The dead sing no praises.

- ANCIENT REPUBLICA PHILOSOPHER

THE WILLIAMS MARQUESSATE HAD A LONG, ILLUSTRIOUS HISTORY of poisoning those they found unworthy.

When Josephine Williams shoved that cup a decade ago across the table, she had been expecting the results.

And so she was right.

The stone-faced Poisonmaster’s facade had cracked before wearily informing her that her family had slipped wolfsbane into the very tea Josephine had been served the night before her twelfth birthday.

Sympathy had laced his tone; but, of course, he had done nothing about it, which had meant he was useless.

It had been a week before she ran away.

Neither the Marchioness Eleanora nor her aunt Theadora had said anything, and the name “Josephine Williams” became little more than a name on a long register - a disgraceful reminder, a traitor to the Williams’ military name.

Josephine had thrived on the streets. She became a pickpocketer, a mugger, a thief - whatever the Lower Quarter needed her to be, she was. She had been one of the luckier ones, working her way up to gain Dame Efcharístisi’s protection.

The right hand of the Dame who owned most of the Quarter’s pleasure district, Luxuria Efcharístisi’s most favored, Josie the courtesan.

She had never been just a courtesan, of course. The Dame’s eyes and ears, who served only the rich and powerful of the Empire. No one had recognized Josie, who reported back any information slipped from drowsy lips.

It hadn’t been the best life, but it had paid well and she hadn’t hated it.

People fell so easily to the creature called lust. Some well-placed physical contact, an intimate whisper and a breathy promise or two, and most fell completely under the spell they declared love.

They always called it love.

But Josephine never believed them. She pretended to, if they were useful. But it was an irony - a joke, of sorts, but she had never heard the Gods laugh - that Aphrodite herself had knighted Josephine.

In the Cage, the people were no different - they lied, they fell, they loved. They spoke empty words that Josephine pretended to believe, thinking her a delicate flower that needed to be protected. They fell, one by one, and Josephine had almost been satisfied by the way she hadn’t even needed to dirty her hands - they killed those left standing for her, in the name of honor and love. All she had needed to do was play along.

The last one she had needed to kill was the most arrogant of them all - but still, when he closed his eyes and surrendered to sleep, all she had needed was a dagger in her hand. And she had Won.

Because all she had ever needed to do was play along.

“That boy’s nice-looking.” Josephine Queenscage nodded towards the dark-haired boy in the purple cape shaking the Emperor’s hand.

“But he’s so boring,” whined Arathis. “He had, like, forty-seven chances to kill Father already. That handshake easily could’ve been poisoned.”

Josephine patted her brother on his shoulder soothingly. “If Father died that easily, he would’ve been replaced by Her Greatness a long time ago. It’s a question of Father’s skill, not the boy’s incompetence.”

Arathis pouted. The sight of a dark-skinned, pale-haired Forsaken pouting inevitably would’ve caused some sort of national scandal among the Anothen supremacists - Union Scum Has The Nerve to Act Like a Child - but the Writers had long been banned from the Palace.

Union Scum he may be, but he was as Imperial as anyone else in this Palace. And he was her brother. The Imperial Children were all dressed in gold.

Greta had grudgingly let Josephine pick the designs, even though Her Greatness had been the one to force everyone in them while testing which sides they were on. Of course, both Josephine and Arathis had played along, even though both of them knew the other couldn’t care less about politics.

“Let Greta the Great burn the Empire and loot its corpse for all I care,” had said Orion after they had gotten him drunk enough, “as long as the person who kills me isn’t a God, let me die in peace.”

The older man had confided, eyes gleaming, in Josephine. The tales of the hunt, his bow and arrows finding his mark, of the chase and the Cage. A thrill long forgotten. A tired man, Orion was, made up of the youth in his bones that had never faded.

A person who had fallen - not to love or lust, but to the Gods’ will. But in a way, in that specific category, all of them had already fallen. To the Gods.

Play along.

