Fortune has no choice but to favor the last ones standing.

- EMPEROR ANGELO THE AVENGER, FIRST OF HER NAME

THE GODS HAD NEVER FAVORED ARATHIS DELAWAR.

He knew this as a fact.

And also because Hades told him.

But it was a mistake to trust a God.

The God of the Underworld, his face a grotesque patchwork of shifting souls and cruel dark orbs beneath the cage of his helm, was a horrifying sight. Gods often were, although mortals often eluded themselves into thinking the Olympians beautiful. No, Gods were monsters, just like the values they symbolized.

Death. A dark drapery swooped itself around Hades’ skin - a twisting of loose robes - and the Helm of Darkness emanated an aura of more than just death - the feathery wings of a fear-bird bloomed in Arathis’ stomach, an emotion that Arathis usually never knew but relished in.

“My Liege.” The words were said breathily, yet with a hint of wicked glee that destroyed the respectful connotation’s purpose.

Hades’ eyes narrowed, the abyss-like gaze peering into more than just Arathis’ soul, evaluating his existence itself. You.

“Yes, me,” the Forsaken agreed.

The irreverent Chosen.

The walker of my path.

You.

Arathis let a smile come to his face, and it was easy. The horror felt in his bones, the panic and terror that crept up on his skin that was more than just emotion, it was a certainty that he was in the face of a true God. Oh, how interesting it all was. A shiver down his spine.

“Yes, me,” the puppeteer repeated.

The Lord of Death blinked, a human action belonging to an inhuman being.

What do you want?

The words echoed with the finality of someone asking their victim for their last words.

A question that would’ve sounded irritatedly snappish if it came from any other, a question that would’ve warranted a sarcastic answer from any other. But Hades was not any other God, and Arathis didn't consider himself as any other Chosen. The want was laced with a vaguer definition than desire, but Gods were Gods, and Arathis was not one, so what was the use of trying to understand one?

Being a God wasn’t nearly interesting enough, to the Forsaken.

“I desire to live by my will.” It was a diplomatic answer for an un-diplomatic person like himself, but people had never classified Arathis into any one category. Or, at least, they had never classified him correctly.

A strange desire, for an Oathbreaker.

Arathis’ smile grew wider at the use of the title he despised.

“A common desire, for a human,” he conceded.

Why were Oaths made, if not to be broken? The whispers at night from those who had died by his promises never got a reaction from him - if he was a better person, perhaps, they would’ve haunted his dreams.

The girl who had trusted him so blindingly, the Chosen who had taken him as an dispensable meat shield of a foreign healer from the depths of Tartarus, and the killer that Arathis had fashioned out of their imagination.

And so Arathis had played on their paranoia, played them all with his words, and played with them to their shallow graves.

And it was so, very intriguing.

Your tongue should be cut.

“If for the sole reason that it is powerful, My Liege, what of the Gods?”

The pale-haired Forsaken looked the God of the Underworld in the eyes, the playful expression still on his features.

Impudent, reprimanded the Olympian, yet his tone was still even. There was no reaction, not a glimmer of amusement nor hatred.

You have not used your Ability once, Hades noted. What should I take it as?

Most said the Gods did not ask questions, nor did they provide answers.

The Lord of Death was not called Death for a good reason, for that was Thanatos. The Trickster who had lured his wife with a mere pomegranate, a distant entity that meddled not in mortal affairs yet did not allow what was his to be taken. Hades’ embrace was not an embrace, his existence a horrifying truth that one could master Death but could not escape it.

Arathis blinked.

“I dare not tell my liege what he should think,” he said, “but I myself am quite proud.”

Proud of your self-reliance?

“Proud of the fact that I do not need the Gods to fulfill my desires.” Arathis couldn’t see the God’s full face beneath the gnarled surface of the metal helm, but Hades’ eyes flickered with an almost hideous emotion that sent shivers down Arathis’ spine. It was not anger, nor it was hate or amusement. Again.

Arathis was tempted, just a bit, to try and see the strings attached to the Lord of the Underworld - discover the desires, motivations of the legendary figure that was one of the three Sovereigns.

But then his temptation was fought over by his pragmatism, and the fact that his death wouldn’t be very interesting. Besides, he had something new to play with.

I have killed for less, said the other.

“That means that your tolerance has grown,” answered Arathis. If it was another beside him - Josephine, Cyrus, maybe even Orion and that-very-interesting Seraphina - they would’ve cautioned him not to antagonize a God.

No, that was incorrect - if Arathis wasn’t in the way of most of their desires, they would’ve cared enough to warn him not to antagonize a God.

