Fundamentally, I am a dangerous madman, and what I do is both a challenge to my egoism and a surrender to it.

- TEXT UNKNOWN, AUTHOR UNKNOWN

For Cagekeeper Lux's Analysis

Footage of the Ninety-Ninth Queenscage

VICTOR - DELAWAR, ARATHIS

REYNA

I’m scared, Arathis.

I’m really scared. What if Despina and Angelo don’t make it back? The Hanged Killer’s one of us, Ara - they might target them next, and I *hiccups* I’m so useless, I’m dragging you down, and I-

ARATHIS

No, you’re not, Reyna. They’ll make it back. And even if they don’t, I have my Ability, remember? I can revive them.

REYNA

But you can use it only once, and *hiccups* my leg’s broken, and I-

I’m so sorry *sniffs* because of your Ability, everyone wanted you on their side, and they targeted you because you were Damned, and they said *sobs* that you were just a weak contingency, and they would kill you in the end, and I didn’t stand up for you-

ARATHIS

No, you didn’t. But that’s okay, Rey-

REYNA

No, it’s not. The killer targets people alone, remember? And if we find Despina’s or Angelo’s corpse in one of these trees *sniffs* hanging from those terrible nooses, that means the Hanged Killer’s one of us both.

ARATHIS

Let’s just hope it won’t come to it, then, Reyna. We’ll be okay.

REYNA

No, we won’t.

They’re late, Despina and Angelo. And...you just came back from a bathroom break.

ARATHIS

* raises eyebrows* Yeah? I’m not sure where you’re going here, Rey-

A LONG PAUSE

REYNA

*hiccups* wouldn't it make since if it was- no, it's- *points a finger at Arathis, eyes drying* it’s you.

ARATHIS

*laughs* It’s paranoia, that’s what it is, Reyna. I’m a healer, remember? Chosen of Hades? A weak contingency - you didn’t even stand up for me, so how-

REYNA

My Ability says you’re hiding something.

SHE STANDS UP.

REYNA

Arathis, you *voice cracks* you’re the Hanged Killer? You killed all of the other Chosen?

A PAUSE.

REYNA

Are you going to kill me?

ARATHIS

Oh, well.

HE STANDS UP, STRETCHING.

ARATHIS

Well, this was anticlimactic.

A SILENCE.

ARATHIS

The big reveal wasn’t even that interesting. I thought it would be at least intriguing, trying to get you to find their corpses. I even planted them.

REYNA

You-

ARATHIS

Guess I have no choice but to win, then. Tell Charon I said hello, by the way - he hates people who get buried without a coin.

-End of Footage-

CAGEKEEPER LUX SNAPPED THE MIRROR Compact shut, finishing the Footage of the one they called 'Arathis.'

The glass was made out of the bloodstained sand of Tartarus - not the Union’s capital, but rather the punishment chamber in the Underworld, where dark was light and light was dark, and the Lord Hyperion along with his brothers were chained.

There were many that protested the existence of Kato in the Empire Eoina, but that was overpowered by the fact that the Cagekeepers were the guardians of something that produced legends.

Of course, the Victors were far from legends, by the Gods’ standards - but mortals were mortals, and Keepers toed the line between usefulness and utter blasphemy as far as the extremists were concerned.

But, then again, there was a difference between Anothen supremacists, and Anothen supremacists who let their Belief overcome their sense. The latter were few and far in between.

People called them mysterious, a cult - the most apt comparison that Lux himself had heard was the shadow behind the Golden Throne.

The only remark that he had was that the Keepers were a separate entity. They were followers of the Darkness in the Light. The Keepers of the Cage. They were no shadow.

They were the Watchers of Legends.

“Afaneia,” Lux greeted. Being one of the first selected Keepers technically gave him seniority over the rest, if Keepers bothered with hierarchy. As far as he went, he was more sentient than most. Hyperion had even called him “near human.” He wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or not. Watch, Record, and Obey. Those had been His instructions.

“Keeper Lux,” Afaneia replied.

There were no features that distinguished Keepers from each other - everyone had neither faces nor obvious physical forms, as they were all Blurs, but names were a distinct feeling, like a sixth sense that was embedded in all of them.

After Afaneia had Recalibrated, and He had possessed her, she fell into shock for a while before continuing her Duty.

But Lux wasn’t concerned.

Being a senior Keeper gave him more time to Record, but feelings were still foreign to him, as human as he apparently was. Afaneia was doing her Duty, and that was all that mattered.

