In the land of the revered, the feared are king*

- EMPEROR LYSIMACHOS THE INSANE, LAST OF HIS NAME

*the complete, original saying, was reportedly, "famous legends like me are naturally cowardly, you fucker!" in response to his Personal Guard's inquiries, before Emperor Lysimachos hid in his Palace while ordering the mass genocide known as the Imperial Slaughter

Drawbacks

A Private, Informal Study + Analysis conducted and written by Analyst Dantaleus Icarus Queesncage, Chosen of Athena

The issue of the lack of analysis broached upon this topic of Abilities. is likely due to the scarcity of living and willing Victors participating in these analyses, and lack of living and willing Victors conducting them.

Abilities are, in short form, powers. Every five years, twelve are Chosen by each of the Olympians, and are given the Abilities of Gods, but are not Gods, and this is because of one reason: Drawbacks.

It can be seen that all Abilities are given a Drawback, or a limitation, if you must, on the way they is used.

And thus, I take my own Ability into consideration.

Called Strategise - or at least that is the most apt term available (an interesting observation that can be made is that most Abilities are named after Actions) - my Ability is, in summary, being able to see most strategic moves available to both enemies and myself.

I have observed that its Drawback is that it only offers the top three most likely moves available to both sides, and so it can be Blindsided (a capitalized term) by an enemy choosing the more unpredictable, and riskier, strategies.

This limitation, or 'Drawback' is found in all Abilities, and is usually discovered through either experience, or in this case, experimentation.

After asking after two others of my fellow Victors, and conducting a series of trials along with much research, I have hypothesized the three statements below:

---> The Drawback has to be related to the virtues that your Patron deity (see other terms: Liege, Olympian, etc.) displays or promotes.

----> The Drawback’s effects are equal, in one category or another, to the Ability’s potential power

----> Every Ability has a Drawback.

The term “Drawback” meets its first usage in this study. Former terms have been used to refer to this - most of these statements are drawn from Republica Analyst Varacia Aquila’s musings on this matter, who remark it as a “proof that we mortals cannot handle so much burden from the Gods” (referring to the Republic Anothen’s version of Olympians).

Number 1 can be proven on various instances, such as, for example, Dionysus’ Chosen displaying Abilities related to wine, madness, or revelry; Zeus’ Chosen displaying lightning-related, ruling Abilities; and Athena’s Chosen often being gifted with strategy-related Abilities.

An instance cannot be named where this is disproved to the point where it affects the hypothesis.

Number 2 can also be proved, although by including less evidence. Readers can refer to the Law of Equity, coined by Analyst Varacia Aquila, that every motion made in the Universe has an equal and opposite reaction - if used in this case, this could include motions made using Abilities (refer to Page 2).

If a reader looks closer at the Republic, it can be used an example - Republica’s Heroes, with bolstered strength, intelligence, etc., have a shortened life expectancy. Rare is a Hero who lives past fifty years of age.

The Empire’s Chosen seems to meet no obstacles in this (Emperor Ulysses the Great lived until seventy), perhaps because of the Drawbacks already imposed upon their Abilities. The more powerful an Ability is (in terms of both physical and mental impact, when measured to the Icarus scale, which I go in depth into in another study), the heavier their hypothetical Drawbacks seem to be.

Number 3 can be proved by simply the fact that our mortal bodies cannot hold the full power of the Gods. If not, we Victors would be "more than Victors - [we] would be Gods," as said by Valacia Aquila.

But we are not, and the reason is our Drawbacks. And thus, Page 1 of this study concludes.

- Analyst Dantaleus Icarus, the Forty-Sixth Victor of the Queen's Cage

Acredited with the coinage of the term 'Drawback,' and the formation of the statements of the 'Drawback Theory' as well as the 'Icarus Scale,' Dantaleus Icarus was of the three existing Chosen Analysts recorded in history. He reportedly refused to be addressed as Imperial Prince, despised the Queenscage surname, and referred to himself as 'Analyst Icarus' instead.

Icarus published many studies in his time, but his private, 'informal' studies were only unearthed after his death, after then Glory Prince Lysimachos threw Icarus' papers off the Palace's balcony with a reported cry, "That's what you get for making me participate in those, you dead asshole!"