Josephine felt the gold imported silks on her skin, slippery and cool like the scales of a snake. A costume, a disguise she kept up daily. The neckline was much lower than necessary, but then again, the word necessary could go stick its arse in Tartarus.

Skin was skin, and she was used to it. It had taken a while, but now she could gladly say the same for power. The Lower Quarter's edges were well within her grasp, her alias as Josie now being hailed as Efcharístisi's replacement.

Her old mentor, the Dame, gave up her throne when she retired. The place she left behind was Josie's for the taking. As the envoys made their ways towards the entrance, each of the Victors greeted them.

The dark-haired boy’s violet cape and medals gleamed under the Imperial sun, eyes with that war-hardened glint. A boy reportedly seventeen, a veteran? Imperial Law dictated that those who enrolled in the army would only be those of eighteen and above, but apparently Praetor Romanus held the Republica Fort of Gloria for a total of a year and counting.

Three hundred and sixty five days against the Forsaken.

Josephine detected more - the Republic had Heroes, they said, but they were “little more than physically overpowered superhumans.” None of them could call upon celestial powers, or had Abilities. Superhuman. An odd word. What would Arathis have called him? An interesting person, her memory supplied.

The Praetor passed each member of the Imperial family, softly interlocking hands with each of the Victors, the stoic expression still on his face. The violet fabric met Imperial stone, and he made eye contact with Seraphina - as a peer, perhaps, no, more - before following the Emperor inside.

Josephine moved as customs indicated, side by side with the envoys yet somewhat behind them, in a shaky line.

Greta the Great was striding next to Josephine’s current father, the Emperor Nikephoros the Nightbidden. The father-daughter pair - relations in all but blood - were conversing with the envoys, making lighthearted remarks about the weather.

Josephine recognized that look on Greta’s face when Her Greatness was trying to be diplomatic - even the Emperor looked milder than usual, if that was possible. The heavy topics would evidently be discussed later. The Victors knew - Arathis the first and Seraphina the last - of Greta’s plans. That was a fact Josephine had already confirmed. Only Seraphina and Cyrus were going to do something about it.

Even when it was easier to play along.

Cyrus.

A tough person to get to open up, but that older Dockworker named Castor had meant something to him. But that card to use against him was already long burned. Revenge mattered to him, drove him - he wanted the Halgrove patricians driven to the ground, his Boreas commoner father’s name unknown. Purchasing weapons to start a continental war wasn’t beneath him, just as it wasn’t above him.

Seraphina.

A tough person to make sense of at all. A person who lied and acted after Josephine’s own heart, a Victor who cared little for the name, or at least pretended to. But there was a lust for power in her veins, even if she was skilled at keeping it hidden. That youthful greed was still simmering underneath the surface, a fact she could use.

That was if Josephine was a player in the game. No, this time she was just watching.

It would be easy enough to participate - to spark a rumor that could ruin reputations, manipulate the social circles as the appointed queen of high society. A whisper here and there, a touch or two, and she could burn generations like the Victors before her. They were all fighters. Some manipulators, some puppeteers in the shadows, some hunters, some prey. Some were consumed by revenge, but they had fought. And they had lived.

But, for Josephine, that desire of living had died a long time ago. She was going to play along. Die, if she must. Live, if one wished it. It was one thing, to play along with the Gods’ wishes, but it was another to simply play along because you wanted to know how everything would unfold.

Everyone always unknowingly did the former.

Death wasn’t a good look on anyone.

When people - correction: nobles - died in the Empire Eoina, they were usually buried in the family mausoleum. Some used their last wishes to cremate themselves and be kept in an amphora of ashes, others were more eccentric and had their bones carved into instruments or their organs preserved in amber that were displayed in - you guessed it - the family mausoleum.

I had heard of a noble who had gotten their blood drained and used both the liquid and their tendons to make a revellazo. I pitied our Undertakers. Our Undertaker had been a scrawny young woman, her shoulders burdened with strange requests and the certainty that she could be executed if she didn’t carry out the Marksmen’s last wishes to a standard.

Her eyes had been empty, her lashes short and her face all bone, and she had looked almost gloomy standing in the funeral.