“Are you doing your Duty, Afaneia?” Lux asked her, his eyes wandering to the closed Compact in her hand. “I was informed that you were assigned to Obeying duty.” Watching duty only happened when the Cage opened, and that wasn’t until...how many Daycycles? Lux could never keep track of mortal time, and time inside the Control always seemed more fluid.

“I have been reassigned, Keeper Lux,” replied the other Keeper, unperturbed. “I express my thanks for your concern for my Duty.”

“I accept your thanks,” Lux said, offhandedly. “If I may ask, what Duty you were reassigned to, and by whom? I have noticed an increase in Observing lately. Has something happened for us to change our process to please the Lord?”

He hadn’t been informed.

There was little information about the Control that he didn’t know.

Afaneia remained impassive as she informed, “A communications from the Morai arrived two Dayends ago. I am not surprised you were not informed - you were not assigned to the project that the Lord started.”

“To perform more duty more efficiently, I would be more at ease if I knew the project’s contents,” replied Lux. A new project usually meant a new Victor, or something else. In the decades that Lux had lived out, the something else usually was-

“A Prophecy of a Harbinger’s Ascent has arrived,” Afaneia confirmed. “I would read it aloud, but I have been informed that it is of utmost confidentiality, limited to those on the project only. I apologize for your inconvenience. Has your need for ease been satiated?”

“It has.” Lux gave a nod to dismiss the Keeper. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

The Blur paused with something resembling the human emotion ‘consideration.’ “Thank you.”

“I accept your thanks.” And so Afaneia left, and Lux looked out from his corner.

Around a dozen Cagekeepers, all limited to the plane of existence that was the Control - they were given very few holidays, and most Keepers chose to disdain them even when provided. Keepers didn’t need sleep, food, nor drink to perform their Duty, and they all took pride in serving their Lord.

Their Lord, the only one out of the four Chained that held a following of His own. The Chained, Pillars of Kato - Iapetus, the Progenitor; Krios, the Ram; Koios, the Questioner; and Lord Hyperion, the Observer. All of his Lord’s brothers held many names, but they were Lords of the Darkness, brothers-in-arms and followers of the Timelord Kronos, the Child-Eater, himself.

At the end of the day, there was no darkness.

Only Light.

Desarta Aceline knew someone who was in over their head when she saw one.

And the Sixth-in-line to the Empire was one of them.

The one by the name of Highlander had written to the Clytemnestra of the Union ten years ago - in smooth Tartari penmanship, the Imperial Princess had told the Clymnestra, then simply Aceline of the Ac, about her family. It was lighthearted conversation, one that puzzled Aceline.

The then-Clansman had pored over the letter, spending an almost dangerously long period of time poking and prodding at it from a diplomatic standpoint.

The Imperial hadn’t asked Aceline for friendship, but had started off the letter with My Dearest Aceline, and had told Aceline how the Emperor had nearly tripped over a potted plant, the arrival of her new sibling, and how delicious the veal was.

Greta had told Aceline, although Aceline was five years her junior, that she planned to quit eating veal after that meal because she didn’t want the calves to get murdered.

Aceline had first wondered whether the veal was a metaphor for the Kato-Anothen conflict, or the potted plant a euphemism for monsters of the Glorydark. She had concluded, at the time, that she was simply too stupid to understand this masterpiece of a skillful political manuever made ink. But the politically active Clansman had written back.

My Dearest Greta, the reply had said - whoever said that diplomacy was an art could, like Aundray liked to say, shove it up their arse - I had a wonderful day, as well. I, personally, don’t like veal, myself - Minotaur intestines are much more preferable. Today, I spent my day with my betrothed, Aundray - we’ve been growing distant, lately, and perhaps it’s my fault-

Greta, then thirty, had scoffed.

Love’s fickle, like that - I’ve been refusing veal for three days, and everyone’s concerned. At least, they pretend to be concerned and then try to poison me. Sarawolf is definitely overused.

Sarawolf? Aceline had questioned.

Each letter took a Daycycle to travel back and forth - Aceline made sure that each letter she sent took up at least ten pages, if not more. They debated, they lectured, they conversed, and they were friends.

Aceline told Greta about Stygian metal and its uses, Greta told Aceline about Imperial poison and how it worked.

Eleven years. Aceline drifted away from Aundray, and found interest in topics Greta had introduced to her. Greta, in turn, provided a welcomed perspective on everything from Clan hierarchy to the Union’s dyarchy.

As such, Aceline was probably the one who knew the Empire best in the entire Union of the Forbidden, and Greta was probably the one who knew the Union best in the entire Empire Eoina.

