None mourn winter,

Spring a bearer of light after an eternal night,

Those who kneel at frost’s grave come hither.

Lo behold the few that arrive, at the north’s deprive,

With tears and wishes that shan’t wither,

We, the land of the winter sun, do not mourn.

None celebrate winter,

The monster come a’knocking at our doors,

Boreas’ breath ignites our braziers, they burn bright.

Lo behold the few who keep storm’s vigil, hands laced with hoar,

With prayers, and curses at the muttered sky-verses,

We, the land of the winter sun, remember.

The ice does not forget.

- THE LAND OF THE WINTER SUN, Borean refrain

THE DUKE OF BOREAS HAD SEEN MANY A TERRIFYING WINTER.

In the Stronghold of Boreas, the wind whipped against your skin like the Gods rectifying a mistake by corporal punishment. The snow wailed, and the ice shrieked - the sounds of the howling frost were not beautiful nor were they romantic, but the Duke never found a requirement of being either to enjoy the ever-present cries - that was the job left to his scribes.

When Damokles had been young, his mothers had told him about the poems written by his ancestors. In the walled Cardinal Stronghold, it was said, in the many cities that populated the North, the sole city of Anthinon was the only bearer of life.

In Boreas, fires flickered in braziers propped against thick stone walls while the claws of the everlasting demon of cold roared outside, demanding to be let in. Only the south of the North, it was said, harbored the ones who refused.

“None mourn winter,” the former Duchess had recited, “spring a bearer of light after an eternal night; those who kneel at frost’s grave come hither.” She had shook the younger Damokles in her lap. “Come on, you can do it. Lo-”

“Lo behold the few that arrive, at the north’s deprive, with tears and wishes that shan’t wither,” Damokles had reluctantly completed, “we, the land of the winter sun, do not mourn.”

It was as if the roles had been switched, in Damokles Anthinon’s childhood - the Duchess Elena Anthinon had been a romantic lover of Tomes, one who liked to bury herself into the selection of Myths and tales of the Chosen that were displayed in Anthinon’s libraries. She had always smelled like olives, not-quite-dry ink, and parchment - ever the diplomat, she had been the reason for Damokles’ name.

His other Mother, Agatha Zafeiri, had been a general - even though, in the north with the peaceful Rhiannon continent, there had been no need for war. Everyone in Anthinon had agreed that as the stout soldier stood as true as Athena’s blessing, her heart beat for the frost. The captain of the Winterdeath who held the title of Wraith held such a heroic legend that everyone agreed that if the ducal consort was split open, she would bleed olive oil more than anyone in the Stronghold. There had been no sinister musings about her until after her funeral.

They had both been killed by Rhiannon bandits.

The perpetrators had been outliers - the traditionally peaceful Rhianites had given Damokles more than a Cardinal’s worth of a treasury, and one of their envoys had even embraced the mourning boy in apology. Apparently, this meant something meaningful, there.

He had not cared, that day.

Sometimes Damokles wondered why he had been named after a courtier who made the mistake of wanting power - a cautionary tale, of a man whose king hung a sword over his sleep.

But then reminders of the horse hair that tied it there came in moments like this. On his table, sealed with a peacock and an ivy wreath, sat-

-A letter.

The warrior-queen Elexis Cadmus was tempted to throw it in the fireplace that crackled next to her, but the seal prevented her from doing it. That Godsbroken ivy wreath - the fact that its first appearance had been ten years ago haunted her still.

She owed much to the First Princess.

But that hadn’t changed her hate for the Imperials.

“Galanis,” the people had spat. The pale, almost white, frost-blue eyes that Elexis had gotten from her mother weren’t the Eurus golden - her father had come from the Snakeland tribes, the Galanos, and were the only race of Imperials that had the galanis eyes.

It had taken more than a few years for the people of Eurus’ capital to accept a galanis as duchess, and sometimes Elexis cursed her parents for leaving behind a human Legacy. An abomination, that was what she was called - even if the Galanos were the Stronghold’s greatest warriors, still they were mocked.

The duchess had two daughters and a son, all of them consorts. Of course, all of them harbored powerful stations - one of them was Duchess Marksman, the other Marchioness Williams, and the youngest the second Marquis Drakos. Elexis had never been a good mother to Eleanora, Theadora, or Leon, and sometimes the Cardinal duchess did wonder what it’d been like if she had.

