A sacrifice is best refuted by accepting it and throwing it out the window.

- UNKNOWN CROWNPLAYER

THE PERSON WAS A MAN. A VERY HANDSOME MAN. A man of beauty that transcended the heavens Above - angles and soft curves like a carved angelic statue, anatomical perfection with sparkling green eyes and a delicate nose. Wispy dark hair clung to his head, with arching eyebrows and a full mouth. Dressed in luxurious viridian robes matching the colors of the Theater, he looked like he belonged there.

“Lord Timaios.” I gave him a nod and a grin as the former socialite shifted in his seat uneasily.

“Your Highness,” he replied. His eyes flickered to and fro the private box in the Imperial Theatre like he was a hostage.

Well, he technically was - but at least it had been a consensual kidnapping. He had agreed to meet me here. Mercy was by his side, her hand on her daggers.

“Admiring the architecture?” I asked, amused, as I beckoned for Julian to sit down.

Timaios’ gaze immediately went to the boy-praetor, in all the Republica’s military regalia. “It is amazing,” he agreed.

It was. With sloping emerald halls and studded Doxa columns - the name came from its place of origin in the west - it was a grand amphitheater, built for housing emperors. It was a luxury center of entertainment for the capital’s rich and powerful, and only the highest elite of society could purchase private boxes.

A large, sprawling stage with elegantly painted mosaics on the ceiling - deeds of the Olympians and the few other Gods whose myths remained known - and creamy walls that framed rows and rows of curved layered seats.

I frequented the theater on my better days - sometimes alone, and perhaps it was because of the fact that the vivid greens reminded me of the jungle in the Cage. Mostly it was because of the things you could do during the acts.

Throw in a dead body? The opera singer would improvise it as their dead lover’s ghost. If one of the choir choked on their tongue? Alas, the song called for it - a lighthearted melody would slowly turn into a melancholic ballad.

It was amusing, how professional they were - some younger noble scions liked to mess with them, too, as a way to pass time.

You could say that those of the Eternal City were strange.

“Brilliant, really.” I smiled and settled into my seat. “What Play are we watching today, Timmy?”

“We had a choice of The Fall of Icarus, the Queen and the Blacksmith’s Fall, Adonis’ Tragedy, and the Sun-Archer’s Lament,” replied the former socialite, his body language still conveying his skittishness at the nickname. “I hope you don’t mind, Your Highness. The Lament has always been a favorite of mine.”

I shrugged, still grinning amicably - an expression I wore rarely these days.

“We can stay for Daphne, but our business will be concluded before Hyacinthus,” I said, naming the first two Acts of the famous Play.

Famous for being tragically long, after Apollo’s forbidden loves. He’s stalling.

I turned. “Ah, I should let Julian introduce himself first. Praetor, this is…”

It was a wonder how quickly the anxiety Timmy displayed before died down.

“Timaios la Drakos, Heir of the Drakos Marquessate,” the man said smoothly, in persona. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord…” Calculation. Theory. Elimination. Anticipation.

“Patrician,” Julian corrected, as he gave a nod of acknowledgement. “Julian Marius Romanus, Praetor of the Romulus Army. It’s a pleasure, as well.” Curiosity. Possibilities. Consideration.

As the curtains were raised and the lights flickered on - I could recognize one or two wealthy families in the crowd, amongst others - I reached over and patted Julian on the shoulder.

“My sweet, this is Timmy. He has the paper contracts for our offer.” Endearments don’t startle. Discomfort, perhaps. Question of etiquette? I asked my Ability.

Rigid, was the only certain response.

Timaios sighed, either at the endearment, the situation he was in, or both. “If I fulfill my end of the deal, Your Highness, I hope you will fulfill yours.” Digging into a rather large pocket, Timmy brought out a wad of papers, which I took just as the actors took the stage.

“We never made a proper deal,” I reminded him. “It’s better being used by me than Greta - I’d think a retired man like you would prefer not to be wrapped up in these affairs.”

I threw the bound papers in Julian’s direction, and gestured for him to read, before meeting Timmy’s eyes.

“But then you’d think wrong, Your Highness,” Timaios replied wryly. Liar.