Imperial funerals were usually a place for noble infighting, and, at times, competitive gloating sprinkled with some well-placed marketing - no place for an Undertaker. I had approached her, at fifteen. My uncle had died. He had deserved it, and many thought the same, so the proceedings were much more raucous and contained a good deal more gloating than usual.

“Hello,” I had said.

The Undertaker had squinted at me, probably trying to ascertain my suspicious motives, before finally replying with a tactful, “Hello…”

“Seraphina of Inevita,” I had supplied.

Technically, my introduction was supposed to be composed of Seraphina Ducalian Marksman, First and Only Daughter of the Marksman Duchy of the Second Isle. It was much too long.

The Undertaker had probably recognized the name contrary to my commoner introduction, and so she had stiffened. “Aucelia of Nowhere.” Ah, an orphan.

“What brings you, Face Aucelia, to this glorious corner?” I had asked, cordially, without missing a beat. “Did Aunt Vanessa chase you with a knife too?”

Aucelia hadn’t flinched. “The Undertaker is a part of funeral preparations, Your Ladyship, and it was not a part of your uncle’s last wishes for me to interfere with the funeral.”

I had snorted, delicately. “Let me guess, Uncle Cordelius probably wrote, ‘Serve Danielle poisoned wine at my funeral and make sure she drinks it before shoving the glass up her arse’ as one of them.” I had nodded towards the Marchioness in question, who was eyeing the liquor in front of her suspiciously.

An amused smile had flitted across her lips. “Perhaps.”

“You use the word ‘duty,’” I had said following a small snicker. “Do you feel an obligation to the dead?” No sane person would volunteer to be a noble family’s Undertaker.

Aucelia had immediately turned cautious. Smart.

“It is not my duty to avenge the dead,” she had replied, wary. “But it is my duty to help their journey to Charon.”

“For a coin beneath a tongue, a solemn breath,’” I had quoted, “‘For ye who pass here are in the reaper’s sleep.’”

“An Anothen Verse,” Aucelia had politely placed. “Are you devout, Your Ladyship?”

I had cackled. “No noble in the Empire’s a devout Anothen, Face Aucelia. I’m sure you’d know by now.” I had gestured towards the crowd of semi-drunk nobles, their eyes glittering with familiar malice. “They see Thanatos’ arrival as an opportunity. Perhaps some of them liked Cordy enough to poison the person who killed him - don’t give me that look, Face, everyone knows - but revenge is meaningless.”

I had turned my gaze towards the widowed Viscountess, and the fiery gaze of my cousin, Anne, who I had never really liked. “The dead tell no tales,” I had said, perhaps letting my bitterness seep through just a touch too much, “just as they sing no praises.”

Perhaps it's a better thing no one cares enough to avenge my death.

The Undertaker had looked at me with that pity in her eyes, the pity that meant she was internally preaching the woes of corrupted youth. It was that day, I had been surprised. “The Skylord fell by the Timelord, who fell by the Lightning King,” had said Aucelia of Nowhere. “‘Retribution speaks louder than forgiveness ever will.’”

A Kato Verse, forbidden to be uttered by the Anothen. An Undertaker who did not believe in the religion of the dead she readied. I had laughed, that day. I smiled, remembering the fond-ish memory - a solace, to take my mind of the monstrosity they called an Imperial dress on my person. I was last in line.

The lecherous old man, one of the envoys, kept making eyes at Josie. The Praetor - Julian, I called him - seemed more like an irritated father, kicking the lustful patrician in the shin as discreetly as the Praetor could when the man got too handsy.

I caught Julian’s eye, and winked.

The Praetor’s face remained stoic, but his pinky finger twitched.

That would be sufficient enough for my plan.

I would die today, if it went wrong. I knew by now that all of the other Victors were ready to die. I was, too, perhaps but-

Sera.

Don’t you want to change the Empire?

He had his own reasons for asking the question.

I had my own reasons for the answer.

I want to be remembered, I had said, and saying ‘yes’ is the only way to do that.

