The Tsaritsa wants what the Tsaritsa wants. Gripping the hands of her throne when she hears the news, she leans forward. She is a pretty little thing, with diamonds in her ears and on her throat, and her lilac hair spirals into ice-blue curls around her shoulders. When the Tsaritsa learns of the last living child from the fallen nation, her eyes glimmer like the stars her kind capsized in fear of a revolution.
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