Nobody else knew about their relationship, and even when Aceline had taken the Clytemnestra’s position, they hadn’t let politics wear their connection down. Once a year, maybe, favors were traded - but nothing serious.

It had been surprising that Greta had asked for Stygian metal weapons. No, more specifically, she had requested Aceline to help her brother acquire those weapons - no discounts, just matchmaking.

Stygian metal weapons were illegal in the Union. Desarta Aceline was a ruler of the Union.

But still, Greta had done Aceline a favor by moving some of the elite Guards under her command secretly to the Union to help with the Waves, and had told the Clytemnestra about the Harbinger. Aceline did genuinely like the Imperial Princess, too, so favors had been traded, the tracks hidden under a small manufacturing Clan’s name, and the deed had been done.

Only then had Greta admitted the situation.

The latest letter had been a Daycycle ago, which meant that the newest would be an undated piece of scroll that would be useless to Aceline - but it had said that Seraphina would be a threat. A minor threat, but a threat nonetheless.

Aceline never liked threats.

She yawned. Arguing for conservative arguments that she didn’t believe in was tiring, in a way - watching Aundray’s resistance was the only amusing thing about it. But resistance would need to be crushed, in the end.

Still, Desarta knew someone who was in over their head when she saw one.

I looked at the mirror. My reflection stared back at me.

Valacia Aquila, renowned Philosopher, Analyst, and Hero, kept a personal diary in her final years. The last sentence, word for word, was I hope the readers of this diary will wake up one day, and feel content with the person that stares back at them in the mirror.

She killed herself the night after her last entry.

I was now sworn to help Greta.

Sworn by an ancient Oath.

You could see it through a lot of lenses, but the truth was the truth - I had willingly locked myself in chains, because I hadn’t wanted to die. It was a strategic blunder that I had committed, because I had been wrought with too much emotion.

Was I content with the person staring back?

No.

Greta could kill me at any time - the semantics of the old glory and ruin, till death do us part didn’t exempt her from killing me. I could kill her, too, but that was a Game that I was woefully underprepared for me - Athena herself would probably visit later and scold me to death.

Arathis had also said something once - the Chosen Arathis, not my brother Ara - marcet sine adversario virtus. Valor becomes feeble without an opponent.

In his case, ‘valor’ and ‘opponent’ was replaced by ‘insanity’ and ‘interesting person to target,’ but the saying was true. There was no fun in facing people you could easily crush. There was also no fun in facing people who could easily crush you, because you would die. I wasn’t satisfied.

But what did I want? I asked my reflection.

Power was the easiest answer.

Why?

Because power is fun.

Why?

Because knowing what to do with knowledge is power, and learning is fun.

Is it still?

It-

You’re not a child anymore - when have you last enjoyed obtaining knowledge?

A long time, I admit.

Habits are dangerous.

I know.

What do you want?

It was still there, the thirst - to be on top of the world and watch the people scurry below, to regret only when on the throne, the everlasting hunger that gnawed at every single action and Game I played.

Had the glory of victory worn off, for my siblings? Had the lustre faded in their eyes? Had the hunger disappeared for them - had it vanished or been satiated? Knowledge. Power. Opportunity. If I struck those out of my vocabulary, would the hunger still exist? Would everything still be fun?

Most said that justifications were only needed when you doubted your cause. From a person who served only themselves, I begged to differ. I wasn’t going to be one of those people who went to war and lost sight of what they were fighting for.

If I was going to war, I was going to have fun doing it. It was my Game, and I would make my own rules, regardless of what I had played by before.

I met my reflection’s eyes.

One day, I was going to be satisfied with the person looking back at me.

But that day wasn’t today.

The political scene of the Eternal City had never interested Mercy of Nowhere until the Sixth Princess had stuffed it down her throat.

Then, her world had been swallowed up in it.

When Xanthe had met Seraphina, she had been accompanied by a squirming Guard - who she was later introduced to as ‘Lazarus’ - and had looked absolutely ghostly. As if the scrawny bladesgirl Xanthe had been couldn’t touch the figure any more than she could touch smoke.

Anyone could see the haunted look in the Princess’ eyes - it had been only a Dayhept since she had settled in the Palace, and the first thing Seraphina had done was to scour the slums for Xanthe.

“Xanthe Nameless.” The Sixth-in-line had phrased the sentence like a statement, not a question. “Caspian’s sister?” Those blue eyes were like the ones described in horror stories, the ones that bore into your soul. Unnatural.