Cas hadn’t asked why. I hadn’t said anything further. If I did, it would be basically admitting that my nightmares haunted me.

At the time, I had a larger sense of pride. But now, if he were here-

I didn’t let my breathing spike.

Now, if he were here, I wouldn’t say that his screams are a part of my nightly torture. He would know. I wouldn’t ask why he left me. It was useless. I wouldn’t say that he was my first love. We both knew.

I would say that I now understand why he died but not why he lived.

I would say that I loved him, and missed him.

I would say that I, the real I, would change the Empire.

He had said one thing, one day - I remembered not the events leading up to it.

Never change, Sera.

I had changed. But it was alright.

I watched as the envoys talked. It was meaningless chatter, for the sake of polite formality. Josephine and Arathis were eagerly engaging in conversation with the older woman - I caught snippets of a “Gorgonian hemline” and a “legal form of mis-marketing” that meant that high society would likely be upturned sooner or later.

Orion was threateningly brandishing his bow as he protectively sat between the handsy old man and Josephine.

Cyrus was glaring daggers at not Julian, but the seat that was supposed to be filled by his mother, and Greta and the Emperor were tactfully asking about the Roma Republic, both of them skillfully maneuvering over the topic of military and politics like experienced partners-in-crime.

The lunch was going fairly well.

Luxurious plates of food made with only the best Anthinon olive oil were set - sliced Farmer’s paximathia bread with a twist, a main course of light oregano-roasted veal cutlets, accompanied by a serving of avgotaraho and moustalevria for dessert.

I had researched thoroughly all three of the envoys at the table, and I knew-

“Bottarga?” the Patrician Summanus, Titus Severan, questioned, eyeing the salted roe dish.

His favorite.

“I believe that is the Republica name for it, Patrician Summanus,” said Imperial Father, pleasantly. “We call it avgotaraho, here. The pudding is moustalevria, made with our grapes, and the bread an Imperial specialty called paximathia.”

Patrician Cassia - the woman named Alberta Octavia - remarked, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Your Majesty, but I have heard that paximathia is often a dish consumed by your Imperial...farmers.” Aggression.

She didn’t enunciate the word malevolently or with disdain, but the implications were clear. Are you serving us peasant food?

The Praetor Julian’s eyes shot warningly to the source of the aggression, and I could see that if it wouldn’t be obvious, the patrician would’ve been the target of a well-placed kick.

Disappointment, slight surprise, and regret flashed in the boy’s eyes before flickering like a flame blown out. Good control over emotions.

Fun.

So the Cassia branch had plans that didn’t align with the Republic’s interests - if it was the Republic’s interests at all. My siblings looked disinterested, but I could feel their eyes.

As quick as a subordinate defending their Captain’s honor, Greta interjected calmly. “It originated from the Farmers, yes,” the First-in-line replied, “but it has been a traditional dish passed down in the Palace for centuries. I do hope you enjoy the meal.”

You insult our ancestors’ food? Continue if you dare.

It was fun, translating. Especially with people you could Read.

The patrician almost continued - there was something amiss - before Julian cut in. “Many thanks,” the boy-praetor said somewhat warmly. “We appreciate the lengths you have gone to, to make us feel at home.”

I made up a compliment to make up for her insult.

The Emperor and Greta seemed appeased for the rest of the first course. Josephine and Arathis continued chatting with the Patrician Cassia, although their words became slyer - Cyrus’ already-sour mood seemed already sourer.

My brother had plans tonight.

But, then again, who didn't?

Dinner would be home to more serious talks - after a private banquet with the Imperial Family, a ball would be held in honor of the envoys’ arrival. It was really just an excuse for nobles to flock to the capital to test out the political waters.

That would be when Cyrus had planned to use Castor to raise chaos.

And that event would be Greta’s excuse.

I had no doubt my eldest sister would find some other way to kill us all tonight and become Heir Designate, but killing Castor still had been a good precaution.

I almost smiled.