But she had made sure being half-Galanos hadn’t hindered them from their place in the Imperial aristocracy. That would have to suffice, as her Legacy.

Suffice.

Elexis was sure that she wouldn’t have uttered that word ten years ago. Princess Greta’s letter had changed everything, as had dealing with her fellow Cardinals. The unnervingly quiet Duke of Boreas, the fiery half-Republica Ducal Lord of Notus, even the breezy Duchess of Zephyr - every time the Cardinals met in person, it was nothing less than chaos.

“A person who fights more than she talks, a quiet bastard, and an airhead,” one of them had snorted, just recently. “Gods, I keep forgetting how much we sound like a badly-written joke.” Except, of course, the fact that the four were heads of Cardinal duchies and the leaders of families that had supported a century-old continental power, Elexis would’ve agreed.

But that would be underestimating the insufferableness of the other, non-Cardinal Strongholds - the gambler of a man Duke of Tyche, the opportunist that was Duke Marksman, that Godsbroken red-haired Duchess of Doxa - but you always, always had to take them into consideration.

And the Imperial royals, of course-

Elexis had met most of them in person before, and they all resembled the First Princess in different ways. Those Victors. Gritting her teeth, Elexis of Cadmus sighed.

She grasped the jeweled letter opener in her hand, and-

-Ripped it open.

Delphine Hyacinth was a lover of tragedy. The Stronghold she presided over was named after a tragedy - Hyacinthus, Apollo’s devotee and a prince, who had been loved by both the West Wind Zephyr and the God himself.

As Apollo and Hyacinthus were playing a game, Zephyr redirected the wind and made it so the discus had implanted itself in Hyacinthus' neck. As the prince died, Apollo made his blood into a flower - the hyacinth - while cursing the West Wind.

Princeblood, people of Zephyr called the hyacinth.

A reminder that whether loved by the Gods or not, children of monarchs or not, humans bled all the same. They hurt all the same, loved all the same as Gods. Sometimes, Delphine supposed, the Myths were a way to lure champions.

Myths, both capitalized and not.

They humanized the powerful, and invited the mighty of the rest to unseat them. And then the threats were dispelled under the guise of culling a rebellion, and the powerful stayed in power while the rest waited, again, to accumulate more of the mighty foolish enough to accept the invitation.

It happened again and again - tragedies happening so often they were comedic, comedies ending in one or both dead, becoming tragedies. Delphine loved watching them.

So what if she was hailed as an airhead? If the invitation was clearer, and firmer, the Play was ever so more intriguing.

Intrigue.

Delphine loved intrigue. She had loved the Barriers of each Stronghold, the main manors in their capitals constructed as military bases of twisting castles and stony turrets, each Cardinal’s different in their own way yet all of them surrounded by high walls. Stalwart and true, Zephyr’s was, as steady as the West Wind. The Cardinals would be the last to go, in terms of war.

If a war really broke out, they would have to go past good old Notus first. If they did get past Ducal Lord Petra and their people, they would have to first climb up the Snakelands and the Draconian Peaks, sneak past the Galanos tribes, and shut down Cadmus and Elexis, who would have the means of finding a surefire way to win the war.

Simulteanously, the Empire’s opponents would have to wind their way up the west coast, hitting Zephyr and Doxa while their other forces hit Tyche - that would render them in control of two Cardinals and two duchies, which would provide them with enough leverage to pose a threat.

Then, it would be a battle of attrition, if the opposing forces were stupid enough to not take Inevita with its military prestige - Inevita was worth more than Boreas, but few knew that. The North far overshadowed the Second Isle in terms of history, but Inevita had more weapons, more stockpiles, and far more veterans.

It would depend on how well the Imperial marquessates would fare, but the war would be sooner lost if the opponents underestimated the Imperials.

War was a tragedy.

Delphine loved watching them. Scanning the contents of the letter, her lips-

-quirked up in a smile.

Petra Castellanos’ lips remained in that expression for the count of half a beat as their subordinates watched in terror. “By all the Gods, Jupiter and Saturn,” they breathed.

“That’s an Imperial seal, on the letter,” one whispered.

“Is that their happy smile, or I’m going to kill you smile?” another asked the person beside them.

