Two star crossed lovers.
Nations divided by blood and power.
A war to end all others.
She is heir to the brutal Darkling kingdom and daughter to the most vicious king ever known, Vlad the impaler.
He's the Demon prince ru...
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"You look so beautiful, my Lady." The maid, another I don't recognize, says while patting the skirt of the dress. She fusses over the train of the sparkling monster for the fifth time, and looks at me through the mirror. "Every eye will be on you. All is perfect for your Black Gorge. This will surely be a night to remember!"
"Yes." I answer, plainly.
The Black Gorge. A ritual feast for darklings who have gone through their Reaping. Traditions state that after a Reaping, a darkling should hold off eating until the night of the Gorge, when he or she can feast upon the freshest and purest blood in front of family and guests. And so, even though I have shown no signs of a gift yet, I must perform it.
"Lady," The maid says, and her brows furrow. "What is the matter?"
Her tone is sympathetic. But it is also frustrated, as if she cannot understand why I am like this. As if I should be glad my Black Gorge is a mere disguise to announce my engagement to a foreign heir. As if I should be happy to be home and captured, grateful that I wasn't publically flogged for running away.
"Where is Iskra?" I ask, glaring at her through the mirror.
Before she can answer, I hear the door creep open and a presence slither in. I know it's the queen before her icy gaze finds me through the mirror. I don't look back towards her and the maid just curtsies low before walking out and leaving us alone.
The she-devil walks closer to me, her steps feather light, soundless. Irina sprays a bit of jasmine perfume onto my neck and then runs a hand down my meticulously curled hair.
Blank, blank, black
The action jars me but she soon steps away, admiring her own reflection in the mirror. The Vernon Queen has chosen a crimson satin gown, sinfully closefitted to her figure, and a ruby incrusted necklace to honor House Dracul. Her silver-blonde hair has been fashioned into a braid crown, nesting a dark diadem of spikes.
"You looks so much like your mother." She says, and the venom is almost palpable.
I say nothing as I'm turned left and right, more a mannequin than a person, rough clay upon which Irina can mold to her liking.
White. White walls. White paper.
"You're a bit skinny, though." She hums. "Ekaterina was never skinny... But you are like her in other ways." She grabs my chin, careful not to slice the skin, and forces me to look up at her. "She loved those dusty, old books in the library, too"
She turns me, my back to her. Her hands slip to the array of jewels splattered across my vanity and takes her time choosing, her eyes glazing. "And she always seemed so young, like you now. She was so young ... before she went mad."