A Daycycle of stuffing her face had been enough to put weight on Xanthe - she had been given knives, and Seraphina had at first positioned her in the Princess’ personal bedroom.

The seventeen-year-old had a daily routine, during that Dayhept - she had first made Xanthe fetch A List of Nobles from the Empire Eoina from the Imperial Library and made the bladegirl place the book by her bedside.

Xanthe had observed that Seraphina had usually slept very little - almost unnaturally so.

Most of the time the Princess just closed her eyes like she was concentrating on some faraway game, steadied her breathing, and remained still for an hour before she flung open her eyes and stared at the wall for the better part of a morning.

But on some nights that Daycycle, the Sixth-in-line would have nightmares. Xanthe would watch her - not toss and turn, but jolt up suddenly in the night. Then, she would check three things.

It wasn’t her job to pry - technically - so the bladesgirl had just discreetly turned, observing Seraphina first check her own hands - as if checking for blood, in some way - from the corner of Xanthe’s eye. And then Seraphina would fetch the book at her bedside, flip it to a page - the same page that she turned to on those nights - and check something with an unreadable expression.

The Sixth Imperial Princess would, lastly, check that a blade was still under her pillow before either entering that concentration state, or getting her Crownboard out of the cabinet.

The Crownboard days were always her worst.

Soon, Xanthe had picked up most of the Princess’ eccentricities - the usual personas she donned, the foul mouth she hid behind that deceptively mild facade, and her unusual maneuverability in any and every situation.

Xanthe wasn’t sure whether or not the haunted look in the Sixth-in-line’s eyes had gradually disappeared, or she had simply gotten better at hiding it. Perhaps Seraphina was the closest thing Xanthe had to a friend, but Mercy was her assassin and right hand - no more, no less.

“You’re Seraphina’s lackey,” the Imperial Prince Cyrus observed.

Mercy inclined her head in silent agreement. The Prince was sitting on a chair surrounded by the remnants of his crystalline Residence, his red-haired subordinate ordering Servants around as they tried to piece the smouldering ruins back together. His eyes gleamed with hostility, mingled with something else, yet his face-

Xanthe bubbled back up, and Mercy tried to force her back down. Caramel skin with electric blue eyes and no trace of his apparent Republica lineage - dark hair, a darker expression, but there was no doubt about it.

The Third Imperial Prince looked eerily similar to Brother.

For a second, something flickered in Mercy’s chest - other people would’ve asked themselves, was the Princess just partnering with her brother because he looked similar to Caspian?

No, for Mercy, it was just annoyance. She was here to do a job, and she was going to do it right. The assassin didn’t bow down or genuflect as was custom, rather extending her hand outwards. The Victor scoffed and muttered something under his breath, but leaned forward and snatched the letter out of her hands.

It was a few seconds before a stone-like expression settled into his features - Brother would never look like that - as his eyes scanned over the parchment.

As the light - those cursed rosy tendrils that originated from the evening sun - once again hit the destroyed structure and the prince who ruled over his kingdom of nothing, Mercy felt the air prickle. She gripped the knife tighter, almost unnoticeably, as her hairs stood on end and her neck tingled.

That accursed, familiar face that the assassin saw around the Palace with that accursed, unfamiliar brooding expression changed.

An almost deranged look crept into those electric-blue eyes, as the lightning prince laughed with the letter in his hands as if he had set the world on fire and was watching it burn.

______________________________________________________________________________

The second letter was addressed to the Second Prince, the archer.

He was the only one that the Princess didn’t dislike but didn’t like much, either, apparently. The Second Prince, Orion Velasvus, was supposedly the second-most mysterious member of the Imperial Family - nothing was known about him but his commoner origins, similar to Seraphina.

But unlike the Sixth Princess, who had cultivated a kind exterior with her orphanage visits, he was a distant legend, revered by some in the Imperial Army but unknown to most.

Mercy was only slightly surprised when the second she stepped in the Residence after being granted a semi-official visit, she was met with an arrow staring her in the face. Amber eyes glinted, as he calmly snarled - if there was ever such an ability - “You.”

Mercy was about to nod, but the arrow was drawn back further.

“Talk,” he ordered. “You killed my Butler.”

Mercy didn’t deny the truth.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Why?”

“Her Highness’ orders.”

A sound that preceded an arrow’s release. “Why?”

“The Third Prince had gotten to him, and he wasn’t a part of Her Highness’ plans.”