“Perhaps.” I raised an eyebrow. “But I really am only a mouthpiece for Alyssa, Katherine, Sophia, and Tanis’ concerns.” I watched Timmy’s eyes glitter at the name of his multiple lovers, before continuing, “You either play the game, drakon-vasiliki, or you don’t. I advise you to make a choice very soon.”

You have no choice but to make a choice.

I smiled placidly, and leaned back on my seat, my eyes straying back to the Play, as Timmy let out a tired sigh.

Drakon-vasiliki. Dragon King, the man’s former name in the social circles.

“I haven’t heard that address in a long time, vasiliki,” the former king of high society said. “Not since your sister took my throne. But, like they say, no hard feelings.”

Bitterness. Resentment and being chased out and forced to be his father’s heir.

“No hard feelings,” I agreed, and let Mercy relax her guard. “The deal is struck, drakon-vasiliki.” He should probably be finished reading soon.

“The deal is struck, vasiliki.”

I turned to the praetor, who had finished perusing the papers, and rose from my seat. “Enjoy the show,” I said, before leaving the former Dragon King to finish watching the Play.

“A marriage contract, and an individual partnership contract,” said the boy-praetor, dryly. “I thought you Imperials couldn’t get married under eighteen?”

“Minors can participate in an engagement, though,” I said. “Make sure to read the fine print. I wouldn’t want you to get roped into anything you regret.” No, I need you willing.

Julian raised an eyebrow slightly, as if in suspicion, reading aloud, “‘This contract will only come into effect when the above signatories turn the age of eighteen.’ You’ve considered this for a while, for someone who you’ve only met for a day.”

Of course I have.

It is what is Wise, my Ability agreed. Besides, you already asked the Emperor for his permission.

“The three months after my return from the Cage have been spent both recuperating and preparing for any moves I might be forced to make, including marriage. You were a prospect candidate.” I leaned back in the cushy carriage.

“Are you aware of our real purpose?” Julian asked quietly, putting down the engagement contract and lifting up the other.

“I know of a vague outline,” I said, “but information directly from the Source would be appreciated.”

The praetor sighed, and for a second seemed even older than the ancient aura he projected, if that was possible. He raised his eyes from the paper. “The Republic has Forts, similar to your Strongholds - closest to the Union’s border would be Bellum, south of the Draconian Peaks, and Gloria.”

I placed the names to the maps, tracing the paths on the geographical regions in my mind’s memory.

“Gloria’s much closer to the Dark Forest - the forest itself spans land from the border to Tartarus,” I recalled.

Julian didn’t seem surprised, giving me a sharp nod. “Correct. The Romulus Army has control of the Forts Gloria and Bellum, while the Remus Army has a stranglehold over the Republica’s east Harbor City, Azareth.”

The source of inter-continental commerce in the Republic.

“So you, the Praetor, hold a Fort as well,” I said.

“I am Patrician of Gloria,” the boy-praetor agreed. Information confirms his information. Rings mostly true, my Ability reinforced. “I defend it from the monsters, and lead expeditions into our side of the Forest to clear the Waves. But-”

“The Source is expanding.” This was where Athena’s and Julian’s declarations ran perpendicular. “I can tell you the reason behind this-” You must pretend to know more “-If you expand on the Union’s moves in consideration to the Source.”

The Praetor’s dark eyes glinted. “They are secrets correlating to the Republic’s national security,” he said.

“My information concerns the continent’s safety,” I replied. “Ave, my Praetor - you have this time-limited chance to accept important information without a binding contract, or refusing the exchange and signing the papers instead.” Honesty.

“What if I leave this carriage?” Julian said, conversationally. “What will you do?”

A threat.

“You’re free to do whatever you wish, my heart,” I replied in the same tone. “But if you leave, you relinquish the right to be aware of my actions.” Right, not ability. Offering a concession that he could spy on me - solidifies-? “But I am on a time limit,” I continued, “so I suggest you choose quickly, and wisely.”

He needs to believe that I'm desperate.

You are, replied my Ability

“Again, I’ve only met you for a day.” Negotiating for leeway, my Ability insisted. “How do I know that this contract is even binding?” Semantics. Stalling?

I put my hands on both the individual contracts with their elegant script, and slid it forward across the carriage seat. “I keep my Oaths, Praetor. At least, here, it says it on paper - when I use you, you can use me.” I met his eyes. “The Union has moved in consideration to the Source. The reason behind the Source itself expanding I can provide you, in equivalent exchange.”

