Page 23
Story: Rogue Souls
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IRENE
“ W ow…” Irene exhaled, almost without realizing it, as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. “Hezra… the dress is stunning,” she murmured.
Hezra, smiling mischievously, circled around Irene and positioned herself behind her, their gazes meeting in the mirror. “No, captain… it’s you who are stunning,” she replied softly.
Irene was well aware of how others saw her, a striking figure effortlessly drawing attention wherever she went. Her long, elegant legs, curvy hips, and small, round chest invited stares she had long grown used to. Yet never had she felt as beautiful as she did in that moment. She felt invincible.
Hezra had spent the entire day helping everyone get ready. She braided Zahra’s hair, assisted the boys in dressing, and now had transformed Irene into something breathtaking. From her face to her attire, Hezra had outdone herself.
Clapping her hands in excitement, Hezra declared, “I know exactly what to do with your hair. Don’t move!” before quickly disappearing out of the room.
Left alone, Irene took a moment to truly admire herself, an unfamiliar gesture. For twenty-one years, she had been too preoccupied with survival to stop and look at herself.
She placed a hand over her chest, her fingers brushing the thick, rigid fabric of the luxurious corset she wore. The straps pressing against her shoulders clung to her skin with a bold, almost untamed confidence. The deep blue fabric molded her figure, hugging her curves with a sensual elegance. She traced the glittering stones embedded in patterns of tiny stars and lightning bolts across the fabric—like a thunderstorm captured mid-rage, frozen on her dress. The shimmering stones reflected the light in a dance of flickering brilliance.
Hezra returned in a whirl of motion, carrying a small metal box in her hands. “Sit down, this will accentuate your long neck,” she said, her voice airy and calm. Irene obeyed, settling onto a chair in front of the mirror.
Hezra got to work, gathering Irene’s thick curls and fastening them atop her head with a silver star-shaped clip. Two thick, curly strands fell loosely on either side of Irene’s face, framing her piercing gaze. Then, for a final touch, Hezra scattered tiny sparkling stones throughout Irene’s hair, making it look like the night sky had settled atop her head.
Taking a step back, Hezra clapped her hands in satisfaction. “I outdid myself. You almost don’t look like a pirate raised in the slums anymore.”
Irene rose slowly, returning to the mirror. The dress fit her like a second skin. Every detail radiated strength, storm, and sea…
The dress was a rich, deep blue, perfectly cinched at her waist and hips. Embroidered silver stars, lightning bolts, and flashes of thunder spread across the rigid yet fluid fabric, moving as if a raging sea storm had been woven into the material. The corset accentuated her small chest, while the straps molded smoothly against her olive-toned skin. The flowing hemline cascaded down gracefully but opened into a slit high on her thigh, adding a dangerous allure to the already captivating look.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came—only a soft, “I… thank you.”
Hezra winked playfully. “Now, my turn!” she announced, before spinning on her heels and leaving the room.
Irene remained where she was, standing still before her reflection, as a wave of nostalgia surged over her. The deep blue of the dress stirred memories she had long buried, memories of her father. It had been so long since she had thought of him. An odd sense of guilt clenched her throat, as though forgetting him had been an unforgivable betrayal of his memory.
Blue… it was his color. The color he wore every day. The color he painted on the little wooden figurines they carved and sold at the port. It was the color of their happiest days and their quietest nights. A fragile link between what she had lost and what she had been forced to become.
She remembered herself at ten years old, crouched on the floor of their home, her father’s blood seeping into the damp wooden boards. Lorax’s pirates had stormed through the door, taken her father’s life over a meager debt, and dragged her away in chains. She hadn’t even had time to grab anything, nothing except the memory of the colour blue.
