Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori.

- VANDALIZED REPUBLICA ARCH.

Translation - It is sweet and fitting, to die for one’s country.

Death, Verse I

The ferryman’s fare is but a small price,

The souls of the damned churn beneath the waters,

For the hated beloved, the beloved but mice,

For here begins the era of slaughter.

The river Styx circles true, the wails of death,

The passengers so pass through the mighty keep,

For a coin beneath a tongue, a solemn breath,

For ye who pass here are in the reaper’s sleep.

Death, Verse II

The funeral’s fare neither ashes nor glory,

The wings of death, a swoop of the soul,

For the price neither great, nor the thirteen story,

For a coin ‘neath the tongue, not a newborn foal.

Then Heir Designate, Glory Prince Rocco Queenscage III, Chosen of Hephaestus, invaded a small kingdom of the Republic on orders of the Emperor to help his father’s Legacy. It resulted in a victory, and Rocco’s Ability along with his skills made him take Notus temporarily. However, he was interrupted by news of the Emperor’s death, and he rushed back to the Isles.

Rocco was told on the Emperor’s deathbed that the Emperor’s true Legacy had been Rocco; and that the command to start an invasion between two of the continent’s largest powers had just been to solidify Rocco’s name. While the Glory Prince was preoccupied, Republica generals took back Notus - then known as Oto - and imprisoned all his soldiers. It was then that Rocco earned the moniker, “Rocco the Ruiner.”

Rocco killed himself shortly after, whether to spite the Emperor or due to pressure, the reason is unknown; he left the aftermath of the Skirmish to his daughter, Angelo, listed then as Rocco’s Heir Designate. Under Angelo the Avenger’s reign, however, diplomatic negotiations began but as they did not go anywhere, Angelo ignored the Republica diplomats sent and charged to take over the then-territory of Notus.

Using renowned tactics like the Angelo’s Pass and the Weaver’s Embrace, she paved the way against Republica’s generals and took the Fortress of Notus after no less than six Daycycles. During Emperor Angelo - Angelo had made clear her preference in the title - and her reign, the Empire prospered and, after the Thirty-Ninth Queen’s Cage occurred, the Empire continued once again. This whole series of events was known as the Skirmish.

- Records of the Skirmish, Author Unknown (27 P.Q.C)

YOU COULD SAY THAT REPUBLICA SENTIMENT was easy to turn.

You didn’t like someone? Accuse them of not being a patriot.

If they were actually a patriot? Then accuse them of treason.

Marcellus Amadeus Romanus, Son of Octavian, son of Augustus, knew that there was beauty in simplicity, just as there was also beauty in efficiently dealing with political rivals.

Every step, whether in his military campaigns or his patrician career, every stroke of good fortune and every table that was turned, could be reversed as easily as the flip of a coin.

In fact, the Republica denarius, Consul Romanus thought to himself, was fitting in the way that the sayings emblazoned on both sides were drastically different.

It was a writer of old’s quote, of some work or other - “lasciate ogne speranza” on one side, “voi ch'intrate” on the other.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

It was supposed to be poetic, Marcellus considered - if you got the ye who enter here side first, you would be filled with hope at an instruction - only to be told to abandon it. If you got the abandon all hope side, you would scoff at such an instruction - only to wonder where you were entering when you flipped it.

But there was nothing poetic about false hope.

“Evander,” Marcellus replied, “my brother in arms, my comrade. Are you a patriot?”

The Consul of Remus, Valerius Evander Romus, snorted. “You of all people would know the answer, Amadeus,” he snorted. “Maybe before, I was - dulce et decorum est, after all - before we were sent to the border. I may be loyal to my Branch of House Roma, to my name, but to the fatherland?” Valerius snorted again. “My patriotism means little, in the scale of things.”

“But are you a patriot?” Still the other pressed.

Valerius raised an eyebrow. “I feel no speck of loyalty or affection for this bloodstained land and its politics,” he said, slowly, as if he were explaining something to a small child. “No, I’m not a fucking patriot. What, are you going to record that and tell all of the patricians now?”

