AISHA'S ODILE. INSPIRED BY FOLKLORE, MY FRIENDS, BABRIE, & MANY OTHER INSPIRATIONS. VERY OPEN TO OTHER VERSES INCLUDING (1) ASIOAF (2) MODERN (3) PRIVATE LORE WITH FRIENDS. PRIVATE AND LOW ACTIVITY. GUIDELINES INCOMING. AFFILIATED WITH MARA, DEMETRIUS, AND MARYAM.

She has always despised the way goodness made a spectacle of itself. It never entered a room quietly — not truly. Even when it wore silence, even when it dressed itself in pale gowns and frightened eyes, it demanded to be noticed. It turned heads without trying. I t softened voices. It made men lower their swords and women clasp their hands to their hearts. Goodness was never merely goodness. It was performance, influence, accusation. And Odette had always been very good. The ballroom had nearly emptied by the time Odile found her. Candlelight clung to the mirrored walls, multiplying every chandelier until the whole chamber seemed caught inside a jewel. Beyond the tall windows, the lake lay dark beneath the moon, silver-edged and watchful. It was a beautiful view, Odile supposed, if one was sentimental enough to believe beauty meant anything kind. Odette stood near the glass as though she belonged to it. Moonlight, white silk, sorrow. A portrait waiting for some prince to mourn over. Odile smiled. “You look as if someone has died.” Her voice carried easily through the quiet hall, smooth and polished, not quite cruel enough to be called an attack. She stepped forward with unhurried grace, black skirts whispering across the marble. Every movement had been taught to her, sharpened into elegance, made useful. Beauty, her father had told her, was a weapon only fools mistook for ornament. “I suppose, in a way, someone has.” She tilted her head, studying Odette with bright, unreadable eyes. “The girl he imagined. The dream. T he perfect creature waiting faithfully beneath the moon.” A faint laugh left her, softer than silk and twice as cutting. “How exhausting it must be, being loved for suffering so prettily.” @swanvowed