But warnings were unnecessary, the whole dance of words unnecessary and useless, because the Olympian knew, and the Forsaken knew Hades knew. And most unnecessary things weren’t interesting enough for Arathis to indulge in them.

And so Arathis pressed, “what do you want?”

The Empire’s Verses said that if a servant was cruel, the master was crueler, and Imperial sayings - for all their depressingly brutal wisdom - were, for the most part, true.

Thatanos was not cruel. Death was ugly, and scarcely interesting, but it wasn’t cruel.

Hades, on the other hand, was both interesting and horrifying, and so Arathis had decided to accept his patronage. When the Sovereign of the Deep offered his hand, one acceptance was all it took to transform a runaway Forsaken into an Imperial Prince.

One acceptance was all it had taken.

Do not ask the Gods when you know the answer.

Finality, which meant that Hades would be leaving.

Most would say there had been no purpose to the entire meeting. Hades had not insulted or praised him, or imparted any profound words of wisdom that weren’t in reply to Arathis’ provocations.

But then they would be wrong.

Farewell, Oathbreaker.

And so Arathis watched the gaze glimmer, and with a whirl of the God’s robes the void-dream was dispelled. The puppeteer was left once again on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The smile on his face vanished, his expression a blank slate as Arathis Delawar blinked.

Why were Oaths made, if not to be broken?

Castor the Dockworker frowned. Of all the people he had gotten himself involved with, he just had to get involved in matters of the fucking Imperials. And worse, two of them were fucking interested in him.

The late thirties hadn't been kind to him - he had been cursed with a sailor’s mouth, a brusque temper, and an orphan from the south Cardinal Stronghold of Notus.

There were four Cardinal Strongholds in the Empire, each situated in a cardinal direction, along with the two Strongholds of Old. Notus, the South Wind, was a place that Castor'd liked to forget.

But there was no use in thinking about the past, when the present that Castor was in meant that he was fucked. Very, very fucked.

Just handle the crates, Nero had said. It’s a big shipment, but it’s nothing important. Castor had noticed Nero’s sweaty palms when he’d said that, but Castor had blamed it on the heat. The Docks were always humid, and the position of a Piermanager was anything but relaxing, and so Castor had ignored it.

A mistake, ignoring things. You’d think a couple years of working in the East Quarter would’ve hammered the sayings of the Fishers - trust no one in this Empire, they said, least of all the person who rules it - but Castor had never wanted to indulge himself in such paranoia.

At least, until now.

The second-in-line to the Golden Throne of the Empire Eoina was sitting right in front of him, and Castor had no idea what to do.

For a week, Orion and Cyrus had played their games, and finally Castor had enough. It was a test, Castor had realized, as the Minotaur had appeared in front of him and Castor chose to cower behind Orion. Cyrus was a warm person, friendly to Castor, but his smile had cracked that moment and immediately the Dockworker had been discarded.

“Cyrus feels betrayed,” remarked the solitary prince.

The Second Imperial Prince lounged on the ragged couch of the Dockworker’s room. Orion Queenscage - but the second the last name had escaped Castor’s lips, the Victor had nocked an arrow and smiled that tranquil half-smile. A threat.

Orion liked him, Castor knew, but still the prince with the bow was a Chosen of Artemis and a Victor of the Cage.

Castor blinked. “He shouldn’t,” the Dockworker said mildly. “But, if you’ll have my honest opinion-” Orion gave a nod “-that was a stupid test - crown, wreath, and tome considered -and I would appreciate it if you left me alone.”

Orion didn’t seem offended, as he gave a laugh.

“You can’t see them?” the archer laughed, his amber eyes meeting Castor’s own.

Immediately, the Dockworker’s reflexes tensed, as the Fishers’ nagging echoed in his ears. Min empistévesai kanénan se aftín tin aftokratoría, Castor reminded himself of the Fishers as he stared into those predatory eyes.

An Imperial Prince of the Empire Eoina certainly counted among those Imperial.

“No, I don’t,” the man said, tentatively. “What ‘them’ do you mean?”

The prince stoically grinned - if there was ever such an expression - amusedly. His neutral expression was carved on his light brown skin, and he was admittedly handsome in the kind of way that aging Huntsmen were.

Perhaps it was treason, to compare the prince to a commoner, but the prince looked like a Woodsman’s son - dark hair and tanned muscles, his calluses were the only indication to his almost forty years of age.

The only things that made him seem out of place was the expensive tunic on his person that was likely worth more drachmas than Castor would ever be paid, and bow with the quiver of arrows that always seemed to be strapped to his back.