But then I sank myself deep in thought again as I pretended to engage with the patrician Cassia. A Paladin, an Actor? Sent by whom?

From whichever torture method Mercy used, Castor had blurted out the entire plan. Even though he was Orion’s butler, Cyrus had lured Castor to his side in recent days in promise of - which was it, again? Wealth? Power?

When you were surrounded with people who desired mostly the same things, it was hard to keep track.

All Cyrus had commanded was for Castor to sneak in with the dinner staff with a smuggled Stygian rifle and assassinate his mother.

But then Hortensia hadn’t shown up, so my brother would likely have to revise his plans. Messing up the Republic would also be a form of revenge, I guessed.

Either way, Castor was dead. There was no way to frame him as a Kato extremist now.

If he had accepted my offer, perhaps his grave would’ve been dug deeper.

Mercy had informed me that she hadn’t buried him at all.

I watched in anticipation as the maids scooped the moustalevria from a tacky gold vat - yes, made of solid Imperial gold - into fancy pudding cups.

It was a few drops of scented oil - not strong enough to be suspicious, but there. Based on the gathered knowledge, the smell being present would be enough. Very faint, but there.

No one in the Palace, save the Gardeners, would care if the pudding smelled a bit flowery - I had bribed a maid to make sure no one made a fuss.

Julian Marius Romanus. Lovers, family, and extremely close friends would call him Marius, acquaintances Julian, but most knew him as Praetor Romanus, according to my files. Son of the Consul of Romulus, Marcellus Amadeus, and Patrician Hadranius’ daughter Claudia Julia.

He reportedly cared for his mother, purchasing a garden the size of a manor along with a private manor in the Republic after he was promoted to Praetor. Claudia was apparently more than just an avid gardener - it was common knowledge that she adored rhododendrons.

He would recognize it.

I was sure.

I wasn’t disappointed after it was Julian’s turn to eat - after the Emperor, in order of rank - and his dark hair shifting signaled that he was picking up the spoon.

The boy-praetor scooped the pudding and lifted it to his pretty lips. His nostrils twitched. Once, twice. And then he paused, his eyebrow and pinky twitching, as he was-

Ascertaining.

I picked up my spoon - it was my turn, after Arathis - and watched as the realization wriggled onto his expression like a grotesque worm. Surprise. Confusion.

His eyes immediately flickered up, running through the seated people at the table suspiciously like a Guard after a Thief.

His gaze met mine. Hazel. His eyes were hazel.

I deliberately let a corner of my mouth quirk. I felt myself lift the spoon positioned in my hand slightly upwards in a toast, as the boy-praetor and those at the table watched in the corner of their eyes.

I smiled, fully, like I was sharing some sort of intimate joke - I was, technically - and winked.

The smell wafted in Julian Romanus’ nostrils, constricting his throat like a well-placed tropical snake from the Dark Forest. That suffocating scent of rhododendron. Extremely faint, but there.

-- Promise, Marius? You promise not to tell your father that I’ve been gardening?

- I promise, Mother.

-- Good. You must always keep your promises, Marius. They are your honor, just as you are my pride - and you must always, always protect your honor.

- But Mother - if gardening doesn’t damage your honor then-

-- Marius.

- I apologize, Mother.

-- You are forgiven. Now, make sure to memorize the flowers’ meanings by tomorrow, and then we can play.

- Alright, Mother.

Rhododendron. The fragrant kind. The delicate, imported blooms shaped in outwards-arching stars that Mother liked to call glory-splashes.

The garden back home was full of delicate roofs devoured by bougainvillea from the Empire and latticework wreathed with jasmine from the faraway East - blood lilies dotted the ground along with the odd rare scarlet acacia from the neighbors across the Oceanus. Mother had said that she liked all of her plants the same - and she technically did.

She dutifully watered all of them, dug in the dirt and planted all of their saplings, but the way she handled rhododendrons in that way like she was handling the world was obvious.

When people visited Claudia Julia Hadrianus, they always brought a bustle of rhododendron. She would icily welcome them, and then they would leave, and her mask would break and she would take care of the plant like a child.

