(ã). Op. 20 ACT II︐
They thought they had locked her away. Behind velvet walls and silken chains, they caged a girl with swanblood in her veins Karenita Odileia Jadester, though those who dared speak her name whispered only Karen. She was no helpless maiden. No fragile muse. She was the black swan, gliding where moonlight feared to rest.
They mistook her grace for gentleness. Mistook her silence for surrender. But Odile was never meant to be saved. She was the illusion — the pirouette before the plunge, the enchantress in feathers of midnight, the girl who smiled while spinning the end of the fairytale.
Books were her refuge, but also her mirror — each page a reflection of lives she never lived, or perhaps once ruled. Music pulsed in her like magic, like memory, like prophecy. Poetry? It poured from her in soft curses and sweet ruin. She stitched her soul in every stanza, danced to symphonies no one else could hear. She did not escape the cage. She transformed it — into a stage.
And so she warned: do not approach the lake if your hands carry hate. Under legal age, Zionist, 02 voter, racism, homophobia — none will pass the threshold.
They say if you listen closely, you’ll still hear her.
A soft rustle of feathers. A laugh behind glass. The echo of heels across a forgotten stage. They thought she was a story. A performance. A trick.
But in truth — she was the ending. And no one ever saw it coming.