Julian sighed.

The art of negotiation rests in dependence. Who walks away from the table with what, depends on-

“I know why the Source is enlarging,” he said, “I’m not stupid. People who bring death are somehow connected to the gap.”

Surprising.

“Harbingers of Slaughter,” I provided the name, as Julian pressed.

“All the information of use you have gambled away,” replied the praetor. “The Emperor’s death, the secrets of the Imperial aristocracy-” he cast a glance at the papers Timmy gave him “-and even a warning about your sister. You have no cards left, and you’re betting on the wrong peacock. Why would I sign the contract, when you have outlasted your use?”

A military man.

Ah, a man after my own heart.

“My heart-” I followed the endearment with a laugh “-if you think those cards are all that I have, you are very wrong.” I smiled. “We Victors are your only hope, and I am the only Victor who still wants to continue living.” I met his eyes. “If you can’t win a game against me, you won’t survive Greta. I’m not requesting you to bet on me. I’m requesting you to know that I won’t lose.” I jutted my chin towards the bucketload of papers that I blackmailed out of Timmy.

Secrets were in there - secrets that could topple the Cardinal Duchies, the aristocracy as the Empire knew it. Under-the-table dealing, bastard children, financial instability, the claws of the Imperial nobles in the Lower Quarter - everything there was to know about the hierarchy were in those files in the Dragon King’s elegant script.

“That,” I said, “is just the surface, my love.”

The fact that Timaios Drakos, now the heir of a marquessate - an illustrious one, that held a fief to the west of Eurus - and former king of social circles, was actually active in gathering information was a surprising one.

Mercy had found it out only a month ago, and had established contact with dear Timmy while taking Alyssa as my lady-in-waiting.

It was a back-up tool, and one that gambled on the Dragon King’s supposed fierce loyalty and affection along with Alyssa’s supposed lack of full knowledge, but now was a time for every tool I had at my disposal.

Every single one.

“What do you intend to do?” asked the praetor. Calling my half-bluff.

“If I die today,” I replied, “I intend to set the Empire on metaphorical fire while doing it.”

Julian Romanus sighed again, for the third time since he boarded the carriage. I handed a quill-pen to him, and he accepted, pressing the tip to paper and bringing ink to life. “Do as you wish, Princess. Who am I to stop you from going out in a blaze of glory?”

He knows that you do not intend to go out at all.

“Now,” I said with a grin, to the boy I’d only known for two hours, “my fiance.”

The Emperor had seen the world.

Well, technically the Empire was a “shoddy substitute,” according to his Mother back in the day, “but a substitute nonetheless.”

Captain Ariadne Pax had been a dashing young woman back in her day - Nikephoros remembered the glint of a mischievous smile, the shimmer of a gold buckle on worn leather, and the gleaming blade of a Sailor’s cutlass.

Young Nikephoros had been brought along on her journeys, as a young boy - he recalled his father’s protests - and so he had seen every corner of the Empire.

Doxa, the west Stronghold - although not a Cardinal one, it was a center of commerce. The Emperor could smell the intoxicating perfumes of the loud marketplaces in the capital of Evlogia, the loud drums and the chiming revellazos that the travelling musicians carried - bright purples and pinks, vibrant splashes and bronze spires shining under the hot sun. Interlocked rings fortified the entire Stronghold, made of hardened precious metal like a treasured labyrinth.

Zephyr, the west Cardinal, brought to mind more demure colors - rolling sands and an expanse of dusty, squat buildings. The capital, Hyacinth, was a warm place, although dry - Nikephoros could smell the petals of the wind, if he tried hard enough, and taste the brightness of the sky. The Stronghold’s barriers were made of stone and concrete that stood tall, basking like a snake under the sun.

Boreas, the Cardinal of the north, was a harsh place - howling winds and craggy peaks, closer to the other continents yet distant from the others. Bitter ice and snow made young Nikephoros’ toes curl - it was a wonder that the olive groves there grew at all, but perhaps that was the work of Athena’s alleged patronage. Anthinon, its capital located in the Stronghold’s south, sported concrete porticos lit by winter’s sun and libraries full of forbidden knowledge - the calls of fur merchants bargaining rang in his ears, the frost of the renowned ice wall on the Emperor’s breath.