Murdered by Emperor Lysimachos the Insane when Lysimachos rose to power.

PAST

Opportunity.

It was a lesson that had been beaten into me from long ago.

The Duke and Duchess didn’t care about me.

I knew - not because they told me, but because all the hints were there.

I would show up to social gatherings, pretend that I was their beloved daughter, find the niches between words and seize every window of opportunity to bolster their name, and they would think I was merely upholding my duty as an average member of the ever-so-illustrious House Marksman, duchy of the Second Isle.

I was just enough. Not more, not less.

And I was alright with that.

I had to be alright with that.

I could be more, and it would be fun, but if you spent your life pondering the intricacies of what could be instead of what was, you would often accomplish nothing.

At least, that was what the books said. And I believed them - for what would be the use, anyway? Instead of holding tea parties, I spent my early childhood reading odysseys of the Chosen and the myths of Gods.

At around ages ten and eleven, I upgraded to Angelo the Avenger’s trysts at the Republica border, Dantaleus’ analyses on both war and peace, and took comfort in Aquila's cynicism while indulging in reading military strategies as well as philosophies of self and being.

I learned, and I knew, but it was the only fun I could have.

I hungered for knowledge, making it impossible for the thirst to be satiated when I finished all the books in the library at fourteen. I called it a thirst, but perhaps it was the only thing keeping me sane while pretending to be what I wasn't.

Pretending was tiring.

I observed the maids and the footmen, embedding social cues and body language while educating myself on the art of piecing things together. Their lives were stories broken into puzzle pieces, and I enjoyed the task of putting them together.

Soon, rumors got around that I was going crazy, staring at people.

So the Duke and Duchess provided tutors with harsh whips for tongues, who taught me everything I ever wanted. They engaged me in debates, reprimanded me both physically and verbally when I got something wrong, but they were there to keep me entertained. I got into knives at fifteen. Throwing blades, but not in the way that swordsmen did (I asked for a former mercenary as a teacher, and after my request was approved - albeit reluctantly - I got her).

I wasn’t particularly attached to her, but she taught me human anatomy. Where to hit, how to stab, how to tackle. How to kill, although theoretically, since I was forbidden from learning darker things like torture - which was all well and good since torturing people got blood on myself. We practiced on complicated strawmen, and it was interesting, but it wasn’t fun.

Learning was interesting, but it wasn’t fun.

I turned sixteen.

I knew most of everything, dabbled in most of everything, and became interested in poisons that year. I asked for a former Concocter, and there I learned the names of most poisonous herbs and how to brew everything from minor healing potions - although I never really paid attention to those - to toxins, which were slightly more interesting.

Of course, I was also banned from learning any forbidden poisons. After learning from her for half a year, a retired Merchant was brought in to teach me the art of commerce.

I soaked knowledge in - at least, the interesting bits and pieces - and lived. I never stopped trying to stare at people, I just learned how to do it better.

From the corner of my eye, through the reflection of a glass. How they acted, how they talked, where they came from, what they did. It was how I passed the time.

Opportunity. On my seventeenth birthday, someone insulted me.

A Baron's son. A person who thought that their family could reach the prestige of a centuries-old clan. Arrogance, the childishness of folly.

I could’ve dealt with it if they insulted my name - of course, I would’ve still retaliated, but my heart wouldn’t be in it - but they insulted me. My knowledge.

The tomes said that man needed a purpose, a 'power' to be able to think themselves capable and keep themselves sane. Knowledge. My supposed power.

Do you really not hear the rumors? You really do know nothing.

I didn’t remember their name, but I did remember that they ended up dying horribly. By my hands, of course. Slipping away from my Guards, a knife.

My first kill.

The Duke and Duchess hadn’t minded, although they had let me know their disapproval. The servants and the residents of the Second Isle started avoiding me, and my social reputation plummeted. Did you hear, the baron's son supposedly died by Lady Seraphina's own hands. She's only sixteen.

And then the nightmares started.

After I closed my eyes, it all began the same.

I would be in darkness, utter darkness. And then there would be a door. I would open it, and it would lead to the Marksman library. Then, I would stroll to a shelf, pick a book off it seemingly randomly, and would flicker it open.