“They’re happy when they’re killing someone, aren’t they?” the person returned.

Petra looked back at the muttering people on their Council. “Oi.” Silence. “Get off your asses, stop speculating, and put on your big boy breeches - the she-devil in the capital’s pulling something big.” After a beat, they added for clarification, “The First Princess, Greta whatsherface, is the she-devil in question, by the way. Not the other she-devil. That’s the Duchess whatsherface.”

One ventured, “What’s that gotta do with us-” Cut off, Petra’s dagger found its way into her throat, and the Notian Chancellor found her way into the embrace of death.

“It has everything to do with us!” the Ducal Lord roared, the sound half way between a ferocious battle-cry and a triumphant crow. “She says she’s going to help us get revenge on the Republic and their sticky-fingered Armies!” A pause. “I mean, she’s probably lying so we’re on her side by the time she ascends to the Throne, but still! Huzzah!”

The Chancellors raised their hands and screamed, “Huzzah!”

Their secretaries looked upon the scene, faces neutral. An older secretary said to a newer one, “You probably should get used to this-” He was drowned out by another scream.

“A huzzah for the bodies of our fallen warriors!” Petra screamed.

“Huzzah!”

“A huzzah for the stolen loot from our land!”

“Huzzah!”

“A huzzah for the South of the Empire!”

“HUZZAH!”

One Chancellor accidentally said a hurrah instead of a huzzah, and was promptly decapitated by another. Petra took the interruption in stride.

“A HURRAH for the Republica Armies who have no idea what’s coming! Two hurrahs for your leader, me, Petra Castellanos! THREE HURRAHS for we, the lost and abandoned of the South, liberated by Angelo the Avenger and the Skirmish!”

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”

Petra grinned, a familiar one, all teeth and malice, as they lifted a fist in the air.

Notus had been used too many times in schemes both Imperial and Republica alike, and it was their turn to get used in return.

A ploy for the liberation of Notus, both a threat and promise and one that had been delivered in elegant Imperi script - μην εμπιστεύεσαι κανέναν σε αυτήν την αυτοκρατορία, min empistévesai kanénan se aftín tin aftokratoría. The she-devil had quoted that age-old Imperial saying, trust no one in this Empire.

Do not trust me, she had written. Trust the fact that I will stay in power.

And so Petra Castellanos did - the first time the Princess had written, ten years ago, Petra hadn’t replied to the letter. Now Greta whatsherface had written again, and Petra brandished their quill as their subordinates celebrated with wine. Εντάξει, they had written back. Entáxei, alright, they had said, while remembering-

-the ice does not forget, Damokles thought to himself, nor does it forgive. It saw his mistakes bare - the birth of Katherine, the death of his wife - and the dangling of the sword constricted his ears and encircled his chest like a hunter’s snare. But he sank his quill in ink all the same-

-scratching at the parchment, Elexis of Eurus, the Galanos warrior queen, thought of debts left unpaid and regrets left untouched. Would she have been a better queen, if she had not fought? One more war. One more battle, one more reign. Once more, για άλλη μια φορά. Once more, but only once, as there would be-

-another Play to watch, another tragedy to laugh at, Delphine of Zephyr smiled. She wrote the reply, the Cardinal duchess smiling coyly while doing it. She would let herself be used as pawn again, and let the achievement be embroidered on the edges of her invitation. She turned her head as she heard-

-a call to freedom, a banner left unbroken and untouched, the Ducal Lord Petra dreamed and laughed. Let the brave and the bold, the stalwart and the true, the cowardly and the meek, the flighty and the false gather under their banner and gather hope once again after being told to abandon it-

Another Emperor, another reign, another will under the Anothen sky.

I dodged a blade.

Blades were easy. I’d never tried my luck with bullets before, I thought to myself, as I sipped the apple juice from my champagne flute, watching the Imperial Guards lift their guns and pepper the dark figures with the loud weapons.

My Ability told me directions before I even processed the situation - a godly gift that had gotten me out of many situations before.

I watched an assassin lunge towards Josephine, who had a bored expression on her face as she dodged. Arathis, who was only a few paces away from her, yawned as he casually smashed a champagne glass against another figure's head. Some nobles were panicking at the shattered glass windows - they had scaled the walls and the balconies, I supposed - while others remained neutral.

They couldn’t be bothered.