Tyche’s mists were renowned throughout the Empire. Although the Stronghold itself was heavily fortified, Ariadne had cheerfully taken Nikephoros around the moist, rain-encased stone wall that edged Cardinal prestige, but not quite reached it. The suffocating smog - a supposed byproduct of Tyche’s industrial ventures and its horrific weather - was a haze that consumed buildings, a strangely ethereal sight if you thought about it.

Young Nikephoros hadn't.

Eurus, with its golden-eyed inhabitants, was famous for its herbal and scientific wonders and eccentric people, with jeweled manors, unusual inventions, and fierce warriors. The marshlands east of Cadmus, according to the Captain, were called the Snakelands, and were the source of the Draconian Peaks’ name. (Only Notus he hadn't been to, on his mother's seafaring journeys.)

The vast expanse of the Visava continent that was the Empire Eoina, i aiónia aftokratoría, was now under Nikephoros’ command.

When he had first sat on the throne, childish fantasies bubbled up.

He could order people to down the walls of every Stronghold of old, command the Cardinal Duchies that were now his vassals by law, and rule the Eternal Empire.

It was in his blood, and in his name - Nikephoros, bearer of victory.

Couldn’t he achieve the unthinkable victory of uniting Visava?

He was out of those Godsbroken bars that confined him and dyed his hands in blood, and he was-

Victorious.

Young Nikephoros’ dreams had plummeted - slowly, but surely. Keeping in control the bag of snakes that was the royal court had sapped away his strength and youth, and the Emperor’s childhood dream had faded away as a choice.

The only person he had told about his flights of fancies - of a Visava that was full of not death and suspicion, but life and trust - was his daughter, and even then when Nikephoros remembered that day he tasted a bitter pang on his tongue and heart.

“To think themselves capable of reforming a centuries-old culture,” he had said, laughing, “would be man’s greatest folly.”

“To reform a centuries-old culture,” Greta had corrected, “would be man’s greatest victory.”

The Emperor had replied, “There was a time where I once thought so, too.” He had laughed. “But that time is no longer, my daughter. We exist to rule, not serve our own desires.”

His green-eyed daughter had met his eyes, and did the unthinkable - something unthinkable for the person sporting the moniker ‘Greta the Great,’ at least - and smiled.

It was a half-smile, of course - neither toothy nor sheepish, but rather a quirk of the lips that signalled amusement, like a person finding a rather peculiar pet.

The Emperor was taken aback for half a beat before relaxing his expression, to which his daughter responded, “It wouldn’t be completely out of the question for a ruler to be able to do both.”

Nikephoros was pulled out of the reverie by a clear-sounding bell ring. Concealing his irritation, he watched as his personal aide glared at the bell-ringer as his proxy.

The ringer, a nervous Servant-turned-Announcer, cleared his throat and croaked, “I announce the arrival of Imperial Princess, Sixth-in-line, Seraphina Queenscage!” The bell-ringer got even twitchier, as he added, “Accompanied by Praetor Julian Romanus, of the Romulus Army, of the Republic!”

It was amusing how Deimos - named after the lesser-known God of Terror - managed to convey the most entertaining expressions as Imperial Aide.

Nikephoros almost laughed heartily at the aide’s current surprised-yet-utterly-terrified mien.

Well, at least Deimos was never unreasonable.

Unlike some others.

“Daughter!” the ruler of the Empire called out jovially.

The Princess stepped out from behind the personal entrance’s screen. She smiled. This was an even expression - every one of his children had different smiles, according to the reports.

Greta, who rarely did so. Orion, who smiled only when on the prowl. Cyrus, who smiled when he was visiting a fond memory of the past. Josephine, who used smiling as a tool. Arathis, who smiled often.

Seraphina, his youngest, had a smile that bordered bone-chilling, yet wasn’t - it was like the serene surface of a lake before it was disturbed by a drowning scream, the Emperor supposed. Greta had once labeled her sister offhandedly as, “The personification of the calm before the storm - only she’s too green to even handle the storm.”

The Emperor wasn’t stupid. He knew his children weren’t stupid, either. Besides the Cagekeepers, he was the only one allowed to watch the Cage’s Footage. Every single one of them were survivors, killers in their own right.

“Father.” Seraphina did an informal curtsy, her back straight and experienced.