Always the same title - A List of Nobles in the Empire Eoina. My dream self would flip through its pages, stop at the nobles under Emperor Nikephoros’ reign, and look at it.

House Marksman - Matthias Marksman, Theadora Williams Marksman. A small “childless” was scribbled under their names.

Then the realization that my existence was erased would come crashing down, and I would awaken, unable to fall asleep again.

The nightmares continued for months, coming every week, as I tried to find a cure for it. It had started off only mildly annoying, but it had planted a paranoia in me that grew as time passed. I had requested for A List of Nobles in the Empire Eoina to be placed on my bedside table so I could skim through it every night, but the doubt hadn’t gone away.

Time passed, and I tried every concoction, elixir, and method available. When that cliff came within my reach, that cliff that some called insanity appeared within my view, and I started towards it, Athena had visited.

She had given me an Ability, told me I was arrogant and that knowledge wasn’t power, knowing what to do what it was, and plunged me into the Tartarus that was the Queen’s Cage. I had seen it as an opportunity. It was more of a condemnation.

I had won, had discovered what I found fun - Crown, fell in my own sense of love, and then been plunged into another Tartarus again.

I really couldn’t catch a break.

PRESENT

I SPENT MOST OF MY DAYHEPT reading, writing, and making money.

I had a lot of money. My monthly Imperial allowance, my requisition of some portion of the duchy's funds, etc., but my company's funds were also a good chunk of my accounts.

Macedon - last name unknown - was a good man. He ran my company, made me money, and was somewhat of a traitorous greedy arse, but he was a good man.

“You’re a good man, Macedon,” I told him.

Macedon looked bland - tall, gangly, and dark-haired, the man was, around twenty or so years. Young, but with sharp eyes, almost as sharp as mine, if I was going to be brutally honest.

But Gods, he was one of my biggest assets. He made money, whether it was tricking Merchants - legally, of course - into signing contracts that our front company provided, metaphorically imprisoning them in our clutches; or whether it was gathering information, forging papers, trading, or covering up my tracks whenever I killed a particularly important person.

Would you believe he was just a small-time swindler three months ago?

“You’re only saying that because I make you money, Sera,” he chuckled.

“That’s part of the reason,” I said, bemused, “but you’re a good man.” I patted him affectionately on the shoulder, while Lazarus scowled at the display and Narkisa shifted in her seat.

Lazarus never liked the man, while Narkisa - well, Narkisa was feeling particularly uneasy after I’d sent her into the lion’s den, and my Ability definitely read some resentment in her posture. Oh, well.

Macedon wiggled his eyebrows. “Praise me, my Princess,” he joked, and, after a pause, added, “we should get to business, though.”

That was all well and good, because Lazarus’ hand twitched as Macedon said the endearment.

“Tell me what I need to sign off on,” I said lazily, leaning against a couch. Seventeen-year-olds couldn’t technically run businesses according to Imperial law, and although I was pretty sure I was capable of doing so, there was a lot on my plate.

Macedon was my proxy, but the signing off I was referring to required me to do so personally. If I was right - and I usually was - the services of Macedon’s information gatherers would be direly in demand.

Everyone wanted to know what the envoys were here for, and contacting an agency affiliated with an Imperial Princess was a way with a larger chance of success - success in this case being not charged for treason. Even some nobles employed my agency, but usually the real powers had efficient resources of their own. It reminded me that I hadn’t shown up for social events very often in recent weeks - oh, well. I should probably ask Alyssa for that.

Or one of my other ladies, who I’ve recently been trying to get to know - they were surprised that I was, out of the blue, but wielding power also meant wielding societal influence. But it wasn't Wise to want to attain power so rashly, Ability whispered. You already have enough.

“Baron Cirillo sent a proxy. He wants to incorporate one of his own as a Palace maid.”

Cirillo, of-

“Which Stronghold was it, again?” I asked, even though I know the answer. “Eurus, Zephyr, Boreas, Notus?”

“Not a Cardinal one, I’m afraid,” replied Macedon, “and since the Marksman Duchy occupies the Second Isle, the barony of Cirillo originates from Doxa.”

“Evlogia.” I frowned slightly, not letting the twist of disdain touch my face.

