Once bitten, make them pay three times the price.

- FORSAKEN PROVERB

HONOR. LOYALTY. PRESTIGE.

Praetor Julian Romanus had known these words for as long as he could remember.

To maintain honor was to maintain the grace of House Roma. To maintain honor was to make it so your own name and the House’s was accompanied by fanfare and glory, to guard the image of the Consul and the Republic.

Honor came in many forms, in ruthlessness and in mercy, and Julian was taught to never betray it. Prioritize the whole over self. The House over the individual. The Republic over the citizen. That was what he was taught.

There was a difference between a Republica and a Roma, just as there was a difference between the plebeians and the patricians. Branch Romanus, of House Roma, were a long, long lineage of Heroes. Every drop of Julian Romanus’ blood was blue and true, and so he wasn’t surprised when the second he marched into the streets of Honos, he was the target of fervent gazes.

To return from war was familiar.

The horse’s breathing pulsed under Julian’s legs, and he rode the pale stallion alongside the placed war flags, all painted the Republic’s vibrant crimson, his armor clinking as he moved. The platin metal was uncomfortable, but it was familiar, and as were the loud chants amongst the raucous music.

“Praetor! Praetor! Praetor!”

“Romanus! Romanus! Romanus!”

“Grace and honor to the Republic!”

Julian had heard curses of the Empire ring out, too, composed of curses that it was the Republic that were the ones fighting the monsters while the Empire did nothing but laze around. Julian begged to differ, however - their neighbors participated in a competition far more brutal than war, but of course he didn’t let the opinion escape his lips.

For it would stain his honor.

It would stain House Roma’s honor.

And so the procession continued, his Romulus Army behind him, and Julian remained silent. As it slowed, Julian’s hands gripped tighter on the reins and pulled at Ralla’s neck, and the horse whinnied, and performed a move the praetor’s instructor called a levade.

As Ralla stayed there with dramatic precision, the Praetor of Romulus performed a military salute to the masses, which was met with an uproar, and so Julian Romanus, Son of Marcellus, Son of Octavian, headed towards the castle.

_____________________________________________________________________________

“That was dramatic,” commented his father.

Consul Marcellus Romanus had been handsome in his military campaign days, a fact that Julian’s mother never seemed to tire of repeating. Perhaps it was a justification for marrying a ruthless monster. Silver was gnawing at the dark hair on the Consul of Romulus’s temple, and the purple of the Senate robes the Consul wore gleamed in the sunlight the same way a trophy did. Badges after badges of military achievements glinted on his father’s chest, framed with gold and years of war with the Union.

Some of them Julian himself had gotten, but there was only the five-rayed star that he eyed for longer than necessary.

“It was needed.” Julian was careful not to phrase it as a protest, or a justification. Justifications were only needed when you questioned your decisions. “Things are getting messy at the border, Your Consulship. High morale makes all the difference.”

The Consul of Romulus inclined his head. “Please, indulge me, Praetor of Romulus.” Indulge me. Not report, not a command, yet still spoken in that iron tone that he adopted when engaging in conversation with his subordinates.

It was easier destroying Minotaur caves than speaking with his father.

“The Agamemnon of the Union has always been at odds with the Clytemnestra, as Your Consulship is aware of,” said Julian, carefully, “however, just a week ago, a Forsaken unit of thirty thousand that was supposedly stationed at Tartarus marched towards the border and established a temporary fortress there."

A pause.

"It seems like the result of an argument," the praetor continued, "the outcome of it being a permanent stronghold is uncertain, but not out of the question." A beat. Julian tried not to observe his father’s expression as he trudged on. “Intelligence suggests that it was dispatched due to the growing horde of monsters, and to reduce the numbers on their side.”

“And so we’re cooperating, indirectly, with the Forsaken,” the Consul mused. He peered at Julian. “Have you discovered what exactly is causing the new Waves?”

“As we know, monsters only spawn from two Sources-”

“The Third Isle of the Empire, and the Union,” his father finished, lazily. “I know. Get to the point, Praetor.”