Deimos’ eyes narrowed, but Nikephoros didn’t say anything. She in her golden robes - she hadn’t changed her clothes since the day begun, she had been going places - was accompanied by the young praetor. Deimos’ eyes thinned further. The Emperor let an amused smile flicker across his face. A defense against Greta? Not a provocation, but half-way there.

“I got engaged,” his daughter added, gesturing towards the Republica.

Ah.

Not bad.

The Emperor snorted as his aide spluttered, “Engaged, Your Highness? He is-”

“My fiance, yes,” Seraphina agreed. “Father approved it, so no need to worry, Deimos.” This she followed up with a slight smile.

If you were one of the Palace’s staff, and got used to Seraphina’s mild exterior, even the smarter ones would conclude that she was beaming from overflowing love. But the Emperor knew that whatever facial expressions appeared on his daughter’s face were useless - every twitch of a finger, movement of a shoulder, slight quirk of the lips was controlled, and used to manipulate.

In this way, Seraphina was similar to Josephine and Arathis, which was probably the reason why they were “close.” From the way she had deftly handled her former family - reports of neglect and abuse had made its path to the Palace, as all information did - she was less green than the Emperor had expected.

Even Arathis had spent five years in the Palace, cultivating political connections, before he could tease Greta Highlander. Josephine had spent ten years, Cyrus fifteen, Orion twenty, and Greta twenty-five.

It was really no wonder why most of them preferred a quick death.

Only Seraphina had made a move, and Nikephoros writing it off as a blunder would be a mistake. Writing any of his children’s moves as a blunder would be a mistake. Well, maybe except for Cyrus.

But Cyrus was different.

Deimos snorted, but remained silent.

“Congratulations, daughter.” Nikephoros laughed. It was basic etiquette to not pick apart someone else’s moves if they weren’t playing a game with you, if you liked them. If they liked you back, they would tell you. “A good pick, a good pick,” the Emperor added, focusing his gaze on the praetor.

A tense frame, the Consul's son had, more due to habit than situation. The Imperial Spies had stated that they had met with Timaios at the theater, and had been abnormally close in the carriage.

Of course, Seraphina had made an agreement with the praetor.

“But I assume that,” Nikephoros said, lightly, “that’s not what you’re here for?”

The Sixth-in-line smiled. “The Republica envoys are here to request Imperial military support to hold back the increasing Waves.” She phrased the fact like a statement instead of a continental secret. “Wouldn’t they rest assured if a Chosen that was engaged to a Republica praetor - a patrician of the Romanus branch, to boot - got sent instead? Along with a certain half-Republica Chosen?”

The Emperor laughed, heartily. “A strategic retreat, is what you’re aiming for?” She knows she can’t win. “Has Cyrus even agreed to this?”

“He might,” replied Seraphina wryly. “I haven’t asked, but…” Her eyes flickered to the door, just seconds before a Servant dressed in the Imperial livery burst in.

“Your Imperial Majesty, Imperial Prince Cyrus is summoning lightning and destroying his Residence! He’s screaming something about how he’s going to kill Imperial Princess Seraphina!”

FROM THE IMPERIAL DESK OF SERAPHINA QUEENSCAGE

Cyrus,

My dearest Older Brother,

I’m sure you’re aware that this letter requires it to be opened alone. Away from Roxane - who, by the way, is unusually well-acquainted with Timmy’s younger brother - and away from Father’s spies.

I’m also sure you’re aware that eyes are everywhere.

Back to the actual topic.

I do apologize for the lack of discretion on my part - questioning your birthright, etc. - but I suppose it was out of necessity. You of all people, my dearest older brother, would understand, I’m sure.

Hortensia Halgrove, your birth mother, fell ill before embarking on the journey. She was replaced, at the last minute, by my dearest Julian. This means that our dearest oldest sister - who, I’m also sure, will get ahold of this letter sooner or later - has a patrician on her side. Multiple high-ranked patricians, if I’m correct.

Oldest Sister contacted you, to ruin the Republica envoys’ chance of gaining military support. You likely viewed it as an opportunity for revenge. She viewed it as an opportunity to seize the throne.

We all know that Oldest Sister covets the throne. The rest of our siblings tire of the Palace, which is, admittedly, a reasonable reaction. Greta will kill all of us tonight.

Including you.

Yes, I killed Castor.