The hand that pulled at the arrow’s fletching didn’t loosen, as the Second Prince made a small scoffing noise. “He didn’t accept her offer to become one of her pieces, so she had him killed? No, that doesn’t sound much like her - that pettiness would only be an added benefit, for people like her. Talk.”

Mercy’s hand was slowly snaking towards her dagger. “The Third Prince was using him, and the First Princess was using the Third Prince. I have been ordered to bring you a letter.” She kept her words clipped and short - those who killed in the shadows never needed a silver tongue.

Those unnerving eyes blinked.

They were the eyes of a tracker, the dogs that the Guards brought with them, sometimes, to sniff out the foolhardier rats that lived in the Lower Quarter when they had stolen something they shouldn’t have. Those particular canines clung to your scent - followed you through the gutters and cliffs, everywhere - until they cornered you.

Mercy - no, Xanthe - had seen one of them unleashed on their prey.

It hadn’t been pretty.

Those orbs didn’t belong to a human - they belonged to a hunter. A hunter who would doggedly chase after you until you were dead in his hands, throat slit and last moments grisly. But they...looked dull.

As if tired.

Mercy’s other hand carefully brought out the letter like a peace offering, and the Second Prince’s eyes narrowed at the Sixth Princess’ emblem.

He slowly lowered his bow.

Mercy didn’t make any sudden movements as Prince Orion snatched the letter, carelessly breaking open the seal. Still, Mercy stood, as the archer scanned the contents impassively. His mouth twitched, whether in amusement or anger, the assassin couldn’t tell.

Apparently he had lived thirty-six years, already. Suddenly, he dropped it from his hands, letting it flutter to the ground, discarded, as the Second Prince gestured for Mercy to sit. So the assassin did.

“You’re a dog,” he told her. A gleam in his gaze. “Like me.” The hunter leaned back. “They say used, or be used - but we both know the world doesn’t work like that.”

It never does.

“You get trampled by the people, you get stepped on by the Gods, you get spat on by the Morai -” the prince chuckled, perhaps the first display of un-contradictory emotion he had shown “-but you still live. But why, they ask you? Why do you still live, when the hunt’s the only thing keeping you alive?”

Mercy was about to open her mouth, when she was interrupted.

“Soon, little dog, you’ll find that the hunt gets tiring. And when it gets tiring, when you get old, you get put down - not by others, by life. Life puts you down.” Each word was refined, like needles poking at Mercy’s skin.

The assassin didn’t know what kind of life the hunter prince had lived, but they were similar. Every sentence was crafted - whether to make or break, the bladesgirl didn’t understand. Xanthe threatened to break free from her leash, and for a second Mercy was reminded of a warning-

My siblings are dangerous. They know most. If you face them, you will die.

You will die. Mercy remained impassive.

Orion chuckled, again, amber eyes boring into her soul. “We are all dogs, little dog. You did take away my toy, and it was one of my favorite reminders, I have to admit, but,” he said, “you have reminded me of something from before the hunt. For that, I thank you.”

Still, a gruff uncle’s expression was on his face, but the words were biting. “Tell your owner her message has been delivered, but if she interferes with my hunt again, my arrow will find my way into her throat.” Amber eyes, again, and then a stoic expression ingulfed them.

“Run away, little shadow dog.”

______________________________________________________________________________

The third letter was sent to a noble manor.

A lot of nobles had gathered due to the gala presented in honor of the envoys, especially since the social season - comprising three Daycycles every year, Mercy had been informed - was nearing.

Most of their capital manors were lit now, and Mercy could see the flickerings of lamplights in the lavishly decorated windows, while beginnings of candlelight faintly lit glows behind damask curtains.

Mercy’s destination was a pale contortion of a mansion - made of an almost appalling amount of ivorstone and pale marble, with tasteful Imperial gold decor and intricate carvings embedded in lanky pillars. It was on the smaller side, if you considered the magnitude of the Upper-Upper Quarter, but it made up for it in elegance and unsettling murals.

A singular thorn, covered in wreaths of briar vines, was etched into the entrance door. “Halt!” called one of the front Guards dressed in the Bloodthorn rose gold liveries. They wore them vainly, Mercy thought, frowning, but she had heard many a Guard boast about how well the Bloodthorns treated them. “Who goes there?” another demanded.

Pride.

An almost foolish virtue.

Mercy wordlessly dug into her pockets, bringing out a golden Seal. Seraphina’s personal Seal - a golden Imperial peacock feather over an owl, Athena’s symbol. The Guard’s eyes widened, and some of them narrowed their eyes, observing the lean assassin in a new light.