The boy-praetor maintained his calm expression. “It seems,” Julian said, as gingerly as he could while cradling the information, “that the Source in Dark Forest on the Union’s side of the border is...enlarging.”

A pause.

“Analysts have come up with a theory, based on past observations,” he continued. If his father hadn’t wanted to hear the rest of it, he would’ve stopped Julian. “As we know it, the Source is a gap between the part of the Underworld that harbors dead monsters, and our world, and the ‘portal’ between it resurrects them. The Forsaken call it 'the Glorydark.'"

The praetor felt the worlds spill from his lips. "But, on instances where people who bring death with them rise to power, the Waves seem to increase. That has been observed in the examples of Emperor Lysimachos, the Agamemnon Cesas, the election of the Consul Maximus-"

“Are other members of the Senate aware of this fact?” Of course, his father was referring to the gaggle of patricians along the other Praetor and Consul that oversaw the Republic.

“The Praetor of Romus,” answered Julian, trying not to let his dislike seep through.

His father’s snow-tinged eyebrows furrowed. “And Valerius, too, by now.” And sothe Consul disappeared and was replaced by the general, who gave his son one last, final order.

“I will ask the Senate for an audience. You will come forward.”

______________________________________________________________________________

Julian never liked patricians - which was ironic, since he was one himself. The noble blue-bloods of Republica society were either obsessed with wine or whichever gender they took their fancy to, and most of them had never known war. Some of them were smart enough, but…

“I volunteer Julian Romanus as a replacement for Patrician Hortensia.”

“I concede.”

“I concede.”

“I deny.”

“I concede.”

“I concede.”

Julian didn’t let his face show any of the irritation that was blooming in his chest. Of course it was a ploy - every word that came out of his father’s lips were a ploy. But Julian couldn’t deny that Consul Marcellus cared for House Roma’s honor more than Julian himself did.

Honor.

After the “I concede”s and “I deny”s ended, his father shot a bemused look at Consul Valerius, who looked mildly disgruntled as Julian’s father announced, “The Senate has decided. Praetor of the Romulus Regiment of the Legion, Julian Maximus Romanus, you are now instated as temporary envoy. You set off tomorrow, and your arrival to the Empire Eoina should take place in a week.”

Honor. Loyalty. Prestige.

Praetor Julian Romanus had known these words for as long as he could remember.

Diplomacy?

It would be a nice break.

The Agamemnon Vitejie Aundray always hated his predecessors.

Take Cesas, for example. Cesas the Foolish, the Minotaur-Assed, the Impotent - you could take your pick of his many titles.

Also of House Vitejie - his great-great-granduncle, Aundray remembered with a wince.

The bullheaded Agamemnon who locked his Clytemnestra in a cell, started a coup, and tried to storm into the Dark Forest to conquer the Glorydark in the name of Kronos. Of course, he had gotten nearly a good third of the Union’s population killed - but, then again, after the Escapade, Cesas’ Clan of House Vitejie had never recovered.

Which was how Aundray’s Clan, the Aun, had risen to power.

Aundray didn't like the Aun much, either, so he was no hypocrite - too many Kato missionaries, and for sure much too many messy religious, anti-Anothen disputes that led to the mostly Kato supremacist result that made up the Clan today. Most - if not all - of those who resided in the Union believed in the Titans and were Kato, disdaining the Olympians and the Imperials while tolerating the Republica, who opened their borders to both Beliefs.

Again, this made it highly impractical for diplomatic negotations.

But it wasn’t as if Aundray particularly preferred his contemporaries, either - he spent most of his days fighting with them, in fact, with House Desarta - the Clytemnestra’s family - the Clytemnestra’s goons, the Clytemnestra- The more he thought about it, the more Aundray realized that the root of his problems were all related to the woman in front of him.

“Vitejie Aundray,” she greeted as she slid into the seat.

Not, Your Majesty, the Agamemnon - not even Aundray, his first name.

Aundray, who had been about to say, Your Majesty, the Clytemnestra on impulse suddenly snapped his mouth shut. “Desarta Aceline,” he returned, coolly.