Once she had done so, and Marcellus had walked in - Julian remembered that look of not fear, but guilt on Mother’s face as Marcellus looked the display up and down impassively.

But that was enough of reminiscing.

Julian now looked at the girl who had winked at him with newfound - What was it? he asked his instincts. Terror? Unease? - emotion.

The entire table was staring, and Julian managed a diplomatic smile as he raised his spoon in return. Without the wink.

The conversations were still going on.

The girl.

Eyes of a neutral blue - orbs that belonged to not so much a diplomat, but rather a born audience member. A spectator’s gaze, but her actions - Confusing? War-sparking? - set off an alarm in his gut that signalled danger.

All of the people on the table, save the lug of existence that was Titus Severan, set off that alarm. And that was never a good sign.

Rhododendron’s meaning - danger, beware.

Julian grasped for her name - she had been introduced as Seraphina Queenscage.

Why was she warning him?

No - what was she warning him about?

Julian’s gaze trickled to the Guards on the walls.

Republica weapons dealers - at least, the few the Praetor knew that didn’t answer to his father - liked to tease the Imperial weapons dealers for being slow to incorporate firearms into their arsenals.

But apparently they had taken a fancy to the recent introduction of the bayonet, and Julian looked at the gun attachments appreciatively - as a general, of course. The firearms did hang in a secondary position, the main weapon being swords.

Even though Praetors were supposed to be the last line of defense, Julian could easily disable the Guards. It made him relax, a bit, before the warning blared in his gut again.

Danger, beware.

He shoved it side, just as-

“Praetor.” The Imperial Princess who smelled of wine and hidden plots spoke. “Are you alright?” The question was a concerned one, but the tone it had been delivered in was as if it was just a diplomatic obligation.

Julian had been told he had a sensitive nose. The woman looked around her mid-thirties, but the reports had informed him she had recently turned forty-one. The boy-praetor had also been informed that the more moral baggage you had, the older you looked, but apparently that wasn’t the case.

“Yes, Your Highness, just a bit tired. Sleepiness does make your eyelids heavy,” Julian replied politely.

Her pale skin had that shimmery sheen that all the members of the Imperial Family did - it was either the Gods’ touch, or the many herbs that the Empire was said to possess.

Dark auburn hairs clung to her scalp, the strands in a harsh bun similar to the Duchess’. Harsh. That was the word.

All of the Imperial Family had multiple lives on their hands, but the shade of precious metal they all wore remained as pristine as a clear summer’s sky - Greta Queenscage, as she had been introduced, also sported accolades - war medals, that weren’t really from wars, the dark bronze on her shimmering gold robes.

The Imperial Army was renowned as a continental joke, since there wasn’t much to defend besides the border that divided Visava and Riannon - and Riannon was more caught up in fighting amongst themselves than declaring a global war.

But it was still a formidable force, and the length of her epaulettes designated the Princess as a major. Julian’s observation fetched him a slight smile.

Next to her was the Emperor.

All of the conversations had been initiated with goodwill, and it had been a nice break before the real negotiations started at night - or Daysend, as they called it. But the Emperor’s flowy robes remained as welcoming as ever, the peacocks embroidered on them flowering in vivid detail.

Julian never liked peacocks.

He always thought they were haughty pieces of shit who thought they were the shit, for lack of a better phrase - not that he had seen many peacocks in the first place.

The patricians back at the capital liked to engage in peacock fighting - illegal rings where the birds with their multicolored plumage were trained for battle, made to compete, and were bet money on.

Other than those poor representations of the species, the fact that the animals were sacred to Juno - Hera here, Julian remembered - meant that those who belonged to the uncaged group pranced in temples dedicated to the Queen. Nikephoros the Nightbidden, a Queensfavored, was silver-haired and armed with a hearty laugh, years of experience, and control over one of the continent’s biggest powers.

One of the Imperial folk with their mystical Abilities, a formidable Juno’s Chosen.

