Jennette's face swings to the side, and nearly falls against the wall, the weight of her new horns dizzying her balance.
"How dare you still not know your place, you foul chimera! Your egregious behavior sees no end!?"
Of course, it wasn't Athanasia who had hit her.
With all that's ensued, it wasn't her place to lay a hand against Jennette.
It would only bring about the wrong intentions, the slightest give of her hand, and Jennette could have people on her side- the halo of the original Lovely Princess was still playing its cards against Athanasia- and she would deny it its purpose, forever.
So she could only say words of her hate, with people whom she trusted by her side, but even then, she had to make sure they wouldn't turn their backs on her. But she knew, somehow- they wouldn't.
They had come this far to be by her side, to stand with her, and trusted her to be able to rule. She would live up to their expectations.
So, what a pity, Jennette. That you had come into this palace. What a pity, that you had to be against me.
The acrimony of it all just fills me with indescribable hatred for you and your family, Jennette. For you see, I knew about you, much before. Even before you knew about me.
She was finally going away...away from the palace..away from her..from the place that was rightfully hers and it was just so sweet-
Athanasia's long deserved break from everything is by visiting an opera house, and upon seeing the Imperial crest above the glittering stage, she thinks.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"This world is mine. Just like this stage, just how it was supposed to be, and how it will stay." She blinks her eyes shut as the bright lights flared at the waxed floors.
The hanging rigs of backgrounds and lighting fixtures and the golden crest that shone from the dazzling lights that made light rain down upon her closed eyes.
Her eyelids warm to the touch as she breathes in the air of theatre, the velvet carpeting soft underfoot, like moss cushioning her feet in a forest.
The sound of the leads and orchestra warming up their instruments and voices before the curtains were due to come up has her hurrying a little to her seat, the box private enough for her to slip off her shoes and place them off to the side.
Her legs hang over the armrests, a plate of sweets and cookies just in reach as the lights start to dim.
She stuffs the last meringue into her mouth, crunching into the soft sugar as she washes it down with a sip of nonalcoholic champagne. She couldn't eat during the performance, that was a definite no-no.
After all, how would she be able to hear the rare spoken pieces of dialogue? The tremulous notes of the violin during the escape scene? The faint changes in expression of the performers under the hot, bright lights?
