limbs. "How may we be of service?"
Natalya ignores the tension in the room.
"Run a bath for me," Natalya commands with ease. "Anzhelina, help me undress."
"Yes, Tsesarevich Natalya," they assent in unison, parting ways to complete each of the tasks assigned to them.
She dismisses them once she concludes her bath, finding the freedom of dressing herself almost addictive. She slips the thin white-cotton dress over her shoulders, the fabric betraying a welcoming softness that seldom appeared in her life.
Her feet pad quietly against the wooden floor, her body moving with an indescribable elegance, even as she remained unwatched. She climbs into her bed with a similar decorum, her hands folded neatly on her stomach and her hair spread evenly around her head, the position a foreshadowing of the corpse she expected to become.