Hera was a part of the Belief here, apparently. There was a game called Queen’s Crown in the Empire - a variant had made its way to the Republic, too - and their arena-isle by the name of the Queen’s Cage. Tartarus, even the Imperial surname was ‘Queenscage.’

While those in the Republic pretended to believe in their Gods by displaying their wealth and constructing temples, Julian was open about the fact that he was an atheist.

But on the continent where atheists were simply non-worshippers, it hadn’t been a big deal. The Republica were strict about many things, but Beliefs weren’t central to their culture - namely, the patriot-or-not game they played with politics that they called culture.

“Lunch is almost over,” the Emperor agreed, and turned to the rest of the envoys. “Your chambers have been prepared, and Greta will lead each of you personally to them. Then, we shall conduct our business later tonight - my children are at your disposal in the meantime as guides and translators.”

Julian Romanus’ gaze flickered to the girl, who smiled at the sentence.

It was as if she was goading him, although she remained expressionless - go on, pick me, her half-smile said. You know you want to.

His gut tugged at him. Take her. She’s important.

And so Julian Marius Romanus, Praetor and diplomat, surrendered to his instincts.

“I bet you a drachma that he scorns Greta and picks you,” said Arathis in a stage whisper that would’ve rivaled the Plays’ at the Theatre. “After that stunt you pulled - don’t look at me like that, we all know you pulled something - it’s obvious.”

“I bet two drachmas,” I interjected. “Minus the scorning.”

Josephine snorted. “Come on, guys - if I bet against the house, I’ll lose.”

I turned to Patrician Cassia, who was looking at our spectacle curiously - not just curiosity, calculation - while observing the boy-praetor at the corner.

Julian Romanus was in the middle of making a decision - and if he took the decision I knew he was going to take, he would have to make another.

I had drawn up two contracts for the beloved boy-praetor. The signature of either one would lead to him being one of my Crownpieces - such a valuable piece would need to be used with their consent, not without it.

The titles of First-in-line, Second-in-line, and Sixth-in-line really just meant that if the Emperor died without declaring a Victor an Heir Designate, the throne would go to the Victor from the oldest Cage. But the value of the ‘Heir’ title was more than just that.

It commanded societal power recognized by the Empire. It opened up diplomatic avenues, inter-continental trade as well as bestowing the authority to represent a continental power.

If Nikephoros died by poison without declaring Greta his Heir Designate, Greta wouldn’t be recognized by society as the Emperor although she was, legally, and would have to spend a tremendous amount of time and effort to achieve the feat.

Josephine currently ruled high society - everyone knew that she charged in elegantly, stampeded out the rumors of her courtesan past, and metaphorically hanged anyone who opposed her.

I wasn’t sure if she used her Ability, but Josephine had forced the former king, Timaios - who I was pretty sure Alyssa was having an illicit affair with - to step down and live in metaphorical retirement.

Even the Cardinal Duchies tried to maintain a good reputation in society - if they committed crimes, they at least tried to do it covertly.

“I guess we’ll have to wait,” I said, shrugging.

If Greta became the Emperor without the Heir Designate title, she would have to work closely with Josephine or Timaios to get societally recognized, and spend a good chunk on bribes. In politics, though, time was of the essence.

But if she killed all of us, and got the Heir title while becoming Glory Princess without all of the arduous politicking, it would be a much smoother journey.

There were a lot of available moves, and I knew some of Greta’s chosen pieces - if she kept us, using us as Crownpieces would be beneficial, but dangerous.

To play a game of Crown using nations was a dangerous game that was like playing with fire.

My Ability reinforced my conclusion that Greta knew how not to get burned.

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t like to retire to my chambers just yet,” said the praetor, interrupting one of my thought trains. “I’ve heard the Empire has quite a few enchanting sights. Before we get down to business, I’d like to indulge in my pleasure, just once, on this trip.” He smiled, and the Emperor returned it.

Patrician Cassia let out a scoff.

Disdain at both the praetor and the emperor’s supposed weakness.

A mistake.