“The people of the land would be heartbroken if they knew their revered Consul and ruler didn’t care about them,” Marcellus pointed out, amused yet ignoring his friend's question.

“Says you of all people, Amadeus.” Valerius shook his head, but a smile was on his face. “We’re here to drink, not talk about those bullshit politics. We can do the interrogating, getting pissed at each other, and pretending we’re both old farts at Senate meetings, alright?”

Marcellus’ lips twitched, forming the beginnings of a half-smile. “Alright, old friend. Just this once.” The Consul of Romulus slid his empty cup forward, and immediately it was filled by the other. The honey-colored liquid hovered at the brim, and Marcellus picked up the glass, threw his head back and down the wine went.

They drank, filling and emptying, for a long time. A comfortable silence.

“Evander.”

“Hm?”

“I sold out the Republic.”

“Mm.”

“I slipped something in Hortensia’s drink, and worked together with an Imperial who wants to conquer the continent in exchange for leaving me alive.”

A pause.

Anti-Imperial sentiment had been manipulated and regulated throughout the Republic's history by the patricians to keep the plebeians in line and the enlistment rates high. The alienation would have to be great, but not too much of an outright discrimination. Everything in moderation, except cruelty in war, that was what Marcellus had been taught.

The diplomatic highway to the Empire would have to be open, and that applied especially to the source’s suspected enlarging. Marcellus had pretended to be considering the unexpected obstacle informed by Julian, as if he hadn’t been informed weeks ago in a letter written by an Imperial Princess that the increasing amount of waves were due to a “Harbinger.”

The closer death comes, the wider the hole gets between the Underworld, had said the writing. And it sometimes comes in the forms of people. These people, according to My Liege, who is known by the name ‘Bacchus’ in your nation, are called Harbingers.

Greta Highlander Queenscage, the woman who was apparently most likely to get named Heir Designate. Her Ability had something to do with madness, had said the Consul’s sources, and required her to sacrifice her own mind. A person who named Gods casually.

I know the location of one such Harbinger.

I offer to you, with this letter, a deal.

In exchange for keeping in check the Harbinger, I ask of you your cooperation in expediting my plans.

Will you accept, Consul?

Any sane person would have rejected it, waving away her concerns as balderdash. But Marcellus’ gut and years of experience told him much.

“Am I a monster, Evander?” Marcellus’ voice had been even and casual through everything, as if he were asking someone whether they thought it would rain.

It was a habit he had cultivated, to sound casual while talking about these things, as if doubt was an everyday occurrence and nothing but a mild annoyance. But it was a foreign feeling, doubt. Marcellus hadn’t asked whether he was doing the right thing, because justifications were only needed when you doubted your actions. It wasn’t doubting his actions, Marcellus was talking about, and he was sure Valerius knew.

“By all the Gods, Jupiter and Saturn,” was the reply, followed by a snort, “you know what they say, Amadeus - Tartarus is empty, and all the monsters are here. It’s just a matter of when we go down to check, but either way it doesn’t matter if you’re one of them.”

And so, Marcellus Amadeus Romanus, Consul of Romulus, Son of Octavian, son of Augustus, laughed.

Most times, in a fiction odyssey, a Chosen discovered a revelation in the evening, pondered the depths of it before bed, and got visited by their God in a dream. It was probably the best-case scenario, and one I had participated in a couple times.

But this time, I blacked out while eating lunch and drinking tea with my lady-in-waitings, and when the vision finished it was like blinking myself out of a trance, only I had dropped the teacup on myself and tea had spilled everywhere.

The envoys were coming tomorrow, and I would die then.

Cyrus would try to kill them.

They would try to kill us, and in response, Greta would kill us all.

“Alyssa, Alia, Celeste, all of you-” I looked at their gaping mouths and one of them scrambled for towelettes “-leave me. Call Mercy.”

They were surprised, but all of them meekly obeyed, some of them concerned that they had done something wrong.

My hands weren’t steady. Not visibly shaky, but they weren’t steady. It was a sign, and a bad one, that I had just been hoodwinked.

Not hoodwinked, what was the word that Dantaleus used - Blindsided.