The conflict hadn’t been his fault, anyway - Aceline had refused to budge on the Glorydark, like most of her ilk of House Desarta, calling the Glorydark a “religious monument sent by the Imprisoned Titans in Tartarus” like it wasn’t the source spawning the monsters that had plagued the Dark Forest for centuries.

The only thing good about it was that the monsters were a source of food.

Aundray sighed, internally.

He sometimes wondered where the Aceline from his childhood went - or, more specifically, when the Clytemnestra Desarta had taken her place.

Cool-headed and ruthless, Aundray’s fellow monarch as designated by the Dark Below was an almost unshakeable presence. Gone were her bright smiles when Aundray showered her with gifts from when Imperial Concocters and Physicians came, and gone were the craggy tree-pieces that she brought as bouquets to him.

Now, there was only the icy, dark-eyed woman that refused to budge on matters as simple as what to have for dinner, and who dressed in sacred colors like black and gold every day.

Black and gold were wedding and mourning colors.

The Agamemnon and the Clytemnestra weren’t married, no - it wasn’t as simple as designated ‘King’ and ‘Queen.’ Aundray heard that people from other continents often liked to classify one gender as weaker, that they - well, at least their delegations - thought there was a difference between the two titles.

The Union was a dyarchy just as the Empire was ruled by the Emperor, and the Republica’s Senate were asses with egos the size of Minotaurs.

Aundray took a fork and speared a nearby harpy gizzard, plopping it in his mouth as the Clytemnestra pursed her lips.

“Delawar Arathis,” she said, finally.

Aundray raised an eyebrow. “The Prince?” There was a trap in every one of Aceline’s words, and he wouldn’t let the fact that he had won a small victory get to him.

“See, even you see him as an Imperial Prince and not one of us,” Aceline pointed out, sipping wine out of a chalice. “Our relations with the Republica with the platin trade are going smoothly, but the Empire’s diplomatic relationship with us is strained, and-”

“Commerce and trade are your department,” Aundray reminded.

“But diplomacy is yours,” Aceline corrected.

Minotaur’s arse.

“I’m assuming this has something to do with the fact that you refuse to acknowledge the problem of the Glorydark?” Aundray asked, letting spite color his tone just a bit as he gulped another gizzard down with a cup of wine.

Aceline said evenly, “This isn’t just the Glorydark at stake, Aundray, it has religious connotations that-”

“You mean to say,” the Agamennon replied, “that because of your Clan’s Beliefs, you endanger our people?” Aundray felt his words cold, almost bitterly so. He met his childhood friend’s eyes and pushed the statement forward. “I will not let you do so.”

“Aundray-” Aceline corrected herself after seeing the look in his eyes, “No, Your Majesty the Agamemnon-”

“I can tolerate,” the dark-skinned Agamemnon said quietly, his pale Forsaken hair glistening under the light of the Dome, “the fact your Clan is behind the genocide of the Anothen amongst the people. I can tolerate the fact that Clan Ace manipulates our people and their Beliefs. I tolerate this because I see the benefits, and tolerate the demerits.”

Aceline was waiting for him to finish.

“But I cannot tolerate,” Vitajie Aundray enunciated, his voice steely, “that you prioritize your beliefs over the Union’s people. We are equals, Clytemnestra. We test each other, that is our nature - but we work to rule the people, not serve ourselves.”

And so the Agamemnon left the room in a whirl and a flash, leaving a half-eaten plate of harpy gizzards behind, as the Clytemnestra Desarta Aceline whispered,

“Are you watching, Those Below? This is what happens when a man of science exists to rule, not serve.”

“You don’t look very unique,” I said, honestly.

The Dockworker blinked. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he replied cautiously.

Of course, I said that he didn’t look very unique, but then again I spent my days usually seeing a Chosen of Aphrodite. I had never been particularly good at describing beauty, and Josephine’s defined both the Sky Above and words, but the Dockworker was, admittedly, pretty.

Hard work had defined his pale muscles, lean under the afternoon - or was it evening? - light that streamed through his Livings’ windows. Pale blue eyes blinked beneath long eyelashes, and his face was a plain of gaunt, yet alluring angles. If he cleaned up, he would do very nicely.