Patrician Summanus was still ogling at Josephine, and Orion looked dangerously close to shoving his bow up Titus Severan’s ass - or causing a diplomatic incident by shooting him in the envoy’s reproductive organs.

Even if they didn’t talk much, the Archer really was protective of her.

Cyrus was still sour, although he looked slightly better after consuming some moustalevria - his favorite treat - albeit a non-alcoholic version.

“Father,” I said calmly with an injected note of cheer, “would it be alright if I take up the available spot as a guide?”

Greta and the Emperor exchange a fleeting glance - extraordinarily quick, so much so that I wouldn’t have caught it if I didn’t have my Ability - and my Imperial Father shrugged, his eyes twinkling.

Laidback.

I never could read him much.

“If Praetor Julius has no objections, I don’t see why not,” said Nikephoros. “Arathis, Orion, feel free to guide Patricians Cassia and Summanus. The rest - well, we’ll see how the night goes.”

And then Nikephoros swept up his peacock skirts regally, Greta following behind trying not to step on the long Imperial cape that trailed behind his chiton, and we were dismissed.

I smiled after he left, getting up and walking around the table to the boy-praetor’s side.

“Fancy a ride to the Theatre?” I asked him.

The carriage ride was a battle of wills.

“You warned me,” the praetor said, breaking the silence. “Why?”

I halted the carriage, ushering Lazarus to take care of eavesdroppers on the outside while making sure he was out of earshot. The carriage started again after a pause.

“I have information, two offers, and a secret. Which will you take first, and how?” I replied, answering the question with another.

The praetor’s cheekbones were regal and harsh, refined yet craggy like a diamond in the rough, half-unearthed. Dark hair clipped close to his scalp, but not so that his locks couldn’t be coiffed.

Sporting the darker bronze shade of most Republica skin, gold glittering at his chest, he was a general, through and through.

Honor. Stiff yet adaptable.

He didn’t feel his age. Then again, I was, too.

Hazel eyes studied me. Like an old customer ordering his usual type of brandy, he responded, neutrally. “I will take the information, first - no sugar needed. I will in turn not do the same.”

“The welcome was warm,” I commented. “The Emperor personally welcomed you without an official audience with his vassals. This could be taken as an insult due to the informality, or a compliment due to his personal attendance.”

Julian was silent.

“Are you familiar with the ascension method of the Golden Throne?” I asked him.

He didn’t reply.

As expected.

Mind games didn’t work on someone who refused to move.

“Glory Prince is the title given to the Heir Designate,” I continued, even though he likely knew. “To get declared Heir, you must kill all the others who have a claim to the Imperial Throne. Greta aims to be Glory Prince.”

I paused. Still silent.

“Tonight, my dear oldest sister will likely attempt to kill all of the Imperial Family, the envoys along with it, and seize power. When the Emperor dies - yes, I said when - she will take the throne and plunge Visava into war.” I smiled. “A war that she will win.”

At this, Julian lifted his head. Questions.

I knew what he was going to ask. I held up three fingers. “Three questions. I request of you to be efficient - we’re nearly to the Theater.”

The boy-praetor blinked. “Do you want to get named Glory Prince?”

“Heir Designate - Glory Prince is a title, not a position,” I corrected. “Not at the moment, but it’s a possibility.”

Julian considered the words. Uncertainty. How-

“How do you know Greta will win?”

“My Ability. She is powerful. More so than me.”

“What are your intentions?”

“A partnership. Like I said, I have two offers. At the Theatre, a person will be waiting with the contracts of those offers,” I said, the words edging the boundaries between the truth and a lie. “I won’t murder you, but I can’t promise anything on behalf of him.”

It was likely he would agree.

Mercy would make him agree.

Julian studied me, again. “I’ve only met you for an hour. How do I know I can trust you?”

“That’s four questions.” I looked out the window as the carriage stopped in front of a familiar, pearly building. “I’ll answer in the confidence that we’ll be able to reach a consensus in this relationship - you don’t know.”

I turned back towards the praetor, before adding, “But you can.”

Trust me to use you to the best of my Ability.