The assassins were like cockroaches, and I frowned as I picked up the blade from the floor, aimed at a particularly annoying one, and flicked my wrist in a fascinating, supposedly morally horrifying game of darts. I hit true - right in the heart. The familiarity of the action brought a slight smile to my lips. Familiar.

Julian’s hand immediately went to his sword, but I patted him encouragingly, giving his hand a squeeze. It might’ve seemed like a comforting touch, to others, but it was a warning, to him. The praetor didn’t need to move. Yet.

It was either my siblings, or Patrician Cassia - probably the latter, judging from the gleeful expression the woman was trying to hide - that was behind the move. But it was a move. No more, no less.

Julian relaxed.

Katherine’s eyes flickered from my bladehand, to the fallen assassin, to her surroundings. I turned to meet her eyes, just as I caught an eye of a particularly willy assassin making their way to the table.

A familiar table.

I saw the flash of a blade, and I felt that familiar emotion as the figure slammed to the ground. I had predicted it, we had all predicted it, that Greta would use this moment to declare her stake. Was it practiced, the suicide of the cloaked assassin? They would face worse if caught, I knew that for sure.

I spectated.

Crimson flowers blooming on peacock robes.

It was just a move. No more, no less.

“The Emperor is dead!”

Another Emperor, another reign, another will under the Anothen sky.

You couldn’t ask the Gods, “Why?”

But if you asked without expecting an answer, you could ask all day long.

“Why?” I asked Julian, my voice quiet and low.

The Emperor’s corpse was in his bed, eyes shut, and I was sitting beside it, on an uncomfortable stool. It was my turn to pay my respects, the last daughter he had accepted into his embrace. He hadn’t physically hugged me, of course, but we had talked.

He wasn’t a good man, or a bad one, just a cunning old fox who had lived long enough to say the good old days. I would be a fool to trust him, but I liked him enough. He had felt like a presence that was always there, but I had known his end was near, the loss not fitiing its label.

Like one of the stray cats you fed every day died.

It hadn't been your favorite, but it was still dead. Gone. Buried with a coin under tongue, ushered in Thanatos' embrace.

The praetor didn’t respond, his stoic expression neatly folded into the angles of his face like drawn curtains.

“It’s just another move,” I said, more of my sake than his. I closed my eyes, letting darkness envelop me. “Would he have mourned, if I died? There are people I know who’ve killed for me, but only one who’s ever died for me.” Cas. The foreign feeling of loss, the broken spirals and jagged dreams at night. “Why? Why can’t I answer the question with a yes, Marius? But why do I still feel like it’s not just another move?”

I opened my eyes, staring at the ceiling. There were no tears, just a question.

“Why, Mari?” I asked, my voice even like I was asking the color of the sky.

Julian’s voice floated over, mild: “I don’t know.” A pause. “But I find that you only try to label things when you try to put them in a box, feelings included. Compartmentalizing is compartmentalizing, except when you remember you’ll have to open the boxes one day. It’s more efficient to dump everything out and get it over with.” As close to honesty as he can get.

I breathed in. “It was probably my fault for asking advice of someone I’ve only known for a day. Thanks, though, for trying.”

“You’re my fiancee, now,” he said. “It’s my-”

“Don’t say duty,” I interrupted. Now it was a question of relationships. I sounded tired - you are, my Ability chided. “If we’re going to get to know each other, I’d rather we do it because we want to, not because we have to. If we don’t get along, we don’t get along - if you want to break it off, we break it off, alright? If you think this contract is a shackle, it becomes one.”

"You confuse me," said the praetor. "You offer a hand, I take it, and you-"

“You are a patriot, are you not?” I asked, before pausing, and continuing.

“Loyal to the very end, supposedly true patriots are. I took a second to ask myself, why would a patriot accept an offer binding them to another nation? Why would they enter a collaboration that puts them in a situation where their honor is at risk?” I mused, and turned. “We all have heavy words we carry around. Be careful as to not break under your burden.”

“A warning?” Julian questioned, his tone carrying a trace of mirth.

“A word of advice, from an Imperial,” I said, “and a history of glorified traitors.” My Ability rooted out a twitch of indecision, and I gestured to the door. “Let’s play Crown,” I continued, “and talk. We have much to discuss.”