“You think they’re behind this?” Lazarus raised an eyebrow. “I mean, you did hit Lady Roxane pretty hard, so it isn’t out of the question…”

I waved a hand. “I just insinuated that it would be bad if her reputation got ruined. Alyssa did the rest.” My lips twitched. “Sleeping with Cyrus, though? It’d be a wonder if he focused on anything but himself. All it stirred up was some engagement talk. She’s probably happy.”

Bait, which she took.

Narkisa blinked. “The rumor spread to the knights,” she said, her grudge still displayed through her body language but not her tone. “She moves fast. The connotation’s still negative, though. Some people are accusing Lady Roxane of being pregnant, now-”

“The proposal?” Macedon prompted, as if I wasn’t thinking about it at the same time. But then again, I was usually thinking about multiple things at once.

“Reject anything below a count. Don’t have enough time to follow the op,” I said, “since the documents from Nero didn’t turn anything up, any source on the Union’s manufacturers?”

“I planted a caravan - or at least, what I could muster of a caravan - and bribed some Republica Merchants near Notus with potions to put some of our people near their platin shipments.” Macedon blinked, letting me fill in the blanks. Greed for money, he’s planning to-

“Don’t hit the platin merchants,” I warned. “We’ll branch out soon enough, but we don’t want to anger any Republica while their envoys are still here. Besides, the plan’ll take too long. Use the caravan to incorporate themselves slowly into Republica Merchants instead.”

Disappointment, as the man pouted. Resentment.

I was sowing seeds of resentment in two valuable lieutenants - which was useful, other than the fact that it was fun. I would need to push them to the brink - three lazy months, fattening them up with the benefits, wouldn’t ensure loyalty. No, I would make one of them turn, make an example out of the traitor, and pressure the other into swearing an Oath of Fealty in the Gods’ name.

“Which reminds me,” I mused, “we might not need to prioritize the manufacturer first and foremost, after all.” Manufacturer is a priority. Suspicion. My Ability was practically pushing me towards it, but this wasn’t a task for Macedon or Narkisa.

Mace raised an eyebrow. “You want me to get ready for the envoys?”

I nodded, and he continued, “Speaking of the envoys-” he had obviously been withholding the information until now because it wasn’t important to his own profits “-a little birdie told me there’s been a change in personnel.”

“Right. Personnel.” My tone, although light, implied that Macedon better start talking.

My head ran through the list of likely options, I had studied and memorized most of their patricians after that enlightening talk with Cerenia. The Halgroves, the Avenarius, likely the envoys would be some offspring of higher-ranked patricians from the Branches of House Roma - they wouldn’t send a Consul, maybe a-

Macedon cleared his throat. “There’s word that a Praetor’s joining the envoy’s ranks.”

I blinked. “You guys won’t tattle to the Palace’s Tutors for me swearing, right?”

Add emotion, flesh out your persona, my Ability reminded.

Shakes of heads.

“Fuck,” I swore. “Fucking piece of Godsbroken shit.”

“What?” I balanced my voice so the remark came out between a light tease and an amused snap. “Speak your mind, Laz.”

I could read his body language easily. He obviously was questioning-

“Your movements seem practiced,” he hedged, reluctantly.

He could be the age of my father, but younger - maybe an older brother, of sorts, even though I had an abundance of siblings. Dark hair, like most Imperials, with an amicable enough personality. I felt no personal connection to him, but it was more than strange he had sworn an Oath.

“They are,” I replied. Half-honesty was a good policy when it came to supposedly loyal subordinates. “But not so much practiced, as regulated.”

“You regulate your movements.”

“Yeah. You learn to,” I replied, casually. I did it unconsciously, even before the Cage and the Ability and the Chosen by Athena schtick. Knowledge wasn’t power, but how you used it was.

Lazarus’ face looked pained. Guilt.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t do anything to help you back at the duchy,” said the Guard, “I really-”

“Laz,” I interrupted, my face still bland as the carriage went back to the Palace rattled. “Do you want me to be honest, or act honest?”

Lazarus hesitated. “Be honest.” Act honest, his body language suggested.

“I don’t give a damn,” I replied evenly, snorting. “I didn’t care about you enough to give a damn back then, and I sure as Below don’t care about you or it enough to give a damn right now. You are my subordinate, not my friend. It’s not my job to care about you, just as it’s not your job to care about me.”