Even though I was used to plotting, it reminded me how inexperienced I was. It was like I was drinking a chalice of a wine I fancied - although technically I was underage - but then I fumbled due to the chalice’s weight and the wine spilled everywhere.

Blindsided.

And the fact that not all of my conclusions were reinforced meant that I was well and truly fucked.

Narkisa had no surname, but did have a job, a boss that she was currently resenting, and a rather large smidgeon of talent.

Of course, with that talent came the awareness that they were in a tight situation.

The fact that the Imperial Princess Seraphina, Sixth-in-line, had called them to the Palace without the usual discretion, along with the fact that she had an irritated expression on her face, proved that.

The Imperial Princess was pretty, yes, but in that otherworldly way like a ghost in a horror story, with almost unnaturally piercing blue eyes. Eyes like they were seeing right through Narkisa’s soul, but in that unperturbed way like the serene waters of a lake.

Dark hair and light caramel skin, with a voice that was always in that light, playful tone. Narkisa had heard that voice threaten and act on those threats, but her tone always remained the same, the princess’ expression always bland yet not stoic.

It was as if the Victor had achieved a balanced ratio to feeling emotion and showing it.

“Narkisa,” Seraphina greeted. Her gaze was darting, fleeting, which was unusual. “Macedon.”

The Imperial Princess leaned back, her robes’ silks bleeding on the lounge. “Would you like to know the truth or the situation?”

A choice.

She always offered a choice, but it was never really a choice. It was always a test of some sort, and Narkisa hated it, even if she knew it was justified.

“The situation,” Narkisa felt herself saying.

Macedon agreed, “The situation.”

If they picked the truth, they would be subject to a cluster of Imperial secrets and around their necks the noose of treason would be tightened.

But if Seraphina said she would tell the truth, it would likely be the truth, even if their reactions to it would be measured. Assessed.

“Right.” Seraphina blinked. “Tomorrow, the envoys will arrive. Someone will try to attack them. I can’t let that happen, because then someone else will attack me, I’ll die, and your bills won’t get paid.”

I can’t let that happen, not I won’t let that happen.

Narkisa felt that there was something behind the choice of words. Seraphina was uncertain, and that was enough to scare Narkisa.

I’ll die. She said that phrase with an unshakeable certainty, as if she knew she was in over her head but couldn’t do anything about it.

It was a firm resignation, but there was something brimming beneath her words that Narkisa couldn’t pinpoint, even if the spy was adept at reading social cues.

A seventeen-year-old, outsmarting her.

“What are your orders?” the spy asked.

“Your current assignment is cancelled, since you wouldn’t get anywhere, anyways,” Seraphina waved her off.

Well, at least she was honest.

“You and Macedon focus on getting your hands on any Republica information you have. The members of their Senate - how many people were at their last orgy, what color their piss is - any and all goes. Focus on their Praetors, especially. I expect a file on their strengths and weaknesses within the hour.”

Giving them a time limit? Also unusual.

Macedon evidently recognized that, as the stringy man said, “Will we get a raise?”

“When we’re done,” Seraphina promised, “the whole country might hate us, but we’ll be damn rich.”

A smile spread across the man's face.

“What’s the aim of this operation?” Narkisa questioned.

Seraphina smiled, amused. Everything about today was unusual, including her smile, and Narkisa finally recognized the anticipation in her tone.

“If I tell you,” the Imperial Princess said, “wouldn't it defeat the whole purpose of being unpredictable?”

As it turned out, most members of the Republica’s Senate were very fond of orgies.

I shuffled through the files.

According to the roughly assembled, yet surprisingly detailed papers, instead of nobles, there were patricians.

Branches weren’t necessarily higher-ranked on paper, but people whose lineage dated back to the Republic’s founding were considered around the level of Imperial duchy Houses.

Interesting.

Apparently, all Branches were all part of a single House, which meant that all patricians were technically related, and thus rarely intermarried - offspring were usually spawned off greater military or mercantile families, to bolster ties with commercial entities.

In a way, it was strange yet familiar.