“It’s a confusing game,” the praetor admitted. “So there’s two Circles on both ends, and a Queen with a Crown inside both?”

I nodded, gesturing towards the rows. “Two rows in front of each Circle, with two Paladins on either side. There’re Actors, infiltrators, who can only move until they’re Discovered, and Archers, with their Arrows that can only be used once every Game. All of the pieces have specific avenues of movement, but all of them are-”

“Equally vital to the game,” Julian finished. “I can tell. A Game of strategy.”

I leaned back, not touching the Crownpieces. “As you know,” I changed topics, “you’re in a very big pile of shit, metaphorically speaking. Your dear Patrician Cassia, is very obviously behind the assassination that killed my Father, and soon enough all eyes will be on the Palace and Greta, Father’s heir, as the investigation concludes.”

“Greta not having the Heir Designate status changes things,” Julian guessed.

“Yeah, it does,” I agreed. “Unless Greta has some leverage over the Cardinals, which I’m sure she does, as well as unanimous support from Tyche, Doxa, and Marksman, with an established political presence in the capital.”

I held up two fingers, as I continued, “The last two are a problem, and Greta’s likely response will be sending me to Tyche, with Josie and Timmy holding down the societal fort, Orion stabilizing the Army and military marquessates, with Arathis taking care of the capital’s politicians.”

I paused. “My other brother Cyrus, on the other hand, will be sent to the Republic as a boost to your forces, and will undoubtedly be used as an Imperial stake in the current border happenings. I’ve already written to him, and he’ll be happy to use this opportunity to try and take down your government, again, under the condition of sharing his ties to Evlogia.”

“But,” Julian said.

“But,” I agreed, continuing, “my siblings’ motives remain unknown.”

“You mean their willingness to stay under Greta’s thumb,” the praetor said.

I smiled. “An informal euphemism,” I said, “we’re making progress.” A pause. “But yeah, that’s my point.”

“You follow Greta because she wants to conquer the world, and you’ll inherit her Empire with your siblings’ turbulent alliances,” said Julian. “So all you want, in the end, is power.”

“Pretty much,” I said with a nod.

The praetor sighed, tugging at his purple cape. “Why?” my Marius asked, in the tone that meant he was talking more to himself than me. “Why is everyone so obsessed with power?” He turned to me. “It kills people’s honor, eats them alive and makes them into monsters. Why?”

This time, he was the one asking me.

“Honor means nothing.” I shrugged. “For you, it may mean the world,” I said, “but once some have tasted the sting of defeat and opportunities lost, they do anything to win, to never feel that pain again.” I smiled lightly, my memory touching back on the many cautionary tales I had lived through. The many warnings that my arrogance would be my downfall that I had ignored.

“Doesn’t it get tiring? Pain being your motivation?” Julian continued to ask. “As far as I know, all of you have survived once. Isn’t it enough? Won’t your siblings have dwindling motivations, then - do you trust your sister enough to think that she’ll be able to pull off this plan?”

I smiled. “I thought you’d be asking these questions before you signed the contract and gambled your marriage away,” I said, “but no matter.” I leaned back. “Greta has the Ability to bend minds, being the patron of Dionysus - your Bacchus, I suppose - but she sacrifices her own mind with it. If she was forced, she’d be able to manipulate all of the others to her will.”

“But you make it sound like she won’t be forced.” A smidgeon of doubt.

“She won’t,” I said, simply. “It might seem like I’m just vying for the position of her right hand, but I know that she’ll succeed in bringing the Empire into the future.” My Ability reinforces that conclusion.

Julian raised his eyebrows, just slightly. “But where will the Republic be in that future?” he responded, his tone cooler. Loyalty. A sense of honor, to his nation. His people, always first. “She has her sights on conquering the whole continent, does she not? That’s one of the only things Harbingers have in common - and that means that we’ll have to go to war.”

I shook my head. “She already has stakes in the Republic,” I pointed out. “She’ll use this incident of a Republica diplomat assassinating the Emperor to her advantage, and plant even more stakes inside it. Your government’s already crumbling politically. You can see it. We all can see it. If you want to combat the Union’s monsters, you need a united system.”

“And you’re saying Greta’ll provide that system?” the praetor shook his head. “That’s not what we agreed on.”

