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THE FOLLOWING. august 20th, 1996.
"YOU ARE SIXTEEN YEARS OLD, ANASTASIA. YOU DO NOT HAVE THE SUPERIORITY NOR POWER THAT YOU YEARN TO HAVE," ZACHARIUS ROMANOV BELLOWED. His face was red in color as he shouted at his daughter, his eyes narrowing as he saw her tense at his volume.
Had he known that his daughter would have grown into the monster she was today, he would have fled with his wife, Helena, all those years ago. He would have made better attempts to keep her from the world in which had started the impending spiral of her demise.
He noticed the way her eyes never left his — hatred burning through his skin as it flowed from her own body and into his. She had changed in ways he could have never foreseen, ways that made him nauseated as he finally saw them revealing themselves to the man for the first time in months.
Anastasia didn't speak and instead turned her attention from his face and to the man's arm. She stared at the mark on his arm with an intense desire, one of which had started after the man who given it to her father had promised her she would receive one of her own should she survive the year.
That night, the Dark Lord had whispered everything she would be granted should she follow the words he injected into her thoughts. He had promised a life of glory and power should she choose the side worth fighting for. He had promised that, when the time came down to it, the lives she claimed would only fuel the hunger in her stomach that begged to be satisfied.
"I do not yearn for the power, Father. The power runs rampad throughout my body. He assured me of the power himself — he showed me what I am capable of."
Zacharius visibly deflated at her words, knowing the feelings of defeat far more than anyone else could fathom. He had failed the young girl sat infront him. He had failed her in far more ways than he had ever assumed he would. The failure had errupted from the failure to thwart the Dark Lord's invasion of her once pure mind.
"You meddle in business that is not yours to be meddled in, Anastasia. You are a mere child—"
The laugh that left her body cut straight through is own. It was a horrid sound to his ears, one that further deflated his hopes that he would ever be successful in saving her from the very thing he had forced upon her.
He knew that the laughter was based around the fact of another child, one she had known for nearly a decade and yet, despite the way he acted in contrary to her, he had received what she desperately had wanted.
She was envious of the boy who was vacant from the room, the boy who was in his own manor, staring at the mark on his arm with horror rather than pride she would have felt had it been her own skin scarred by the Dark Lork.