The Guard’s face looked a bit more pained, and he winced, as I continued.

"If everyone on the Isle looked down on me and barely remembered my name? It was no skin off your back, so of course you didn't scratch it." I snorted. "I’m wasting my breath to explain this to you, so you better get this in your head - Even if you took an Oath out of guilt, you still took an Oath and I expect you to be responsible for it. Do your job."

And then I put on my usual persona, and looked at the Guard who was looking at me as if my emotions were some sort of horrifying yet fascinating thing to be studied.

“Got that?” I added, lightly, in my usual tone.

“So that’s not the real Seraphina?” Lazarus got more confused, but filling him in on my personality came with the job.

“No, but it shouldn’t matter,” I replied, lips twitching. It usually doesn’t. I looked at him. “Are you particularly loyal to the rest of the Seraph?”

Newfound respect - or was it fear? My Ability couldn’t tell - wriggled its way on Lazarus’ face. “Are you telling me to betray them?”

I grinned. “I’m telling you to act like an Imperial,” I said, and Lazarus’ lips twitched. “We need all hands on the metaphorical deck if we’re going to wait out this shitstorm.”

“The envoy’s arrival, ma’am?”

I snorted at the ma’am. Ma’am, to a seventeen-year-old girl. “My brother’s trying to kill one of them, a Praetor’s coming along, there’s definitely something going on with the Republic and the Union, and a high chance of a war starting. If that isn’t a shitstorm, I don’t know what is.” I gave a laugh.

Lazarus looked perplexed, now.

“What are we going to do, ma’am?”

“Wait out the shitstorm, of course,” I replied, easily. “Then after, we find enemies and kill them.”

It was just a question of finding them, or making them.

But either way it was going to be fun.

Castor had rejected my offer, unfortunately.

It was hilarious, though, that he felt guilty. It was even more hilarious that Orion - in some twisted show of Imperial favoritism - managed to smuggle him in as a butler. Castor. A Imperial Residence butler.

I swear, it almost made me convinced that the acquiring of a stress-relief toy was in order, except for the fact that it was “inhumane” and Macedon’s Public Relations team - composed of one person - had already crafted out a persona for me I couldn’t disrupt.

Oh, well.

“Ara!” I burst into his Imperial Residence. “Let’s go kill things!”

But then my gaze drifted from the luxurious columns to the people in the middle, which was a pale-blonde woman who was either in her late thirties or early forties dressed in Imperial robes, and a grinning Forsaken who was being held in a stranglehold. A bunch of attendants - I assumed Arathis’ attendants, which were presumably hard to find because of his race - were lying on the floor, bloodied and dead, some of them as if they had…

Clawed themselves to death.

Greta the Great, my oldest sister, had used her Ability, and had a furious - I said furious, but it was an ice-cold expression - look on her face, her white-gold hair speckled with blood. Of course, I immediately began running possible scenarios in my head.

I kept the smile on my face. “Bad time?” I asked.

“Yes,” Arathis replied at the same time as Greta said, “No.”

I crossed out some options using the process of elimination, flopping on the divan, as I scooched away from the blood. “Greta has seniority,” I explained to Arathis’ mock-heartbroken expression. “What’s the situation?”

“I heard you got stabbed by the Tutors,” said the woman, one arm still looped around Arathis’ neck. All Imperials had that glowy sheen of youth due to the antibiotic skin potions that we were made to drink, courtesy of Imperial Concoters. My Ability said nothing about her, not even betraying a single reason why she would be strangling Ara, which said something.

“Are you asking how’s the wound, or why I’m failing?” I asked, unperturbed to the scene. Arathis obviously had it under control, and I didn’t want to piss off Greta anymore than the occasional snark.

I was afraid of her.

And with good reason.

For all I bluffed sometimes, and was desensitized to bloodshed, I was scared of many things. I kept my thirst for power in check, because Athena had warned that although I relied on my Ability, I didn’t listen to it at times, viewing my reliance as a weakness when it wasn’t. My so very mortal arrogance that I could rise on my own without depending on the Gods was endearing, My Liege had said, but unfounded.