Being in possession of the Sixth-in-line’s Seal didn’t just mean that Mercy was Seraphina’s proxy - it meant that the Princess trusted Mercy with her title, status as a Victor, glory, and by default her life.

Xanthe doubted that Seraphina actually did - even if the Princess lost all of the above, Mercy knew that the Hundredth Victor would get back up sooner or later, with or without her.

Glory to the Sixth.

I see something being born in you. Aen.

We’re all dogs. The Second Prince.

She who comes from myth.

Mercy refrained from stabbing someone.

The first one cleared this throat. “You may enter,” he said gruffly, in an attempt to salvage his honor.

Mercy entered, was immediately ushered into a parlor that held an unusually obscene amount of vases - Xanthe was sure that nicking a single one would be at least a Daycycle’s worth of luxury - and was met with a hawk in human skin.

The Viscountess Bloodthorn had been trying to worm her way into the Emperor’s good graces for a good half century, apparently, and her good work had paid off. According to the Princess, the Emperor Nikephoros was seriously considering the centuries-old viscounty’s promotion to a county.

But that wasn’t what Mercy was here for.

“A letter,” the assassin said.

She didn’t bother to add Your Ladyship, or whichever form of address was appropriate for a viscountess, but the hawk impassively took the letter.

There was a silence as Alicia Bloodthorn read.

Then the hawk rose, her aquiline eyes with some sort of appraisal remaining inside them, as the vase-collecting viscountess gave a nod.

“Tell Her Highness that the deal is struck.”

With that, Mercy’s third letter was delivered.

______________________________________________________________________________

It was approaching night, by the time Mercy reached Lazarus.

The Guard looked surprised at her arrival at the Palace Garrison, but, like the Seraph he was, respectfully didn’t say anything the moment he saw Seraphina’s insignia on the letter.

He was the only one, among the four Seraphs that existed, that hadn’t been provided a job.

Narkisa was stationed somewhere in the East Quarter, hidden in a Pier and armed with kerosene, while Macedon was in the West with the same supplies. The Harbor, and the Merchant’s Quarters - damage done there was damage done to the capital’s commerce, and was very heavy damage indeed.

The two Seraphs were Seraphina’s supposed contingencies, as unreliable as their loyalties might be, but Lazarus-

There was something strange about the Princess' personal Guard, who had been dismissed from his duties in favor of a Regiment - it was the way he knew more people than he should, the way he swore Fealty yet had little reason behind it other than pity.

Lazarus took the letter, and tore it open.

He looked like his world was falling apart by the time Mercy left him, but her tasks were done.

The gown was beautiful.

I never looked good in gold - I always preferred silver, or some other color suggested by the ladies-in-waiting that apparently “brought out my eyes.”

They were skittish, of course - Alia, Celeste, Alyssa, and the quiet one named Chastity, the one who had gotten a bloody nose from Arathis’ erratic entrances. It was either Chastity or Prudence, and I usually gave her the kinder, fourth option of “you, there.”

But in terms of political neutrality, the assortment was almost perfect.

Alyssa was the highest ranking individual there, technically - I wasn’t sure whether the highest-ranking lady-in-waiting coming from a count’s household was an insult or a grace, but I decided on the latter. The crafty girl was my age, the third-in-line of the esteemed mercantile Callas family who dabbled in selling anything to any noble willing - in terms of political neutrality, Callas was a good go-to, their fief across the shore, but their main base in the Eternal City.

She was in a relationship with Timmy and his company - a secret affair, and one that brought benefits in terms of spreading societal rumors. I lamented the fact that I had a drachma for how many of my ladies-in-waiting participated in secret affairs, I would have two drachmas.

At least Alyssa had connections to the Drakos Marquessate - Chastity, on the other hand, was still seeing her commoner lover, progressing steadily from a “fling” to a “you’ll probably get assassinated by my baroness mother in order not to stain the family name.” Baroness Kete, I’d been told, was an imposing figure in the fabric and textiles field, also dabbling in trading with anything and everything that walked and talked. A person with Merchant origins who had the sinister personal motto of “it isn’t personal, just business.”

Ah, I would’ve given a metaphorical arm to be a fly on the wall when she found out about Chastity’s fling. Alia was more of a secretary, the one handling my schedule and the one prudently covering up my tracks by labelling my trips as frequent “orphanage visits.” She was a keeper, the viscount’s first daughter was - I would need to pay the Bloodthorn viscounty a visit, soon.