“You are being watched,” said Orion, “by my...siblings.” The eyes of the prince flickered. “I have returned from a gathering, and it seems your place has been leaked. If I know them well - and I’ve known most of them for at least five years - Josephine’s Guards are all over your place. With no doubt, Arathis has his eye on you already and Seraphina’s Scouts are probably scouring the Docks for your location right this very second.”

Castor spluttered. “Excuse me?”

He had already met two Queenscages, which was more than a thousand lifetimes of Imperial royals he’d ever care to see. Both had seemed equally dangerous, and Castor cared not for the fact that he entertained them, rather more for the fact that he would die no matter what he did.

The Dockworker had been sent to supervise the other Workers carrying the crates, and Nero’s sweaty, nervous figure had been spotted by a mysterious cloaked man. Castor would’ve been properly content with pretending that he didn’t see anything, if one of the other Workers hadn’t tripped and let the crate’s contents scatter all over the harbor’s ground.

And then Castor got involved in fucking high treason, and of course the Morai didn’t let him pretend like he didn’t see anything.

Rifles and knives made of Stygian steel - Forsaken-made weapons - were what had been in the crates. Orion had come shortly after, the first one to discover it, and it had all blown up from there.

“Yes,” the prince responded, drily, “it’s quite a messy family affair, isn’t it?"

The way Orion said family reminded Castor of the way that the Dockworkers said Harbormasters - they inevitably encountered each other, were associated with one another and had some mutual agreement of not bothering each other, but were still in the way of each other’s jobs.

Family.

Queenscages weren’t blood-related, Castor remembered just the surname of Victors who survived the Cage and earned a claim to the Throne. Victors were powerful, the myths whispered, the Chosen of the Gods. The ones who could manipulate the will of the Anothen’s sky with their Abilities.

But the fact that Orion seemed so remarkably solid startled Castor.

It was hard to believe the legends of mortals when you were one yourself.

After all, humanity was an ugly thing.

“Are they going to kill me?” A mere Dockworker who had stumbled upon a secret, and the war-hardened royals who hungered after the Throne. Death was an inevitable conclusion.

“You and your pragmatic words,” observed Orion, “it really makes me wonder about your past.” A glint, and then it disappeared.

You wouldn’t want to, replied Castor internally.

But then the prince continued leisurely, “No, maybe not kill. They might abduct you, since they’ve caught on to my attachment to you, but it really does depend which of my siblings get ahold of you.”

Castor blinked. “It would help,” the Dockworker said slowly, “if you expanded on that particularly unsettling conclusion.”

Orion snorted quietly, but he did it with an unusually regal grace, which flummoxed the poor Dockworker greatly.

“If Cyrus gets ahold of you, he might not do much because his feelings are hurt and he probably still likes you,” pointed out the archer. Castor winced. He had thought it was a lingering admiration, and it made him feel a bit guilty. He was feeling guilty, hurting a Chosen’s feelings? “If it’s Josephine, though, she’ll seduce you and likely succeed in making you spill everything.” Orion snorted. “Youngsters these days.”

Imperial Princess Josephine Queenscage, Castor placed, the Ninety-Eighth Victor. Chosen of Aphrodite and...was it fourth in line to the Golden Throne? But rumors of her beauty resembling the heavens had spread to every corner of the Empire. Gods, there were even poems about her. Castor sighed. The Dockworker was deeply in over his head, and the look on Orion’s face meant the Prince knew.

“If it’s Arathis, he’ll turn you into his pet and twist your mind so you trust him completely - and then he’ll discard you if he no longer finds you interesting,” continued Orion, almost on a roll, “trust me, he’s much smarter than he looks. If it’s Seraphina, though…” The archer pondered for a second. “She’ll give you a quick death, since she’s still green off the Cage,” Orion decided, “if you were of use to her...after she uses you like a Soldier in one of her Crown games, of course, if my impressions are true.”

Castor resisted the urge to gulp.

Legends were legends, after all.

There had been dissent, to foreigners winning two of the six Cages that had occurred during the current Emperor’s reign. One Forsaken, of all regions outside of the Empire, from the Union of the Forbidden, Tartarus. Castor hadn’t heard many good things about the half-Republica Cyrus, either, but he had turned out to be alright.

But, based on Orion’s descriptions, the others didn’t seem very appealing.

The most recent winner, Seraphina from the ducal Marksman family, seemed like the best shot. Seventeen, young, slightly more naive and less dangerous? Castor dared to hope.

“Highlander, though…” Orion’s amber eyes gleamed again, like a hawk. “If you see even a trace of Greta the Great-” Orion paused, and his lips quirked as if this moniker were the amusing thing on the continent “-you will die. It’s more a matter of how and when.” Matter-of-fact.