But his demeanor was strange. The Dockworker seemed like a noble, in all but courtesy and name, and his formalities along with that familar rigid, measured posture hinted at a fine upbringing.

He was undoubtedly Imperial, though I heard not of a son his age from any recently fallen Noble House - if his House had fallen a long time ago, there was a possibility that his brow and hands would be beaten, and his eyes tired and weary. He was commanding, and regal, even when his body was crouched into a bow at the sight of me, and his cautious, measured words meant-

“I’m not going to be very polite,” I warned coldly. “Older and Oldest Brothers probably were as polite as they could be, and I will not be. Which fallen Noble House do you hail from?”

“None,” replied the Dockworker.

A stray twitch.

“If you tell one more lie, I’ll rip out your vocal cords, string them in a guitar, and play at your funeral to the tune of screams, as those who come to it and with any association to you are burned alive at the stake upon your shallow grave.”

One of my more creative threats.

“I hail from no Noble House.”

He believes it a half-truth, my Ability said.

“Were you adopted, then?” I inquired.

“Yes.”

It seemed like a truth, but his eyes, steady yet flickering, slow blinks. A mistruth.

It was the truth, but he believes it to be a lie because his heart believes that he was truly part of their family.

“Into which House, and what skills have you?”

“Geminin, and I know how to carry crates, and supervise people carrying crates,” said the Dockworker.

Geminin...was it that small barony near Notus? Better known for its trade caravans and routes, it was a wealthy merchant family that was given a noble writ, became a barony for a short while, and reportedly fell back on hard times and collapsed.

“Well, Castor Geminin of Notus, what brought you to the Isles?” I peered.

“My adopted mother migrated here after Geminin’s fall,” replied Castor, “and I work as a Dockworker - no more, no less. I’m quite sure that my life bears no interest to the Imperial royals.”

I snorted. “Godsbroken, Face Castor,” I swore mildly, “it would help if you cooperated. If I hurt you, Orion’ll come after me, I’ll be shot by a volley of arrows that just happened to be there, and my corpse’ll be hung on the Palace’s rooftops like some sick flag of glory. You’d like to see that, wouldn’t you?”

Familiarity by coarseness. Mildness, but not too mild. Power, but not overbearing. That was the best approach, my Hints told me.

Castor shifted. The edge of discomfort, intelligence, proud yet broken at the same time. He was on the floor, still in a bow, while Mercy was by my side.

“You’re trying to probe me, and see if you have a use for me,” he finally said. “I would prefer if I wasn’t used as a Crownpiece in one of your games, Your Highness.”

“Funny that you say that, really,” I said, my tone hardening just a bit, as I shifted into a more firm character. “Let’s make a bet. Are you a gambling man, Castor?” I discarded the courtesy.

“Not really,” said the Dockworker, “and I don’t play Crown, either, but I have a feeling that I don’t have a choice, Your Highness.”

“Good, trust your gut,” I approved as I gestured for Mercy to bring out the mini-Crownboard that we always brought around. As she set up the pieces on the small wooden table, I openly watched Castor’s reaction.

He obviously knew that she was an assassin, or of the stealthy sort, and I could see the Dockworker’s eyes scanning and picking apart Mercy’s quiet movements. Assessing. Well, at least he wasn’t stupid.

"Let’s play a game," I offered, "you win, I answer three questions. I win, you answer three questions."

“What makes you think that I’ll agree?”

“What makes you think that you won’t?” I challenged, quietly. “It’s just a game. The fate of the Empire doesn’t rest on whether you win or lose. We aren't the Morai.”

Castor’s eyes flickered, but he scuttled to the table with a sigh. “I guess so, Your Highness.”

As Mercy finished placing the final Queen, I slid down from the couch and onto the floor, so that the pieces were eye-level. My back ramrod straight as the former Geminin noble’s eyes blinked with surprise, I gestured. “Light starts.”

Then the Dockworker calmed, and he slid forward a Troop of Soldiers - a familiar cluster of metal-curved pieces huddling together - two Squareforwards, as they marched towards my Circle. A safe Opening move. Stable.