The Senate was the Republic’s idea of “choice by the people,” if not a select few. Originally, most of the Senate’s patricians came from military backgrounds, but as time went on the glory of military power remained, yet the appeal declined.

However, the main Branches of Romanus and Romus - respectively founded by both Romulus and Remus - stuck to it.

Also interesting.

It was complicated, I realized, but I already had the gist of it from my studies. Consuls, the equivalent of kings there, and were “elected” by the Senate every four years.

The current Consuls were men by the name of Marcellus Romanus and Valerius Romus, and the Praetors were their children, Julian Romanus and Cecilia Romus.

But the question arose, which Praetor was sent?

My conclusions had led me to the boy-praetor, Julian Romanus, who had more military experience under his belt. If my guesses were right, Cyrus’ mother was somewhere in the envoy, was replaced, or-

There were much too many unknown variables at play. If I wanted to make an unpredictable choice, it would need to be a restrained one - adding a scorpion to a bag of snakes would prove as much danger to the scorpion as the snakes, or so I was told.

I could set the Empire on fire. It would be too cliche - Lysimachos already did that, what with his attempted genocide of Imperial Kato - but it would somewhat effectively draw attention.

I could also target the Praetor, plant a discreet dizzying balm on his person, and make him swear a Fealty Oath, sign a marriage contract, or cause some other scandal. I could use the Cardinal duchies - Cadmus, of the east Eurus; Hyacinth, of the west Zephyr; Athinon, of the north Boreas; maybe even Notus’ Lords, if I was feeling risky enough. I had heard word of Doxa sending word that the Evlogia duchess - poor Roxane’s mother - would arrive to help herd - I mean, delegate - the envoys.

There was a world to play with, if I ignored the pieces of my siblings. But I couldn’t.

Greta practically ruled Boreas, with her strong ties with the marquessates and counties that dotted the North, along with the Highlander smell that lingered on the Athinon duchy. Cyrus’ influence extended to Doxa, with Roxane’s power - his commercial influence, likely partnered with Roxane’s business sense, led to him having a tight partnership with the Evlogia duchy.

Josephine’s parties and gathered societal influence held sway in the capital, and she had her claws in practically every rumor along with a stranglehold on the Eternal City’s red-light district; Orion was usually solitary, but he did command some of the Imperial Army’s forces with his renowned archery. Arathis could pop in most nobles’ homes without getting attacked, with his unpredictability and how people underestimated him, but he did have a lot of political connections, especially on the second Isle.

I tried to remain quiet, but I did have a hand in quite a few pies, with my information-gathering agency. If you ignored our renowned eccentric personalities, the Imperials were everywhere. It might’ve seemed at first like a small chess game between family members, but we were everywhere and we were dangerous.

They were everywhere, and they were dangerous.

So much so that most families below the duchies and a few marquessates usually didn’t dare look Greta and Orion in the eye.

But I was the Sixth-in-line, apparently overshadowed by my predecessors.

Perhaps, it was time to draw attention.

The Elysian Isles - these three isles float atop Lake Ichor, one of the Empire’s greatest cities. Aionos, the Eternal City and the capital, is the first - a center of both commercial and political might. Inevita, more often referred to as the Second Isle, is the second - a former military stronghold, it is now a scenic, blossoming island-city. And last, the Third Isle, more often than not called “the Cage,” home to the Empire’s one and only longtime competition for those worthy of taking on the Imperial mantle, the Queen’s Cage.

The practice and legalization of the Queen’s Cage was due to the First Emperor, name unknown, after receiving a declaration from the Gods and the Queen Hera herself. The Twelve then turned the Third Isle into a battlefield of the Chosen, choosing every five years those above sixteen to compete. The Empire’s Cagekeepers keep track of the young, watching the Footage as the last one standing is called “the Victor.” The title of the Victor currently belongs to five individuals, a larger amount than most.

The Victors will battle out, and eventually the last one standing amongst them will be named Heir Designate, and given the title “Glory Prince.”

Those of the Empire more commonly practice the Belief Anothen, placing their faith in the Gods and the Twelve, after the Slaughter - ordered by Emperor Lysimachos the Insane - that wiped out most of the Kato population.