Accompanied with glowing praises and appropriate amounts of gushing, of course - if they held a grudge over the fact that I killed their heir, they didn’t show it. The gambler’s sister, she was.

Celeste was from a minor barony, the type that were in Geminin’s situation - Celeste was sent to dig a steady hold for the Aetós family in the capital to hold onto: namely, me.

Two cutthroat merchant families who were neutral in the way that they profited off everyone - a minor sin, really, in the Imperial scheme of things - with one old jewelry viscounty, and a turbulent barony.

Apparently, they had run out of the loyal and useful ones after assigning them to my siblings.

I smiled at them, gold robes glistening after being lathered in olive oil and stuck to my skin. I was reminded, once again, why I disliked galas as I shooed the maids away. I was left with my ladies-in-waiting.

“As you know,” I said, honestly, “the Palace is getting really fucked up right now.”

Chastity flinched at my vulgar language, but the others didn’t seem surprised.

“If you want to betray me, you won’t succeed in making off with any useful information.” I gave a small smile. “I don’t trust any of you, and neither do I demand the same in return. You’ve seen my Seraphs, you’ve seen the Empire - demanding loyalty leads to no productive end.”

I paused, looking at their faces and reactions. Surprise at my honesty, suspicion, decisions being made. “As grand as you make your position sound, none of you are going to be useful pieces if I decide to play this Game.” I hammered the message home. Stick.

“But,” I added, “since you’re pledged into my service, I will tell you two pieces of information. How will you take them?” Carrot. They were less quick on the uptake than Julian, but still Alyssa spoke up. “All of it,” she said, after a long pause. Not trust, but a leap. Some semblance of faith. “All or nothing.”

I found agreement in the faces I searched. I gave a small nod instead of praise. “One - I am now in the service of Greta Highlander, my Oldest Sister, in the form of an Oath sworn by the Gods.” I heard a sharp intake of breath that belonged to Celeste. I didn’t include whether I decided to break it or not, which caught the- attention of Alyssa. “Two - I am the fiance of the Praetor Julian Romanus, son of a Republica Consul. We will get married when I turn eighteen, in around nine Daycycles.” Which meant that if I ran, I would run to the Republic. Realizations were made at the twin revelations.

Ever since the rhododendron incident, they knew that I was going to do something big.

“How will you proceed, after hearing this information?” I asked them, my tone still conversational and mild. The pause that followed the question was long and full.

Surprisingly, Alia spoke first. “I will keep proceeding in your service,” said the secretary, “but I will need no knowledge of your affairs, nor will I swear an Oath.” A smart choice - even if the excuse of plausible deniability didn’t hold up for the Imperial family members, an excuse was an excuse.

Celeste shook her head. “I can’t risk it, Your Highness.” She bit her lip. “I’ll quit being your lady-in-waiting, whatever you need me to do to get away from this, but I can’t risk it,” she repeated, firmly. Fair. Aetós was a new barony, after all.

Chastity, unsurprisingly, opted out. “I agree with Celeste,” she said, in a small voice. “I can deal with the Imperial family members, but not in a war, Your Highness.”

I shrugged, as if this made no difference to me, while my Ability calculated the losses. Manpower - political support - fiefs in the East? - Cardinal pillars? “I expect you to hand in your resignations tomorrow,” I said to the two, “and do be out of the Palace by the end of this Dayhept at the latest. Obstacles hinder me.”

The duo bowed and scuttled out of the room at my proclamation, and I looked at Alyssa. “Choose.” I pushed the words forward lightly, but it was an order.

Alyssa’s striking green eyes met my own. Her pale freckled face was steady, but there was that familiar glint in her eye that I was really growing fucking tired of. She-

“I, Alyssa le Callas, swear Fealty by the Gods to Seraphina Queenscage, to be by her side as her subordinate through glory and ruin, till death do we part.”

She didn’t even offer a choice, like most polite subordinates did.

I shrugged again, as if I wasn’t internally cursing the validity of her father's reproductive organs.

“Fine by me.”

To project enough grace to meet an Imperial standard, my etiquette Tutors said, consisted of two things - one, not killing people in public; and two, not killing people before turning eighteen.

It was one of those rules that were just there - unreasonable, but the stiff unspoken legislation of “there’s a time and place to kill people, and this is it, no exceptions” dictated when to start becoming a true Imperial politician.

That was the reason why it had taken a long time to build up my social reputation to what it had been before I had killed the baron’s son.

Looking back on it, I felt the tinge of regret - not that I wouldn’t have done it again, because I would’ve, but I should’ve done it better. With finesse.