I sighed. I hadn’t wanted to tell him just yet, but, for the sake of a business relationship. “Your father’s in Greta’s pocket already,” I informed. “So is a good deal - not a great deal, but a good one - of your Patricians. She has a lot more connections than you think - my information’s barely touching the surface.”

Julian’s eyes narrowed. A silence, which the praetor provided then broke, “I can’t say he wouldn’t do that, but you would understand if I can’t take that into account just yet.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.

Another silence.

“You probably need to go and take care of your Patrician Cassia,” I said. “The only reason you aren’t detained is probably because Deimos knows you’re my fiance, so I can vouch for you if you need to disappear for a bit. But I advise you not to do anything suspicious - or at least, don’t get caught doing anything suspicious.”

He didn’t move.

“If we’re getting married, I don’t want to work against each other,” he said. “I’ll consider it. Your offer, I mean. I’m not going to force us to love or trust each other, but we should set expectations.” Future expectations. Has already expected that he can’t weasel out of the contract.

I raised an eyebrow. “Like, you mean, if we’re going to have kids, what we’re going to act in public, and all that?”

Julian blinked, before giving a nod. I snorted.

“That’s a long way away,” I commented, and paused. “I mean, the first step is engagement, isn’t it? You probably should announce it in the Republica social circles, and I in the Imperial social circles, before I get settled in as Greta’s supposed subordinate. We don’t want our agreement to get overanalyzed since, technically, it’s pretty up in the air in terms of partnership.”

Julian let me continue.

“Then, a year of courtship. We should get to know each other, handle things on both our sides, and handle loose ends. Emphasis on the get to know each other part, though. We just met last Daystart, so that’s a thing most lovers go through,” I informed him. “Then I turn eighteen, and we get married on an auspicious date. By then, most things here will likely be wrapped up, and the time should coincide with Greta’s moves towards the Republic.”

“And then you’ll move to Gloria?”

“Honos is probably the best political headquarters, but it would make sense if I moved to your fief,” I admitted. “We’ll settle it when we get there.”

The praetor shrugged. “I have no objections.” A pause. “So, as I understand it, I’ll be staying in the Empire for a good amount of time?”

“Yeah, probably,” I agreed. “You should go ahead and inform your Army - but wouldn’t it be a hassle to do that without any challenges to your leadership? If you want me to help out and deal with Patrician Cassia…”

Mari shook his head. “I’ll deal with it,” he said firmly. “You have enough on your plate.”

I cooed, “so you do care about me-”

His stoic expression made me giggle. Hilarious.

“Alright then,” I conceded, giving my fiance a wave. “Have fun sorting a diplomatic crisis, darling! Make sure to tell your Army you’re engaged!”

He left without responding, violet fabric swishing in the sun as he left my Residence, as I gestured for my ladies-in-waiting who were ten feet away to approach.

The Crownboard was left untouched.

First singer: Who will save us?

Second singer: Save us from the folly of man-

Third singer: Save us from the reaper’s embrace-

First singer: Save us from the hero’s last stand-

Second singer: Save us from the darkness…

THE SINGERS STAND UP, CHOIR MARCHES IN

Choir: Save us-

Third singer: From the folly of man-

Choir: Save us-

First singer: From the reaper’s embrace-

Choir: Save us-

Second singer: From the hero’s last stand-

Choir: Save us from the darkness!

THE MUSIC SWELLS, THE SINGERS AND CHOIR EXIT THE STAGE

LORD

My child, my child!

CONSORT

Not my child!

THE CONSORT DANGLES THE YOUNG CHILD OFF THE BALCONY, EYES RED

CONSORT

You spawned a bastard! This is no child of mine!

CHOIR ECHOES FROM THE BACK OF THE CURTAIN

Choir: Vice and virtue, virtue and vice-

CONSORT

My Lord, I cannot stand raising this bastard anymore! Do you know how much I have sacrificed for you?

SHE STARTS SOBBING, THE LORD APPROACHES

Choir: Vice and virtue, virtue and vice-

CONSORT

Stay back! Or I will- Or I will throw this child off the balcony!

LORD

Delacia-

CONSORT

You love the bastard spawned from that woman more than me, don’t you? After I gave up being the Marquessate’s heir title for you? You dare love this- this half-child?

Choir: Vice and virtue, virtue and vice-

LORD

No, Delacia! I love you, and you only!