The Empire’s history is long and illustrious, boasting many historical figures like Empress Angelo the Avenger, Glory Prince Rocco and Imperial Prince Dantaleus[...]

- Excerpt from 'A Brief History of the Empire Eoina,' published 60 P.Q.C.

criticized for presenting inaccurate information after addressing Angelo the Avenger as "Empress," and Dantaleus as "Imperial Prince"; faced scorn from many when it was revealed that the writer was a Lysimachos apologist.

It wasn’t surprising that the Imperial chef was suspicious of me.

It was surprising, however, that he heard me out.

“Right,” I said, seemingly sheepish as I discreetly signalled the ladies-in-waiting to intimidate the staff into moving, “so I’ve heard that one of the envoys, Praetor Julian, is…well, his eyes are apparently the dreamiest.”

I forced myself to swoon, “and his features are so chiseled! His statuesque figure in his cape, and his muscles…”

The Chef looked unconvinced. “Right.”

“And, er…” I motioned for him to come closer. “I’m only seventeen, and I know it’s illegal, but I’ve heard that his-”

The Chef coughed, interrupting me. Well, at least I didn’t have to go there. “So you,” he said, “want me to let you slip an aphrodisiac into a diplomat’s meal?”

I nodded.

“You, a Chosen of the Gods who won the Queen’s Cage?”

I pouted. “Face-” I looked at his uniform “-Hawthorne, I’m sure this sounds kind of far-fetched, but…” I let melancholy touch my eyes as Alyssa snuck behind him, herbs in hand.

“Josephine gets all the attention,” I confessed. “I’m always second - or third, or even last - in archery, murder, arson, politics, even business. I just...don’t want to lose out on this one.”

Hawthorne sighed. Exasperation, mixed with tension. Apprehension. “Your Highness,” he said, trying to sound reassuring and failing, “I’m sure all your siblings care about you. They just don’t-”

“But they don’t,” I wailed, semi-loudly. “The last time I had someone interested in me, he was nearly burned at the stake.” Of course, I had been the one to tie him there, but they always said semantics were unnecessary to dwell on.

Alyssa signalled that she was done, and I gave her a faint nod.

The Chef’s eyes widened, and he shifted uncomfortably. “I-”

“I’m sorry,” I said, sniffing, “I’m sure I’m boring you. Everyone says I look creepy.”

Hawthorne benevolently refrained from saying, Yes, you are, which his body language was flaring - I made a mental note to ask someone to give him a raise - and sighed.

“Some people do gossip about your appearance,” he admitted, as if I was unaware, “but it’s not because you look creepy. You just look a bit...intimidating.” He paused. “But, Your Highness, I’m sure there are many people out there who find you attractive. You just have to find the right one.”

“Really?”

After finishing up with Hawthorne - Gods, he really was quite a chap - we left the kitchen.

Alyssa remarked in approval, “Gods, that was some mighty fine acting.”

Alia smacked her. “Don’t speak casually to Her Highness,” she scolded Alyssa.

They seemed like good friends, even if Alyssa was of higher rank. Pity.

I smiled, wryly. “It’s alright. You guys can call me by my name, and speak casually if you’d like. I’ve been polishing up on my skills.”

“So, what was inside the powder?” Celeste tried, tentatively. They didn’t ask where Mercy was - they were smart enough to know that the answer would likely put them in danger - but I answered them honestly.

“Crushed rhododendron,” I replied. “I’m told one of the envoys’ parents is a gardener, and are particularly fond of them.”

Surprising, considering what it could mean.

One meaning was love, generosity, and cheer. Based on my ladies' expressions, I could tell they knew the other.

Danger, beware.

“Nameless” was a surname given to the abandoned.

Xanthe, however, considered it a surname like any other.

Xanthe Nameless.

Mercy, the Princess had named her with a smile on her face. Xanthe grew up with only her brother, in the orphanage, before she was ‘abandoned’ yet again as he was Chosen by Poseidon. And truly abandoned after he passed away in the Cage.

The Princess had loved him, and said the name Cas with the bittersweetness of someone who had loved and lost.