And yes, you will probably have quite a large reaction when you finish this letter.

Don’t blow up the Palace.

I will offer you a way out - come to the Republic as part of their Armies with me. Those left behind will be poisoned, but if Father agrees to this, we’ll have an official status that will make it difficult for Greta to kill us.

Stay alive, so you can take your revenge. When we make it out, everything's fair game - besides, you should really play Crown with me.

From, your dearest Youngest Sister,

Sera

Imperial Princess of the Empire Eoina

Perhaps it was his own fault for getting fond.

Castor reminded Cyrus of his older brother.

Not an older brother, really, but his Branch’s slave.

The Republic itself said themselves to be harsh and indiscriminate, pushing honor and their semblances of virtuous patriotism on all, but it was not true.

Patricians bullied the plebeians into submission, chaining them into the manacles of slaves when they could; purple capes and violet robes on frames that knew nothing but satiation, those who never let war change them, and they ruled.

You attempt to salvage your soul, Zeus had said, in the most pathetic ways of them all. Revenge.

“You did so, too, My Liege,” Cyrus had replied. Zeus and Kronos’ conflict were second to none in terms of notoriety.

And I failed. Revenge will not be your salvation.

But I will do it all the same.

Unspoken words that the Lightning King heard.

Rain, a storm-

The Halgroves had followed him, after exiling him - Cyrus had been whipped to near-death for running off with a slave, his older brother-

Pain. More than pain, an electrifying soaring through veins like-

His brother had died, with his last words being “run”-

“You’re an exile, you think you matter to me?”-

He had run to Boreas, to his supposed father, and had been refused-

Olysseus dying in scarlet flame-

They had pursued due to lack of options, and killed-

The Lightning King’s visit-

Gained powers, entered the Cage and brutalized everyone who stood in his way-

He had spent many years, planning, plotting, striking against those who opposed him. Every memory flashed before him as lightning crashed through the sky - familiar streaks of white and gold, sky-fire - and he roared again. Castor, his older brother-

“I’m going to fucking kill you, Seraphina!”

Roxane squeaked. “Lord Cyrus,” she said, her voice tinny, “you-”

“I’m going to use your entrails as a noose to hang every Godsbroken person you hold dear-”

“That’s a creative threat.” A familiar remark, from a familiarly mild voice. Cyrus moved without warning, every inch of his Ability impulsive and raw, as the noise of thunder boomed in his ears through the haze.

The lightning missed, the target dodging with almost inhuman reflexes as-

“My son, calm yourself.” Another deceptively mild voice.

“Imperial Father?” The haze of anger was a rapidly thinning smoke, as- He’s the Emperor, he’s your father - so what if he’s the Emperor, he’s in the way of your revenge - it wandered, trailing away slowly.

His blood slowly calmed, the tingling of his spine fading away-

“This is what happens when you don’t ask people for permission in entering them in intercontinental conflicts,” the Emperor was childing Seraphina. “You should be careful with your brother next time - he’s not like the others.”

“Sorry.” The word would’ve sounded mournful, if not for the light tone it was delivered in. Cyrus was tempted to strike her again, if not for the “yoohoo! Did we miss something?”

Cyrus’ vision was clearing now, and he could see the Forsaken bounding like an energetic rabbit towards the remnants of the Residence. The remnants.

This particular episode had cost the formerly grand marble structure, some pillars still smouldering.

“We had a disagreement,” Seraphina called, her tone even. And, directed towards Cyrus, she added, “I have no single person in this world that I hold dear. People I find useful perhaps, but your threat may be difficult to carry out.”

Cyrus growled.

“There, there,” Arathis coaxed. The Forsaken approached Cyrus, his pale hair striking against his dark skin, unnatural pale eyes blinking as he put a hand on Cyrus’ shoulder. He had probably arrived first because his Residence was closer.

The manipulator.

“Don’t touch me, Damned,” he hissed.

Arathis shrugged the slur off, his face still smiling, as the Emperor tutted disapprovingly.

“Cyrus,” Nikephoros said warningly, his entourage behind him. A purple-caped figure, the envoy that Seraphina had referred to as my Julian, stood a few paces out, assessing the scene.

Roxane was shivering behind Cyrus still, and the tingling in his veins roared again, this time sending his mind into Overdrive.