It hurt my pride a bit, that.

My Ability told me much. But it never told me what to do with the knowledge it gave me.

So it was understandable, I thought to myself, that I didn’t want to play Crown against an opponent that I had no knowledge about.

A justification, my Ability returned. Justifications are only needed when-

Oh, shut up.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to play against Greta - it would be fun, much fun - but I was afraid. The real Seraphina was afraid, and so I let her take the reins on Greta-related matters.

“You are doing surprisingly well,” she finally replied.

“Huh. Thanks, sis.” My eyes fluttered towards Ara, who gave a grin that I returned. “So, er, is Ara going to be free to kill things anytime soon?” I asked, “or am I going to have to leave you to it?”

I didn’t direct the question to any specific person, and Arathis answered, “Nah, Oldest Sister was just getting on my case for not wanting to wear matching outfits.” He spat the last word with the same kind of disgust Mercy would’ve said torture.

“And then she murdered all my attendants,” he added. “Do you know how hard it was to find ones that tried to assassinate me at least decently?”

“Okay, maybe the attendant murder was a bit overkill,” I admitted, earning a glare from Greta. “But sis is right - you know, power in numbers and clothes make the Imperial and all that. Since Cyrus’ planning to murder one of the envoys, and a Praetor’s coming along, we at least have to watch in style.”

None of them were surprised at the information, which was expected.

“I get the style thing,” Arathis replied, “but we have to match. I don’t even look good in Imperial bronze.” Honesty, eagerness, well-masked uneasiness.

“I’ll take you to Orion’s Residence so we talk to Castor if you wear it,” I volunteered.

Greta watched the exchange impassively. She got angry enough to use her Ability - and that unsettling Drawback - over matching clothes? one of my more curious counterparts questioned. There’s more to it- I immediately shut that train of thought down.

Do not attempt to Read Greta Highlander.

Do not poke around Greta Highlander.

And do not play games with Greta Highlander, my Ability hammered into my head.

Even if it would be fun.

Even if it would be fun.

Ara pondered my offer. “We ask Josie and it’s a done deal,” he accepted.He’s playing an angle.

Who cares? I thought back. Let him play me. It matters not what persona I’m in - all it matters is that I survive. Surviving is what’s Wise.

Surviving and retaining power isn’t the same thing, it bit back.

“The deal is struck?” I offered.

“The deal is struck.”

And so Arathis was released, and Greta stormed out of the pool of carnage she made of the Fifth Imperial Residence.

It was an uneventful day, except for the fact that I was visited by a Goddess in a vision and told my Imperial Father was dying.

You of conflict and desire, said Athena, bow before me.

You couldn’t put a label to what the Olympians made you feel. I didn’t relish the wave of fear that came with every dreamscape visit - this time, it wasn't a dream - my vision had gone hazy while I was eating lunch, and here I was, subjected to an aura that forced me to submit and in front of a Goddess.

Athena’s Aegis and spear radiated eons of war and peace, blood shed in the names of kings and heroes, strength and submission and the call of war. Her grey eyes pierced through me, and I had no doubt she could see through the very fabric of my existence, the very threads that interconnected from my self to my being.

She was wearing a traditional chiton, the fabric shifting as pieces of heavy armor were strapped to her shoulders. An owl with feathers of brown and beige perched on her shoulder, its beak and talons sharp, as the shifting snake-head of the bronze shield on Athena’s hand forced me to freeze, to submit.

You could question the compatibility of the Goddess of warfare, wisdom, and crafts with someone as conflicting as myself who had never been in an actual war, and I would agree.

Every other Victor’s Ability was something to marvel at, something almost fitting, but I never understood the pizzazz about having Hints scattered throughout your vision that you couldn’t ignore.

But they said the Morai and the Olympians knew you better than you knew yourself.

Oh, well.

I bowed.

Do you know the reason your neighbors send messengers?

“I know of possibilities.”

Possibilities are not enough. Do you know what is Wise?

“I do not know enough. Please, enlighten me, My Liege.”

The Source, as you call it, expands when a Harbinger of Slaughter starts to rise to power.

“Right. A Harbinger. I’m assuming it’s expanding now?”

You are correct.

Shelve that, for later.