But I couldn’t deny the fact that he had dug at an itch that I pretended wasn’t there.

You really do know nothing.

I hadn’t accepted it, back then. I couldn’t say that I did now, either.

I knew next to nothing - my Ability filled in the gaps of the knowledge needed to act, but that was just that. I was in over my head, the girl who danced around for power because she knew it not.

That was the fun of it, I realized now.

My posture straight and my movements precise to the letter, I floated around the room with a glass of apple juice in my hand.

No alcohol before eighteen, was also one of those unreasonable rules - the juice wasn’t bad, and neither was the atmosphere, but every single person that took up space in the ballroom, from the maids to the nobles, were snakes.

“Greetings,” a noblewoman provided, “Lady...?”

I didn’t relax - she could be feigning ignorance, even if my Hints were telling me otherwise. It was hard to remain in the dark about my status, though, what with my very shiny robes, the two remaining ladies-in-waitings near me, and the people giving me a wide berth.

“Seraphina,” I supplied. “Seraphina Marksman, of Inevita.”

I heard some people murmur, heads swivelling as I put an amused smile on my face, making it obvious I was just playing along. Everyone had irritatingly sharp ears, here.

Lady Katherine, my conclusion said, after collecting the details of her plump face and the approaching of Timaios. “Timmy,” I greeted him mildly. “It’s been a long time.” I saw you just earlier this morning.

In noble circles, no matter who you were talking to, you could never let your poker face falter - whether it was my placid expression, or Timaios' casual smile.

Katherine tilted her head. Curiosity.

“How do you know Lady Seraphina, Maios?”

“Lady?” the former Dragon King raised an eyebrow at me. “I’m afraid you weren’t properly introduced, then. I assume it’s a question of you not supplying your proper identity then, Your Highness.”

It could be taken as banter or an insult.

Timaios was latching onto me, and I to him - ah, I missed aristocratic conversation.

“Perhaps it is my fault,” I agreed, after giving a small laugh. “I do know that Katherine - may I call you Katherine? - does hail from the North, so it’s no wonder we haven’t met yet.” Besides the fact that she’s an illegitimate daughter. “Seraphina Queenscage, Sixth Princess, pleased to meet your acquaintance.”

Katherine’s eyes widened, forming round, almost cute circles. “Maios, you didn’t-”

“Well, I’m telling you know, Kath,” replied her lover, breezily. He slipped an arm around Katherine’s shoulders. “Seraphina, this is my first fiancee, Katherine Anthinon. My second and third, Sophia and Tanis, should be around here somewhere, but…”

Fiances?

They made it official - could be an attempt at rebelling against his father - they need approval to make it official, technically - could also be his first step back towards the social circles - he needs me to approve it, that’s why he latched onto me first.

Nobles were murmuring.

The first explosion.

A lot of explosions were going to happen tonight, at this gala.

The Drakos Marquessate was a military House, more similar to the Williams Marquessate than the Marksman Duchy. It specialized in weapons, being one of the first to leap on the bayonet trend.

“She’s lovely,” I replied, playing it safe as a soft smile touched my lips. “It’s such a coincidence - I myself just got engaged recently.” I bumped Timmy’s shoulder affectionately, using it as an opportunity to scan the gala’s reactions.

The younger nobles looked stricken, being closer to me and a part of Josephine’s crowd.

My sister herself had a knowing smile on her face, like she was in on it all along - she couldn’t have possibly known, my Ability said while frowning; but she does, I chided - and the more important Heads of House sported more than a few brow furrows.

They were on the other side of the large room.

Busybodies really had good ears.

“Who’s the lucky man?” Timmy asked. Gone was the twitchy man who was scared of Mercy - this was the confident, charming, and arguably real Timaios Drakos.

“He’s just right there - Marius!” I called.

The Praetor, engrossed in a shady conversation with Patrician Cassia, had undeniable surprise scrawled over his face at my call, but he took it like a chap, heading over like a soldier adapting to a new military obstacle.

“Sera?” His gaze darted to Timmy, and his stoic face showed no recognition.

“This is my fiance, Julian Marius Romanus,” I introduced, happily. “Mari, meet Timmy. Timmy, meet Mari.”

Julian didn’t show any visible reaction at the pet name, but the rest of the gala stilled for a couple seconds. I could see the nobles’ minds working - the first Imperial family member to get engaged was me, and I got engaged to one of the Republica envoys, which meant that-

It was almost like a Play at that moment, I thought to myself - the assassins had impeccable timing.