Emotions aside, the offer was something to be considered.

Collect, and then act.

“You.” Cyrus jabbed a finger towards his supposed sister’s direction, shoving Arathis’ hand off his shoulder as he marched towards her, leaving Roxane behind. “Let’s talk.”

Her lips curled.

“Yes, let’s.” Turning towards that damned praetor - the Romanus scion, who had been oh-so-beloved even back when Cyrus was in the Republic - she smiled. “My heart, I’ll see you later.”

The dashing, stone-faced praetor gave a slight nod, as Cyrus didn’t speak, turning to Roxane. She was the source of a good piece of his power, the duchess’ daughter who had stayed with him for a long time. Lifting up a finger, he pointed it at Roxane, and then circled it around the ruins.

Getting the message to clean the Residence up, the pale-faced noble shakily nodded, and Cyrus stalked off, Seraphina following.

I blinked. We were at my Residence chambers’ balcony, having tea. Cyrus was glaring at the finger foods like they’d somehow insulted his lineage, while I calmly sipped the liquid. The brew was bittersweet, just the way I liked it.

Mercy was off delivering the rest of my letters, and my ladies-in-waiting were off doing their other tasks. My Seraphs were turbulent, but I had tripled their pay and had sent them to set the foundation, ready my Crownpieces.

An intricate plan - one of my best yet, if I did say so myself.

Playing Crown really was fun.

I got up and opened the cupboard, my brother watching as I snagged a small leather case and shook the Crownboard inside it - my personal set, made of only the best ebony wood - out on the table.

Unfolding the familiar, lattice-like board, I separated the Pale pieces from the Dark, took the Dark pieces for myself, and we silently set the delicately carved figures up. After pausing for a while - his thoughts were collected - I spoke while shoving a Troop of five Soldiers, two Squareforwards.

I always liked Soldiers. You could move them individually, or Troop by Troop, and were great sacrifices to start off a game. But, in the end, whether a dashing Paladin infiltrated the Queen’s Circle, or a miniscule Soldier, a victory was a victory.

“Have you?”

Considered my offer?

A flurry of emotions sparked across his face. The upside of my Ability was that it was fascinating - Cyrus’ strong bursts of feeling were always fun to watch, whenever they bubbled up to the surface.

Outrage, anger, unbridled hatred towards something- and then my older brother shoved them under again, and he replied, cold.

“Yes.”

A sliding of a Troop to meet my own.

“Answer or question?” Answer to the offer or answer to my question?

“Answer.”

The game took twelve minutes.

I let him win.

“Oldest Sister!” I said, brightly.

Greta, dressed in her ceremonial robes and medals, didn’t look very surprised.

She raised a curt ice-blonde eyebrow while gesturing for her ladies-in-waiting to leave - all of the primarily Northern-looking nobles scurried out of sight, and we were left alone at the threshold of Greta’s Residence.

“Youngest Sister,” she replied, her tone dry, “what brings you here?”

“Not much, really.” I waved the question off. “Just a small request. May I come in?”

Greta gave a small nod, and I let her lead me to the front parlor.

It was blandly decorated, with a porcelain vase here and there for variety; the entire Residence, other than the expensive ivorstone it was made of, more resembled a soldier’s quarters than that of an Imperial Princess. The longues were a tasteful beige, and I immediately made myself comfortable.

“I know you’ve been busy, lately-” I revealed the picnic basket I had been hiding behind me “-so I made you a snack!”

The intimidating Princess radiated quiet power, but power still, but I let her aura wash over me like a cooling bath as I hefted the white basket that I badgered Hawthorne to prepare on the table.

“It is appreciated,” replied my oldest sister, her words still clipped.

The Imperials apparently aged like fine wine, if they appeared to age at all - her forty years looked halved. Her face appeared old in that natural, youthful way - I couldn’t tell if silver appeared in her blonde hair, the two shades were too alike.

If it was another losing themselves in the details of Greta Highlander, they would likely get pulled into Her Greatness’ vortex and never manage to find themselves out.

It wasn’t for my Ability’s she’s dangerous constantly marching in and out of my eardrums like an extremely consistent ant colony, I would’ve been one of those others.

“Right, so the request!” I tried for a beaming smile, like a nervous puppy eager to please. “I’d like you to not kill me!”