Harbinger. I dispatched my Ability to think at the same time as I did.

A person or thing that signals the arrival of another. Arrival of Slaughter, in this case. Slaughterers needed to have power, to be able to Slaughter - what did an Olympian classify as a Slaughter? A catastrophe, to be able to - a powerful person with Abilities, rising to power, which means someone else has to step down - both my trains of thought arrived at the conclusion at the same time.

“The Emperor is dying.”

My eyes widened, out of their own volition, just a fraction.

“The current Emperor of the Empire Eoina is dying, and someone-”

The oldest, the one with the most political power, closest to the Emperor -Greta.

“Greta plans to get named Heir Designate.”

To name herself Heir Designate the only way- the only way-

“She plans to slaughter all of the Victors, and get herself named Heir Designate.”

I wasn’t finished yet, and Athena knew it. The Republica envoy. The Republic’s borders - the Source expanding - were shared with the Union - the dark Forest- A Praetor, a high military rank getting sent - envoys, to ask us for power - the arrival of the Harbinger-

The Hints were all aflame.

Consider the Present, Athena said.

The Source expanding.

The Republica envoys’ arrival.

A Praetor getting sent, on the way.

The Past.

An Imperial Prince buying weapons to disrupt.

A planned assassination, provided weapons.

A Dockworker, a pawn.

The Future.

The Emperor dying.

The Harbinger, Greta, rising to power.

The death of Victors, Greta on Nikephoros’ throne.

Connections gleamed, threading and weaving together.

What do you see?

“The Source is expanding because Nikephoros is dying, and there’s an opportunity for Greta to kill all of the Victors and get named Heir Designate. The envoys were sent because the Source is expanding. The Praetor’s getting sent because some in the Republic want to ask us, the Victors, to bolster their military against the increasing monsters.”

My eyes widened, again.

“The Imperial Prince is buying weapons to disrupt the military request, to spite his family. The assassination is a distraction, because he’s been planning this for a while now - the reason he feels betrayed isn’t because of his attachment to Castor, it’s because he needs someone to reveal the weapons. The weapons are provided by someone in the Union, who wants to see this all fall.”

I continued, breathlessly.

“If everything goes according to all of their plans, the Republic and the Empire’s relations will be severed, Greta will rise to the throne and use Cyrus’ excuse to attack the Republic and seize it, and give the person in the Union who gave the weapons to Cyrus power. If everything goes according to all their plans, I and the other Victors will die and the continent will fall into Chaos.”

I had been playing too small of a Crownboard.

A war is coming.

Athena’s voice was full of mirth, as if she wanted to applaud but couldn’t.

She hadn't confirmed or denied my conclusions.

Now, what will you do?

There was only one thing left to do, if they were playing a game of Crown with nations.

“Topple their board.”

An Allegory of the Boy Who Flew Into The Sun, Author Unknown

_______________________________________________________

In the city there was a thief,

With name none he was known by,

And so with a click of his boots,

His smile, but a whisper shy,

His gloves and face were quick and sly,

But silent entrance brief-

As his eyes were snared, and he was caught-

By the owner of the wares he sought.

And so the owner asked of him,

“Answer three questions, and go free,”

And so the thief accepted, with an outstretched limb-

“What do you wish for?” asked the owner,

A twinkle in her eye, and the thief replied in glee,

“Nothing,” said he easily, “for I already exist.”

“And so?” the ware-owner challenged,

“Why do you exist?”

“I do not know,” said he, “for the Gods’ will I cannot resist.”

“Why do you wish to exist? Of death do you fear?”

The thief smirked, “It is human arrogance-

To hope that the reaper does not come,

The mortals put on their wax wings, and fly

Towards the sky, a God they desire to become-

Renewed with purpose, they search,

For what makes life worth living, in the Sun-

But then they fall, as the waves consume all,

For they all jump off the cliff,

As if Icarus won.”

The ware-owner asked again, “Are you not the same?”

“If I am,” the thief replied, “the Gods are the ones to blame.”

“Why the Gods?” scoffed the owner,

“Answer again, then you are free.”

“They feed us the illusion of glory,

Provide us the kings of old,

They spin a tale of dust and story,

And say that what awaits us is gold,

As if they hadn’t put into our heads,

That wearing a crown like seeing the Sun,

As if they hadn’t strung Fate’s threads,

To make us so we can be undone.”