The Hundredth Victor had said that in the end, when the last person was killed and only Seraphina and Caspian were left, he himself had chosen to commit suicide.

Xanthe would be a fool not to suspect that Seraphina killed him, but then again, the pay was steady and the only time Seraphina seemed truly genuine and solid was when the Princess talked about her days with Xanthe’s brother.

And so Xanthe had trusted, and she hadn’t regretted her decision any more than she regretted anything, really.

Regrets were useless.

She had regretted being born. Regretted letting her brother go. Regretted everything. But then her brother died, and she had no choice.

She turned eighteen and was kicked out of the orphanage, and she had no choice. Did regrets give her a choice?

They had no use.

Xanthe was Princess Seraphina’s blade that knew no mercy.

In a way, she was a mercy itself.

If Xanthe was sent instead of Princess Seraphina herself, that in itself was a mercy.

And so Mercy watched as the evening rays of the sun swallowed the slums she used to live in like a hungry dawn-serpent. The view would be almost like a painting, perhaps one of those that hung in the Imperial palace, if not for the decrepit structures and tattered bodies on the street it featured.

Hallowed rosy light cast its touch on the shriveled skeletons of children as they shivered in corners, as if Helios’ arms were a healing contact instead of a reminder that the suffering wouldn’t end.

Mercy didn’t feel indebted to slum-children the way Xanthe did, but in some way, the way the sun thought itself holy, as if showing itself would delay death, made her angry. Most of them would be dead, or worse, before dawn.

Mercy pushed the feeling down, as she ignored the sleazy look in some of the greedy Merchants’ eyes - they were likely only here to snatch up children for some pleasure trade or trafficking ring, with promises of gold and fortune and a location nearer to the Imperial Palace.

Some of them had been very convincing, Mercy remembered, until she had pickpocketed them and hightailed it out of there.

But today, she wasn’t a Nameless anymore. She was here for information. Trudging over to a familiar, hunched figure in rags, Mercy leaned down and whispered, “Glory to the Sixth.”

“Yeah, yeah, she who comes from myth,” the figure grumbled. “I don’t see why we have to use that catchphrase. It’s corny, and we already know each other.”

Xanthe agreed, but it was made by Mace, so there was really no choice.

Mercy shrugged. “Not my problem, Aen,” she replied, nonchalantly. “Fork over the information, and you’ll get your pay.”

Aen muttered something under his breath, and then said, “Some of our spotters have located Baron Cirillo roughing up some of our guys. He didn’t take well to our rejection of his offer, saying, and I quote, ‘that Princess thinks she’s all high and mighty? I’ll show-’”

“Right, right.” Mercy waved the feeble attempt at a threat off. “Are any of the others moving?” By others, she of course meant the-

“Big players?” Aen scoffed. “None of their ilk would be caught dead here, but…” the homeless man deepened his already-permanent frown. “I saw an Evlogia footman stumble in one of the bars. Paid off the pleasure-man he was with and apparently he managed to slip that the Duchess is making a move.”

Mercy raised an eyebrow. “Anything more behind it?” she pressed. “Doxa’s to the west, and it’s a Daycycle journey to get here. There needs to be something bigger, Aen.”

Aen held up his hands. “Look, I’m just telling ya-”

A beat too fast, and Mercy was already whipping out her knife and pressing it against the man’s filthy throat.

“You know something, Aen,” she hissed. “Tell me.” Crimson beads pooling against the sharp cut, as Aen swallowed.

“Ya know, I sometimes forget that you’re one of them,” he said casually. “One of them man-eaters. I see it in the Princess’ eyes, ya know, that barely-chained monster, and I see something being born in you. I know a slum-dweller when I see one, and you’re-”

Mercy dug deeper. “Talk.”

Aen’s voice was hoarse, but he continued, “I expect a raise.”

“It’ll be up for debate. I won’t repeat myself twice.”

Aen laughed, the sound brittle. “You’re desperate, aren’t you? Her Highness probably is, too, and I don’t blame you.”

A silence, as Mercy’s blade sank deeper.