I placed a single Soldier four Squareforwards, freeing up my left Paladin and Actor, as I voiced my thoughts. “Wraith’s Opening. A nice choice. What’s a smart man like you doing with Stygian weapons, I wonder.”

“I don’t know much,” Castor grumbled, “and I’m not telling what I know, Your Highness. The archer’ll-”

“Feel betrayed like Cyrus was? You’ve only known him a week, and he feels hurt that you chose Orion. At first, I thought it was a lover that stabbed him in the back. You probably remind him of someone,” I concluded, as Castor made his next move. Another Troop of Soldiers.

“I didn’t choose anyone,” the Dockworker said in a tone half-way between a snap and a growl, although not directed at me. “They shoved me in front of a Minotaur, so I hid behind the archer since the other Prince didn’t seem to have as many weapons. Then after, the other Prince got all huffy.”

“Cyrus could’ve killed that Minotaur without using his Ability, so his reaction is understandable, if he really did like you. Orion could’ve killed that Minotaur without using his arrows or his Ability, so you probably made the right choice in terms of power, if that makes you feel better.”

I used an Actor to infiltrate the Troop’s ranks, and Castor’s frown deepened.

Castor admitted, “It doesn’t, but I’ll trust you, Your Highness.”

He couldn’t retaliate against the Actor unless the piece was ‘discovered,’ and Castor’s Soldiers were part of a Troop, which meant Discovering Squares were limited.

He finally conceded with gruffly shoving a Paladin forward to guard his Circle.

“A mistake, to do that,” I mused, “trust.” Even before I entered the Cage, that was a hard thing to find in the Empire. “Notus does have more Republica values, then, if I’m correct.” I used my Paladin to remove his guarding Paladin, which made the Dockworker’s eye twitch.

“If you mean all of them being bullheaded freaks who go on about honor and loyalty, you’re right. It’s a cultural difference, probably. The more Imperial you are, the less honor and loyalty you have,” Castor replied.

He hesitated, as he asked, “If it’s not too sensitive a question, what’s the Cage like?” A probe, two steps shy of a test. Backed by curiosity.

I let a smile flit across my lips. “Once the bars come down, it’s a bloodbath. And you can’t get out until there’s only one person left.” I didn’t let my memories start a spiral. I couldn’t.

“There’re traitors, and betrayers, who puppet and use their Abilities. There’re monsters in human skin,” I recounted calmly, faces slipping by, “innocents, and we run from the monsters, hide, and then kill each other simply because we are Chosen. The Chosen of the Gods are just glorified humans with powers. No more, no less - crown, wreath, and tome considered.”

I blinked, as I let my Ability slide the experience past. Spirals are bad, my Ability said. Yes, I agreed. Spirals are bad.

“But if you want me to talk about my memories there, I have no good ones. Good people I’ve met, perhaps, but no good memories.” I edged every single word with indifference, and didn’t let emotion leak into it. It was unnecessary, to provide more than what was needed. Or wanted, I thought, as I let my eyebrows dance mischievously.

“Is that one question?”

A mixture of emotions spread across Castor’s face - I could name all of them, shame, confusion, anger - and then they were quieted, as the Dockworker swore, his voice a whisper, “Godsbroken. Is that what every Victor has to go through?”

“We are called the Victors,” I said, eyeing Castor’s steady yet somewhat shaky hand reach towards a Crownpiece. “We win, we enter the Palace, and then we either win again, or die.” I shrugged. “My siblings and I are better than most,” I admitted, “we haven’t killed each other yet, because none of us really have the ambition or desire to be named Heir Designate. Well, maybe except Greta the Great.”

I considered the sentence for a bit, as I tried to Read his expression.

Pity.

Keep your feelings in check, my Ability reminded, as I continued.

“I don’t know how we were meant to turn out, but we keep each other in check,” I admitted. “We balance each other out, as green as I am, and we fit together.” At least, that’s what I’ve noticed. “We don’t trust each other, and some of us don’t like each other, but then again that’s what family’s for.” Don’t be too honest, I rebuked myself. Maybe it was Castor’s demeanor that made my lips loose.