The archer met his eyes - for all that the Castor thought himself mature for his thirty-some years of age, this peer suddenly seemed like a God who had accumulated millenia of wisdom. But then Castor remembered that the Queen’s Cage selected Chosen only above sixteen, with no strict requirements, so the Dockworker supposed, with the right ointments...

“Right.” Castor nodded, trying not to find wrinkles in the Prince’s face. Gods, how did he keep his skin so smooth? “But what was that about Imperial Princess Josephine surrounding me again?”

The former noble tried to be polite, like his parents - adoptive parents, he internally corrected - had taught him, with all the courtesy he could muster,

“My sister has Guards all over your place,” the archer repeated. “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed. They’ll probably report back to her if you even piss a brighter yellow than usual - and then she’ll use that as some kind of alluring fantasy.” A coarse comparison, but Castor had the feeling it was true.

Well, that was fucking scary.

Castor, formerly of Notus, tried not to gulp again, and gave a shaky smile.

“Right.”

And so Before, there was a ruler and a subject.

One day, the Ruler stood out on their balcony, and looked out on their city, their nation of glory, and decided to descend upon their people to observe, and watch.

“In glory and in ruin,” they decided, “I will accept all the same. For they are my people, and so the Gods have ordained.”

A cloak they donned and a mask they wore, and so the Ruler slipped into the ranks of their people, in disguise. Light were their steps and steady were their smiles, and they stopped at a Fisher’s booth, and asked, “O kind Fisher, what do you speak of the Ruler?”

The Fisher looked at their gloves, golden-embroidered, and of suspicion he replied, “The Ruler is glorious, and brings light to our kingdom.”

The Ruler, heart light with praise, nodded to the Fisher and continued to the Tradeplace, where they encountered a wealthy Merchant. And so the Ruler asked again, “O kind Merchant, what do you speak of our Ruler?”

The Merchant looked at them, and of suspicion she replied - for the Ruler had not disguised their golden boots - “The Ruler is wise, and provides knowledge to our kingdom.”

The Ruler, head light with praise, nodded to the Merchant and continued to the Slums. There they saw horror inflicted upon their Subjects, but still they observed, and so melancholic singled out a single Subject with eyes of dark.

“O kind Subject, what do you speak of our Ruler?”

The Subject smiled and answered, “The Ruler is blind to the sins of their Subjects, but those of power usually are, for they are the bringers of Justice.”

The Ruler was surprised, and asked, “Why so?”

Ignoring the question, the Subject continued, “The Ruler is also deaf, to the cries of their Subjects, but those in power usually are, for they cannot hear all.”

The Ruler, struck, asked again, “Why so?”

Ignoring the question, the Subject continued yet again, “And last of all, the Ruler is mute, for those in power usually are, but they are the soldiers of Gods.” And so his dark eyes peered into the Ruler’s own, “And so, Fair Ruler, I grace you with the most holy light of all - the truth. And lo may you bear it, for our nation - whether in glory or in ruin.”(...)

And so I watched my Tutor as she finished the fairy tale’s fragment.

I studied Medeia, and I cursed internally that the only Hint my Ability gave me was that she was having a bad morning. She was always having a bad morning.

“Thoughts,” the Tutor ordered.

“Lessons, or thoughts?” Laced with snark, I regretted it as Medeia’s eyes gleamed and the dagger in her hand plunged into my shoulder. I didn’t hiss - the pain I had gotten used to, even before the Cage - but I glanced at the embedded blade.

It wasn’t too deep or shallow, and Medeia missed the vital arteries on purpose, but the blood was irritating. Stains were irritating.

I couldn’t reach for it, since my hands were bound, but I pretended to think.

“The Ruler was stupid,” I pointed out, “for not disguising their boots or gloves. If they really wanted an honest response, they would’ve pressed further - they’re sheltered, too, for not knowing that not a single Merchant’s a patriot.” I smiled, but still the Tutor remained unfazed, her gaze undaunting.

“The Ruler’s first mistake was stepping out of their palace at all,” I said.

“Do you say this because you know the story’s end?” Medeia pressed.

“I say this because to not know the sentiment of your own citizens means that there are snakes whispering them in your ear instead.” I shrugged, which was difficult to do with my hands tied. “Unless you snap them by the spine, they’ll always be there. No - the Ruler’s first mistake was not getting rid of the people polluting their palace.”

I met Medeia’s now-satisfied smile. “And that’s why they’re dead.”

Accompanied by my lady-in-waitings and an entourage of Guards, I massaged my wrists and glanced at my now-bandaged shoulder. Yesterday’s tea party was a mistake. And I didn’t like mistakes. Mercy’s Scouts had reported the following morning after a small operation - there had been a Dockworker, a shipment that went awry, and it was likely I myself would have to confront the Piermanager in charge.