“The Duchess is meeting them at the gate, to see if some of them are compatible with her duchy,” the homeless man replied, finally. “Now, where’s my-”

A slash of the knife, and Aen’s voice was cut off. Blood pooled from underneath the rags, and Mercy looked down at the corpse coolly.

After a pause of deliberation, the assassin crouched down and picked up her blade again, sawing off at the skin at the base of the head. It was lacerated, and soon was a floppy tongue.

It was a punishment, known to most in the slums.

Mercy kicked the body to a corner, placing the head and tongue separately beside it.

A person who talked back. A person who would cross the River Styx without a coin underneath their tongue.

And so the Sixth-in-line’s Blade of Mercy pushed her origins and humanity aside, as she left the blood-stained alley, onto the next.

Regrets were useless.

I never liked family time. At least, not with the entire family. And certainly not with my biological family.

So you could imagine my discomfort when I was faced with both.

“Duchess Theadora,” I greeted, politely. “Duke Matthias.”

The woman’s face had on a familiar, bright mask; while the man’s had on an uncomfortable glare.

Arathis chirped, “So it’s Sixth Mother and Sixth Father!”

Orion looked between my neutral interactions with my parents, and his amber eyes narrowed. He had always been perceptive - perhaps it was his archer’s eyes. I met his eyes with my ever-placid facade, as I lifted my eyebrows just a bit.

He knew. Not just the lack of a relationship between me and my biological parents, but everything. Greta, Cyrus.

Dangerous.

Orion’s eyes narrowed further, and I let a smile flicker across my face as I replied to Arathis warmly, “That’s correct.” I turned to them. “Your graces, are you joining us for dinner?”

As I addressed them, the Duke’s hand automatically flew to the pouch at his waist. I let out a small amused snort, which the Duchess Theadora noticed. She was always perceptive, too.

I had been planning to read Greta, and probe her, but I couldn’t do that outright around the Marksmen - knowing them, they would take it as an opportunity, and it wasn’t as fun playing along with them.

Besides, I had already assigned my Crownpieces already.

“No, we’re here to get my money back,” snorted Matthias. “You-”

“Might I remind you, Duke,” I said, pleasantly, “that I have upheld my end of the deal. As I see no reason to break it, I must repeat again, Your Grace - are you joining us for dinner? It must’ve been a long journey from Inevita.”

I could feel everyone’s gazes on me, even the Emperor.

Family dinners were rare, but unexpectedly- but if Nikephoros was in on it, expectedly - the Emperor had called one. And it had just began, before someone meekly announced the Marksmen’s arrival.

Theadora sternly, yet silently, reprimanded Matthias, before saying, “If it’s not too intrusive, dinner sounds lovely. If His Imperial Majesty allows it…?”

Nikephoros inclined his head, and so dinner continued.

I spent the night running through games again.

Tomorrow would be a storm.

All roads led to the Eternal City of the First Isle, apparently, according to the rather irritating Imperial guide that had been assigned to Julian.

He was half-Republica, of course, and Julian wasn’t surprised. Irritating foreigners usually didn’t survive long.

The rather luxurious carriage that Julian was currently riding in, loaned from the Republica treasury to each of the delegated representatives, provided a view through wispy curtains of sparkling azure waters, presumably of the Lake Ichor.

Allegedly - and the Praetor said allegedly, since he didn’t trust the weaselly guide’s information any more than he trusted greens to handle a Minotaur without pissing their pants - it was said to be made of the blood of the Gods.

Apparently, Imperials valued dramatic flair.

From far away, the three city-size floating pieces of land were strange.

The Eternal City was a fusion of buildings almost arranged in tiers - the upper, more intricately built structures of a metal that resembled Republica platin but with a gold sheen, and the lower ones of squat, neat brick.

The Palace at the top was a grandiose, almost jutting structure with a long, thin spire protruding from a cathedral-like castle, sloping curves embedded with gems and all.

As Julian watched the carriage pursue a smooth path across the bridge and to the gates of the Eternal City, his thoughts went back to mutters of the passerby from the towns the vehicle left behind. “Envoys? What for?” as they saw the crimson crest emblazoned on its wheels.