Then the thief said, “I will go,”

“Not yet,” the owner insisted,

“Answer again,” said she, “why is it not your burden?”

The thief laughed.

“It is not my burden to bear,

Nor my secret to keep, for my existence will be

Erased, the scrolls of my name bare,

They pit us against each other in glee,

Death is the villain, for in stories they write,

History is not written by the Victors,

The humans they created a blight-

History is written by the predictors,

For only the Gods who survive all ends.”

Greta was told that she was Chosen because she was closer to insanity than most.

And as a person who had seen countless instances of insanity, Greta believed that, contrary to popular belief, there were only two possible reasons why a person could go mad. Greta defined insane, of course, as thinking themselves capable of going against the Gods.

Avarice.

Wanting more than the Gods could give you, and then going insane when you realized it was impossible to achieve that want. These wants could range from power, love, revenge, to just material money - those who succumbed to greed had wants, whether lofty or earthly, and when they failed to achieve them, their mind would go snap.

Arrogance.

Thinking themselves capable of playing the Gods, then going insane when the Gods played them. These were the ones who got a kick out of controlling and ordering people, with a tremendous amount of ego in the field of doing so, and idle hands caused them to turn towards the beings who ruled.

Greta was told that she was Chosen also because she had an uncanny ability to control her sanity. She, at the time, had been unsure whether to take it as an insult or a compliment. Over the years, she had firmly decided to consider it as neither.

“Father.” Greta Highlander was yet again beside her imperial Father, the old man’s beard frost-eaten and his ceremonial long chiton pristine, the only personalized ornament on him being the golden peacock insignia that glittered at his breast.

The Emperor wore a crown of laurels, the leaves painstakingly crafted and handed down through the years, but Greta had no doubt that the unassuming circlet had seen more carnage than anyone else in the Empire.

Nikephoros the Nightbidden had assumed his name through surviving more nights - and assassinations - than most in his position, which was an admirable feat, if you considered the fact that most of the people who surrounded him were traitors.

His face seemingly weather-worn, and the gaze in his eye - the gaze that showed he ruled an Empire of backstabbers - had faded in recent months, and Greta hadn’t been surprised when she had been informed that he was dying.

Really, the more startling fact had been that he was poisoning himself.

“Greta.” The kindly old man smiled - it was an expression that bordered fatherly, and it almost hid the note of disapproval in his voice. Almost, Greta thought to herself, as he continued, “What did I say about killing your siblings?”

Greta ignored the question.

“The Republica envoys are on their way,” she replied. “The Consul Romanus has agreed to our offer, and he’s already poisoned and substituted Hortensia Halgrove with his son the Praetor. He assures me that the Senate only thinks that the Praetor’s there to speed the military matters along and that Cyrus’ attempted assassination is enough excuse to declare war. Everything is going according to plan, Father.”

Nikephoros peered at Greta, but sighed.

“Sometimes, not on my better days, I wonder if I’ve put too much of a burden on you. Uniting the continent was my dream, not yours,” the Emperor said, sadly. “It was a childish fancy, and one I sometimes wish I hadn’t told you about.”

“It is too late, Father,” Greta replied, evenly, “to use guilt to stop me.”

She had seen far too much of a future unbridled and unfettered with flimsy power struggles, of useless prejudice and battles of carnage where you were faced with the option to win, or die.

Of a future where the Queen’s Cage was but a primal blot in history, where the Anothen and the Kato were one, and people could succumb not to greed or love, but necessary existence.

What if you could turn your back in the Empire’s streets without getting stabbed? Imagine that, Nikephoros had said one day after a Court meeting, and that night Greta had spun that scenario into a dream and desire that threatened to swallow everything.

Where war was not sport but a tool, and everything was a cog in a well-oiled machine. Where everything was necessary.

As much as Greta had seen - and expressed distaste at - many humans who relished in flesh and wine, she was one of them.

The difference wasn’t that she could break their minds easily at the cost of her own - it was that she imagined a world without the Gods, and her mind was already broken.

“It’s far too late,” Greta corrected herself, “to stop me.”