You’re creating a lure, an established relationship, not a friend.

“But,” I concluded lightly, “we’re strangers, me and you. And, in the end, family can be strangers just as well.” I paused, snorting. “Don’t let my monologue disturb you, make a move.”

The Dockworker hastily did so, but obviously he was unsettled as I amusedly destroyed his Troop. And then Castor moved again, but it was silent. Everything was silent. I couldn’t even feel Mercy, and so I smiled.

This time it was cold and toothy, Caspian’s bone-chilling smile that he had taught me in all its unsettling glory. It was the smile I had flashed at people before I killed them, the smile he had worn before death.

I placed the waiting Paladin from the beginning into the Circle, and knocked the Dockworker’s Queen to the ground, stealing the crown.

I win.

“But I will kill them, if the need arises - and I’m sure the Gods will make that need very, very accessible.” I continued grinning, and met the former Geminin’s eyes. “So, Castor of Notus, what will it be?”

Emperor Nikephoros the Nightbidden had never been the best father.

The three Elysian Isles, and the Cardinal Fortresses, along with the strongholds of the Empire Eternal housed most of the continent’s most paranoid, treacherous traitors - it was almost endearing, the fact that the more backstabbing you did the closer you were to being a true patriot.

It was strange, how they were supposed to be the ones who Believed in the Olympians of old in all their might, the Twelve Thrones.

Those of the Empire were of the Anothen, but with all the tales and lore that saw the light prevail, the Emperor had yet to see an Imperial without a shred of darkness in them.

Even him.

Especially him.

Nikephoros remembered that before all this, before he had entered the Cage himself around fifty years ago, before he had become a Victor and had betrayed his own lawful siblings, he had been a Sailor’s son.

His mother had been a mighty Captain, his father the owner of an inn in the East Quarter, and they had been happy enough. But as the years piled on top of each other, and the grey slowly consumed the Emperor’s beard, Nikephoros’ memories of their faces became hazier.

But he did remember the fact that it had all started the day Hera had reached her hand to him. But the Emperor never liked to linger on that.

“Greta.” He frowned, the expression touching his brows just barely, as his fingers tightened around the scroll. “Do you have an explanation for why not one, but three of your younger siblings are involved in the making of Forsaken weapons?”

“Not three,” his daughter corrected, “just the one.”

All knew that the Emperor was a celibate, not by choice but by law, and that meant that for all the people like to proclaim that the Victors and the Emperor were a family, in truth they were and weren’t at the same time.

Before the others came, Greta and Orion were as close to children as the Emperor could get - they all had got on well enough, and ate meals together, inquired about each other’s days, and occasionally gave advice to each other on how to kill someone depending on their status.

The Emperor was sixty, now, and he was getting old - Greta was around forty, Orion in his late thirties, Cyrus in his early thirties, Josephine in her late twenties, Arathis in his early twenties, and finally the latest addition of Seraphina at seventeen.

When Cyrus had come, they all were fine; but with the additions of Josephine and Arathis, the Emperor had to admit that he had grown apart from them.

But for all their age differences, the Victors were said to address each other as siblings without any hesitation in the word.

Greta Highlander Queenscage, Nikephoros remembered, had been a stubborn grey-eyed teenager when she’d first entered the Palace. How his daughter had changed. Grown up. Although the fact still remained that she hated her nickname that Orion had given her as a child.

She spent weeks trying to poison him, the Nightbidden fondly recalled.

“Cyrus was the one who started it,” Dionysus’ Chosen explained. “And Orion discovered it, but did not say anything and aided him a bit. Arathis and Josephine found out, and hosted a tea party to interfere; but Seraphina unwittingly helped Cyrus and Orion, got wind of it, and reportedly set fire to the Pier where the shipment was sent.”

The Emperor looked slightly amused at the summary of events, but then a dark look passed across his face.

“Stygian metal is nothing to be trifled with,” he warned. “Cyrus shouldn’t be meddling with the Union’s gadgets unless he’s trying to cause trouble with the Republic’s envoys. And if he is, you must stop him.”

“But if it comes down to it, Father,” Greta said, “you might need to directly interfere.”