Greta didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know-”

“I have proof. If you’re going to finish that sentence how I think you’re going to finish it, I’ll release it to the aristocracy,” I added brightly. “I have my staff on standby. I don’t think you’d want that inconvenience in your way, Oldest Sister.”

The Imperial Princess raised an eyebrow. “So you admit that you can only pose as an inconvenience, Youngest Sister,” she replied, in that same relaxed tone that she had denied the fact. “My inconvenience, your death.”

Not a threat.

The truth.

“I’ll be of use to you,” I replied.

Isn’t it hilarious, how we thought we were at the top of the world, and now we’re begging at someone’s feet to make them keep us alive? my inner voice remarked, snidely. Oh, how great minds fall.

Great minds need to survive to get up from falls, my other voice hissed back. We’ve planned for this. Our Crownpieces are ready.

“But, then again,” I added, “you’d be the judge of that.” I threw my hands out like a dramatic actor at the Theater, paying rapt attention to every single movement she made and going over the escape routes and verbal contingencies I had already made. Adapt. “So please, Oldest Sister, judge me.”

Greta’s green eyes sparkled - not unlike how a snake’s eyes glittered when they spotted prey. She remained silent, her irises roving over me like she was analyzing every corner, every pore of my character.

I could’ve used a million pieces of advice from dusty Tomes and long-dead Analysts to fill in the silence, to justify it, but I let her judge me.

This wasn’t a diplomatic negotiation.

It wasn’t a Crowngame’s opening, either - the Game would only start if someone made the first move.

It wasn’t an elegant lure, or the bugle calling a hunt.

It was a move that seemed like a last-ditch effort on my part, a move I had learned from the Cage to take when your opponent was stronger than you in more ways than one.

It was a gamble.

I had never been a gambling person - it relied on opportunity, but not the definition that I had memorized. It was the unreliable type of opportunity, the kind that made you lose all your life’s savings on a flip of a coin, that made you rich and got you addicted to the thrill of risk.

Not the opportunity that wove themselves in words, but the kind that laced itself in movements, crossroads, burning bright like Prometheus’ fire while illuminating fools’ faces. It was the adrenaline that chance provided, the rush of diving off a cliff blindfolded knowing there was an invisible floor beneath, but there was a chance of missing it.

Relying on opportunity wasn’t Wise.

What had I learned from the Cage?

Life was a gamble, and Fate never gave time to determine whether or not every bet we placed was Wise or not. Even if my own Ability scorned me for it, even if it wasn’t what I knew, even if it was selfish to do what was fun.

I had a cushion to fall back upon.

If I got out of this alive, I would just need to use our predetermined signal - setting the Palace - for my Seraphs to douse their assigned targets in kerosene and surrender the corners of the Eternal City to flame. Mercy would immediately follow my instructions, using guerilla tactics and the Weaver’s Embrace to stall until I made my way to the Republic using a carriage that was on standby.

If Greta killed me right here, I would die.

There would be no time for regrets. I would die.

I wouldn’t be able to become Emperor. I would die.

Many notable Crownplayers had fallen back on complicated defenses, on lures and thousands of machinations at once. I was a Crownplayer through and through - just not the typical one.

People called me many things - a wolf, a liar, a skilled actor, a hunter, a Crownplayer, a Princess, a thief, a planner.

When you thought of tacticians, you thought of skilled manipulators - schemers, plotters, veterans. You are too arrogant. Even the Gods had told me on multiple instances - I wasn’t just a tactician.

I was a dealmaker, too, a confidence-man.

I was arrogant.

I finally spoke.

“The Game hasn’t started, Oldest Sister.”

Do you want it to start?

She had planned to kill us at dinner, to take over the Empire today. I didn’t have to show her my worth - she knew it, whether it was miniscule or not. Giving up the upper hand for me was a choice that Greta Highlander would make, not me.

It was a gamble.

I smiled. “I offer Fealty by the Gods, to Greta Highlander Queenscage, to be by her side as her subordinate through glory and ruin, till death do we part lest she decline.”

A flip of the coin.

Green eyes peered at me, the look in their eyes still dangerous.

Clipped words.

“You may rise,” my oldest sister replied. “I accept your Oath of Fealty, Seraphina Marksman Queenscage. May you be my side, through glory and ruin.”

I felt the coin land.

The upturned face grinned back at me.