I stopped to greet a noble passerby just as my eyes flickered. My Ability hummed - gunpowder flecks on her wrists, twitching eye, heading towards Cyrus’ Residence - “Ah, Lady Roxane.” I smiled.

Something about it evidently made her wary, as Cyrus’ minion halted and bowed higher than what was considered polite. You’d think she’d gotten used to me the three months I’d been here, but no, Lady Roxane Evlogia had never been the warm type. She disliked me. I couldn't say I was surprised.

“Ah, Princess Seraphina.” She blinked.

One lady-in-waiting corrected her, “Imperial Princess Seraphina.”

Gods, I knew they weren’t useless after all. I made a mental note to interact with them more.

Roxane ignored her, as was custom when you considered someone a lesser.

“How is Cyrus?” I asked evenly, “I’ve heard he’s been up to quite something in the Docks. Especially after that unfortunate incident with the shipment and that Dockworker, it’s best he focus on...emotionally recuperating.”

The red-haired duchess’ daughter was cautious. “Right, that unfortunate incident.” She tested the word out, looking in my eyes to see what I knew.

Fun.

I only continued smiling tranquilly, adding, “Please, tell my brother that my door is always open. And as is the invitation.” There had been no such invitation, and Roxane and Cyrus knew that, but I continued.

"Siblings shouldn’t fight. At the end of the day, we all love each other." I sighed. "I only hope that Older Brother keeps that in mind."

I was lying through my teeth there, and Roxane fighting to keep the incredulity out of her gaze meant she knew. “As new as I am to the family, I also hope he and Oldest Brother make up soon.”

My lips almost twitched - if my lie were any more bald-faced, I could prance around and do away with my hair too, I thought.

Lady Roxane nodded. “I’ll be sure to convey your...concerns to Lord Cyrus.”

Concerns. I almost snorted.

I had much more things in store for Lady Roxane than just conveying concerns.

After she passed me by, I whispered to one of my smarter ladies-in-waiting, “Lady Roxane might run into a spot of trouble...It would really be a pity if her reputation in the social circles was blemished.”

The lady-in-waiting nodded - Alyssa, a count’s daughter, I remembered - and I used my Ability on her. As no Hints of any malevolence appeared, aside from the usual noble greed, I sent her off on her way.

“Tell Lady Mercy to meet me at the dress-shop,” I said. “Reconvene with Celeste after the orphanage visit.” I had gotten Mercy adopted by a baron, with some of the money my father gave me not to associate myself with the Marksman name.

Smuggling Mercy into the palace had been no small feat, especially recruiting Scouts as well as establishing a front business that hid the Seraphs, but it had been accomplished.

The lady-in-waiting who I had referred to rushed off, and I was left with two.

It had taken a couple of weeks and more than a couple stumbles, but the Seraph - Mercy insisted that it sounded alright, but it was quite obvious that I was behind it what with the shared name - was now rooted in the capital.

I had one of my Seraphs, the ever-so-dependable Macedon, on the task; he managed to con his way to - I mean, secure a meeting with Nero, one of the supervising personnel of the shipment that had gone awry.

There were three possibilities for why Cyrus had chosen a more low-key dock: one - it was illegal, and smaller Piers were easier to deceive with the right papers; two - it was bait, for a fish much bigger than just Orion; and three…

Well, let’s just hope it wasn’t three, because that meant that Cyrus was more than just a powerful lightning freak.

But, of course, it likely was three.

“Alia, run through my schedule,” I said briskly, “and Celeste, go to the Physician again for some more healing balm.” The golden-haired latter scurried away, while the dark-haired former rattled off events.

“Today’s Daystart’s composed of Your Highness’ Imperial Politics lessons-”

“-Which I’ve just finished,” I said airily.

“-And accompanied by that would be your Dayhept visit to the orphanage-”

After throwing off my guards, it would be just an interrogation session.

“-And after that would be a visit to the boutique for the envoy’s visit-”

Click.

“What did you just say?” I interrupted.

Alia blinked, surprised. “A...visit to the boutique for the envoy’s visit next week?”

Republica envoy. Cyrus’ half-Republica, hates his noble family to the point of no return. Dockworkers. He’s trying to mess it up, I considered. But what’s inside the crates? What discovery would hurt the Republic’s relationship with the Empire?

My Ability whispered, Enemy.

And so I hurried to the Docks.

Gods, Cyrus, what are you doing with the Union? I whispered.

Revenge, whispered my Ability, as an answer to my question.

All is consumed in the pursuit of revenge.