“Let’s hope it doesn't, then,” replied the ruler of the Empire. “How’re the envoy preparations going? Is everyone doing their lessons well? How’s the Army reforms coming along? I hear you got promoted to Major, too.”

Greta winced at the slowly-spoken questions. “The preparations are going well,” she answered the first, “I will need to finish coordinating clothes between us, and we will all be fine. Everyone is keeping up from their lessons..." she trailed off.

"Cyrus recently finished his course with good marks; the Army reforms are going a bit rockily, but not so much that I cannot handle it," she continued, "and yes, I am currently Major Highlander of the Imperial Army.” She paused.

“I only joined recently, but I will be deployed to Notus sometime soon, if the negotiations with the Republic go well.”

The Emperor of Eoina, sixty-year-old Nikephoros Adamos Queenscage of the First Isle, smiled. “I’m proud of you, daughter.”

The Chosen of Dionysus, the Ninety-Fifth Victor, Greta Highlander Queenscage of the First Isle, returned the gaze, but not the smile. “Thank you, Father.”

Cyrus Halgrove Queenscage of Boreas wasn’t sure what his youngest sister was doing.

“I’m sorry,” she said, not a flicker of remorse in her eyes or her words. “I didn’t mean to blow up your pier.”

Seraphina Marksman Queenscage’s gaze fluttered to the red-haired Lady Roxane’s triumphant look, and then clarified, “I’m saying sorry for the damage I caused, not the actions that made me do it. I’ll still be looking for the weapons, by the way. It’ll be a fun hunt.”

His youngest sister, Seraphina, was beautiful - not in that conventional sense, or the otherworldly way Josephine was, but in that wispy, sharp way that made you think twice about approaching her.

She never seemed all there - it was similar to the illusion of a blade at midnight that you thought was part of a dream, Cyrus found, before it broke through skin and you were dead, bleeding out on your bedroom floor.

Her eyes were a cold dark blue, not bright with life but glimmered with it still, because how could a dead person live? The orbs were piercing, almost all-knowing, flickering to Cyrus’ shifting hands like they were putting together some sort of thousand-piece puzzle, or reading a difficult tome.

They made him uncomfortable.

You could say that family meant nothing to the Third-in-Line - he was exiled by his Republica family, and had fled to the Empire, where he quickly took up an occupation as a small-time bandit, before the lightning had started to coarse through his veins and he came a Chosen of the God-King.

Being a Bandit was a simple life - not like the throes of deceit that the Palace revelled in. You threaten someone, take their money, and run away.

Here, you threatened someone, and they threatened you back - with an arsenal of information that they gathered through your traitors, more than one very shiny weapon, and glistened words you had no idea the meaning of.

“Fun?” Cyrus raised an eyebrow.

Family meant nothing, but the Imperial royals were his family by law and by decree, and so he indulged them. Revenge, however -

“You keep refusing to play Crown with me,” Seraphina pointed out. Her voice was laced with what the Prince recognized as her emotional equivalent of a childish pout. “It’s boring around here, so why not participate in a scavenger hunt to pass the time until you assassinate the Republic’s envoys?”

Roxane stiffened. Cyrus shot her a warning look. In front of the others - Seraphina, especially - even a tiny move wouldn’t escape their grasp. And so the Hundredth Victor’s blue eyes flickered, and she smiled. Cyrus almost flinched, again.

He was thirty one, and had been hardened as much as he could be through the Cage, his straightforward nature dwindling over the years. His Liege hadn’t visited him for many Daycycles, but the Prince could feel the startling yet familiar hum in the air.

Collect, and act.

He could summon Lightning. He could use the bolts to fry the Imperial Princess, set fire to her bones as the stark, powerful white light charged her with enough to burn her to ashes. The crackling in his veins and tingling of his spine could easily do so.

And he had tried to, when Seraphina had first arrived. But as if she had read his movements before he made them, she had easily dodged.

“Assassinate? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” replied Cyrus, calmly.

None of the Victors knew each other’s Abilities, though, even though Cyrus got the gist of what they could be used for. Orion’s was an archery Ability, one that likely provided him with perfect aim or made his arrows always hit his target.