But the boy-praetor frowned and let out a deep sigh, for all his eighteen-some years of age. The younger you rose in the ranks, the more respected you were as the brighter your future was - Julian had spent more time defending the Republica stronghold of Gloria from the incoming Waves than most patricians.

House Roma’s Romanus branch was an old bloodline, that was traced back to the founding of the Republic and the establishment of the two Armies.

Julian’s high military and noble rank meant that his carriage was at the front, so he was the first to halt, and the delegation behind him followed his lead.

And so the Praetor of Romulus opened the carriage door and stepped outside, and was immediately faced with a weaselly Imperial. Pinch-faced, yet clear-eyed, the woman was obviously of an important sort - Julian had taken some time to look over the Empire’s nobles, and he recognized the emblem of a ducal household.

Evlogia, the duchy of Doxa. Her flame-haired locks were harshly pinned up in a bun, along with complementing flowing robes - the guards that followed her were draped in gold liveries, mingling with the duchy’s personal emblem: a rising dawn insignia.

The woman bent her head. “I introduce myself as Duchess Alina de Evlogia, of the Duchy of Doxa. I am here to greet your arrival, and I hope you have not waited long.”

She said this in the Republica dialect, which Julian appreciated. Imperi was strange to speak, even if he was fluent.

“I introduce myself as Praetor of Romulus, Julian Marius Romanus, of the Romanus branch of House Roma,” Julian returned, sparing the Republica courtesy of informing the Duchess of his lineage. “We have just arrived, and we thank you for your prompt greeting.”

A clearing of the throat. Julian turned to the patrician, not letting his annoyance seep into his voice. “I introduce her as the Patrician Cassia, Alberta Octavia Cassia, of the Cassia branch of House Roma.”

Cassia inclined her head a bit lower, and greeted, “It is a pleasure.”

“Mine, as well,” replied the Duchess.

Before the other could clear his throat, Julian added, “I introduce him as the Patrician Summanus, Titus Severan Summanus, of the Summanus branch of House Roma.”

The lecherous old man grinned. “You mar-”

Julian shot him a threatening look before he could go on with his shenanigans, and the patrician’s mouth snapped shut. “He says it’s a pleasure, as well,” the boy-praetor spoke for him, eyeing the old man threateningly.

Amusement twinkled in the Duchess’ eyes, before it disappeared. “Likewise, likewise,” she replied. “My Guards will follow your entourage as a precaution to the Palace, where we shall meet again. A banquet will be prepared shortly, unless your need for rest is hard-pressed?” She phrased the last sentence as a question, to which Julian smiled.

“No need,” the praetor smiled, continuing in Imperi, “It’d be a pleasure.”

He didn’t use the word honored. That was basically shouting out in the Republic, “I’m inferior! I will be indebted into your service!”

And with that, Julian boarded his carriage again, shooting the Patrician Summanus a hard-earned cautionary glare - back in the Republic, his sleazy ways were notorious - before exchanging looks with the Patrician Cassia - she was level-headed, but a bit too sneaky - before settling in.

So the entourage moved forward again, this time taking a road decorated in both Republica crimson and Imperial gold, with tasteful flowers dotted here and there.

This was the road away from the brick houses, which Julian caught on as they swerved around gold manors. Were they purposefully displaying Imperial wealth as an intimidation tactic? Or were they “compassionately” ignoring the slums of the Eternal City in order to “provide a smooth journey?”

It was strange. But not strange enough to bring up.

The Palace was a gargantuan, golden mass, curved and strange in the way that Republica architecture wasn’t - thin columns topped with less ornate decor, yet if not for the simplistic elegance Julian would’ve called it tacky.

Gems were everywhere, studded into the sides, and it radiated splendour.

Like Julian said, tacky.

He kept the distaste out of his expression as he slammed up the stoic one that he’d learned to adopt, through the years. To keep morale high, even if a Wave that came was larger than the last. They didn’t need to know his panic, or when Julian’s praetorian purple cape seemed heavier than ever.

“We announce,” said a loud voice, “the arrival of the envoys!”