The blue had stayed. It became her strength, her only escape. When the sea surrounded her, she found a fleeting peace. And in the ruthless rivalry with Dax, she found a distraction sharp enough to bury her grief. Every day, Captain Lorax pitted them against each other like caged beasts, forcing them to fight, to survive. The hatred, the hunger to win, it dulled the ache of loss, if only for a moment. Until eventually, she forgot what sadness felt like. When she had been thrust into a world of violence, she hadn’t run. No, she had climbed every ladder of that brutal world and became its master.
When she couldn’t escape the brutality, she embraced it, made it her weapon, thrived in it. And tonight, that same blue would be the color of her vengeance. Irene Delmare would rise again. The ego Dax had shattered would burn bright once more, reborn from the ashes of her pain.
She blinked, forcing back the tears that threatened to spill. Tonight, her vengeance would wear the color of the ocean.
Irene walked across the hall, where chaos thrived in a whirlwind of activity. Nearby, Javier and Blade bickered as usual. Further ahead, Lan and a group of children carefully loaded the last crates onto the carriages, meticulously checking the inventory of weapons and supplies. Zahra sat quietly, focused on deciphering the map fragment.
Irene inhaled deeply. This mix of chaos and excitement was something she knew well. That rush, that tingling at her fingertips… it was a sensation she had felt countless times, right before setting sail into the unknown. Soon, she would be back at sea, embarking on yet another perilous adventure.
“You forgot this.”
Blade’s calm voice made her turn around. He approached her, a smile playing on his lips as he held out her knife. Irene took it. “So, how are you feeling? Ready?” he asked.
Irene didn’t answer right away. She lifted one leg and placed her foot on a nearby chair, revealing her thigh. “Never been more ready,” she said, a confident smile curving her lips. “And you?” Blade nodded, a spark of excitement flashing in his eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about the sapphire,” he admitted.
Irene slid a leather garter around her thigh and secured the dagger in its sheath. But as she lowered her leg, she noticed something in Blade’s expression, a flicker of concern he was trying hard to hide.
“You sure you’re okay?” Irene asked. Blade nodded quickly, but his prolonged silence betrayed something more. She was about to insist when something far stranger caught her attention. A painting, hung in a shadowy corner of the hall, one she had never noticed before. Something about it called to her. She walked toward it slowly, almost hypnotized.
The painting depicted a scene of utter desolation. A dense forest engulfed in a raging fire. The furious flames licked at the trees, turning them into living torches before they collapsed into a sea of ash. The sky was a heavy, ominous gray, weighed down by oppressive smoke, while birds in frantic flight tried to escape the chaos. Blade approached, “That painting… yeah, it does that. Gets under your skin, but you learn to live with it,” he said.
Yet it wasn’t just the violence of the fire that hypnotized Irene. At the heart of the chaos stood a peacock, proud and majestic, its brilliant feathers spread wide in a ring of flames. But its once-vibrant plumage was marred by the fire, some of the feathers singed, others entirely consumed by the blaze. Despite the obvious suffering it endured, the peacock stood still, unmoving protecting something. Beneath the peacock, nestled at its feet, was a small, pure white peacock baby, sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the surrounding chaos.
“What’s it called?” Irene whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from the painting.
Blade shrugged. “No idea. I never asked. It’s been here as long as I have.” Irene remained silent.
Blade cleared his throat, breaking the tense moment. “Earlier… there’s something I wanted to tell you.”
Irene nodded absently, still absorbed in the painting.
“When we’re there… I mean, starting now, just—please, be careful with?—”
Blade never got the chance to finish his sentence. The door to Jessalyn’s office swung open abruptly, cutting him off. Both Irene and Blade flinched slightly, their eyes snapping toward Jessalyn. Her brows were furrowed, her sharp gaze brimming with impatience.
“My office. Now,” Jessalyn ordered, her voice sharp and commanding.
Her eyes didn’t leave Irene, as though she feared the pirate might slip away. Irene exchanged a quick glance with Blade, then walked toward Jessalyn.
Table of Contents
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- Page 22
- Page 23 (Reading here)
- Page 24
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- Page 28
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