Josephine’s was complicated, but likely increased either the love, affection, or lust of her target; Arathis hadn’t even used his Ability even once before, but since he was Hades’ Chosen Cyrus guessed something death related...

Seraphina was likely some kind of Analyst-type, prediction-related Ability; and Great - while she had arguably the most powerful, Cyrus himself shuddered at the insane - this was literal - Drawback.

Seraphina, however - her Drawback remained unknown, a fact of frustration for Cyrus. Collect and act, boy, Olysseus had said. The Bandit leader had slammed the lesson into him - Cyrus’ teenage years were spent as a thief, before His Liege the Lightning King picked him up and sent him to the Cage.

Collect information and act accordingly.

It was a sore point, the fact that Cyrus didn’t know.

“You’re an exile,” said Seraphina.

Exile. Exile. Exile.

“You are banished. You are unworthy.”

A hiss, a crack of the whip.

A storm.

Cyrus felt the familiar memories trickle in, and instantly the air turned electric. A distant rumble, as the storm brewed his storm. Exile. A storm. Unworthy. Crackle, his veins soared and sang, and he could remember the rain on his skin-

Roxane’s hand came down on his shoulder, and Cyrus could feel the humming in the air as his fingernails dug in the chair. Seraphina was observing. Anger rose.

“What did you say?” he hissed.

Exile. Exile. Exile.

“You are unworthy.”

A hiss, a crack of the whip.

A storm.

You are unworthy.

You are unworthy.

You are an exile.

Seraphina blinked. “I was stating the truth,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion but her enunciation careful, and Cyrus could see that she was preparing for something. She wanted to probe him. She was collecting.

Hate surged, and Cyrus’ control threatened to dissipate again. Collect and act.

She was collecting. She was similar to Olysseus, and that was what irritated him. Cyrus remembered the old man’s last expression, before his family came and set fire to the ground. It was that day, that his fear had hardened into something much cooler.Hate and anger, anger and hate.

Power didn’t sing, but it roared as that sensation trickled through his arms and hands once more. The air turned more than electric, it was full of the desire, that craving to see his family on his knees and see him now.

He wasn’t an exile, he was accepted, he had won, he was a hero and they should see him as such. He was worthy, and Cyrus would show them all. He would strip their flesh from their bones, and use their skeletons to-

Collect, and act.

Are you finished collecting, boy?

Olysseus’ booming voice echoed again - fire, death, despair, hate - and Cyrus breathed, shakily. “Don’t say that,” he felt himself snarl, as if the animal he had put on a chain that he had finally let loose in the Cage was speaking through him. You aren’t finished collecting.

Seraphina blinked, slowly. “Alright. I won’t. Would an apology suffice or do you want me to leave?” she asked the question calmly, but then again Cyrus had never seen her not calm. Just like Olysseus. Collect, and act.

TELL HER TO LEAVE.

“A deal,” Cyrus managed to get out, gruffly. He could feel Roxane behind him flinch. “Tell me your Ability’s Drawback, and I’ll tell you whether I plan to assassinate the Republica envoys or not.” Tell me your weakness, and I’ll tell you if I want to start a war.

Collect, then act.

Seraphina’s eyes turned not ice-cold, but that feeling, the feeling that Cyrus was looking at a statue enchanted to feel out every single word that he spoke, returned.

He could feel that it was a part of her Drawback, that it was something related to it. Cyrus couldn’t ask His Liege either - this was too small a matter to go to the Lightning King.

“Alright,” the princess across from him agreed, decisively, “but you go first.”

“You’re pushing it.”

Seraphina smiled. “Okay.” She blinked. “I can’t turn mine off.”

It was almost - what was that feeling when you were expecting something larger and was somewhat disappointed? An analysis Ability that relied on predictions, that you couldn’t turn off. What would it be like, living with that?

Drawbacks were usually related to the Chosen’s patron Gods, too - Athena. Goddess of wisdom and warfare.

How, and why?

“Well, then,” Cyrus replied, “A deal's a deal. I’m planning to assassinate my mother.”