HE RUSHES FORWARD, AND SWEEPS HER UP IN AN EMBRACE

HE WRESTS THE CHILD FROM HER, AND KISSES HER

NEARING THE BALCONY, HIS EYES ARE WILD, HIS EXPRESSION CHANGES

CONSORT

My- my Lord?

LORD

You crossed a line, Delacia-

HE GRIPS HER SHOULDERS

LORD

You dare think yourself worthy of touching my son? No, you dare think of dictating who I love? And then, at the end, you dare think that I still love you?

HE LAUGHS

LORD

That is delusion, and nothing else. I regret marrying you.

PUSHING THE CONSORT OFF THE BALCONY, DELACIA LETS OUT A BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAM

THE LORD IGNORES IT, AND KISSES THE CHILD, AN ALMOST HAUNTING EXPRESSION ON HIS FACE

LORD

No matter what they say, you are my child.

CHOIR: Vice wins even over the most virtuous people.

I looked at Lazarus’ expression. It was pale. He hadn’t looked like he slept.

“A riveting play, is it not?” I asked him. “They call it The Bastard, and it’s trending right now among the nobles.”

A silence that might’ve been classified as awkward.

I explained, “Apparently, the baby grows up and becomes a swash-buckling general, and because in the first Act, the Lord carried so much guilt over the death of the baby’s mother - which he caused - the Lord killed himself when the baby was but three Daycycles old. The bastard child was treated terribly, but by the second Act, he amassed enough power and fortune to hurt those who hurted him.”

I paused. “By the third Act, he rose and became the Lord of the city, and a formidable soldier, and no one ever stepped on him again.” I clapped my hands together like a door closing. “He married, and he lived happily ever after. The end.”

This time Lazarus spoke. “I swore an Oath to you.”

His voice was a broken croak, but it was steady.

“And I accepted it,” I replied, easily. “But you probably should’ve told me, you know. We all have our secrets, but being my illegitimate brother’s a pretty big one.”

I leaned back.

The emerald greens of the theater were as vivid as the day before, and I got up from my seat to draw the curtains. I heard my personal Guard shift in his seat - it was technically a breach of custom, that I had saved him a chair in my Imperial box - as I closed the gold-embroidered gossamer over the balcony, providing a barrier from eyes that wandered from the performance.

“My mother used an aphrodisiac,” he finally said. “The Duke let me live because the Duchess wanted to spare me on a whim, and he released me into the streets.” Bitterness seeped into his tone. Dark memories that he doesn’t want to revisit. Scrounging, finding. “I lived in the slums of Inevita for a while, before entering the Duke’s service, and was employed as a Guard.”

“And then you followed me to the capital,” I finished. “You built an alarming amount of connections, to rise through the ranks, even if no one was aware of your birth. Why did you swear yourself to me? Because we share a father?”

I had no fond memories of Inevita. My biological father and mother were never present in my life - I spent dinners at home alone, and galas surrounded by friends that were designated to me. The tutors knew that I wasn’t favored, and sometimes took either a belt or a whip to me - but pain was neither a comfort nor a friend, and I had learned to avoid it.

First, I had hit them back.

I was withheld food.

I threatened food out of the maids.

The maids were killed.

I endured the tutors.

Avoid.

Learn.

Adapt to the eyes that were always trained on me, adapt to the pity and punishments. I remembered the Guards either spat on me or ignored me, and Lazarus had never been the most distinguishing Guard - just one among many faces that I never wanted to see again.

But I saw them, again and again. I survived, again and again.

I learned how to live.

“I-” Lazarus’ voice was feeble. “You don’t remember me?”

“From my tragic past? I do, vaguely,” I said, still staring at the curtain. If I turned, right now, the Hints would poke at my vision, threatening to tell me things I already knew. Whether he regretted decisions already made, sensitive memories, his weaknesses and strengths - he wasn’t like the Imperials, I could Read him.

I couldn’t delve into his story.

Not now.

And so I latched onto the curtain, distracting my Ability. Which Seamstress wove the fabric, the intricacy of the embroidery and the tale of its unwashed stains, the faded greens and colors. I continued to speak. “But no, I don’t remember any special occurrence.” The people of the second Isle thought I was cursed.

“You were training with throwing blades,” he said, his voice coming from behind me - he was still seated. “Your instructor was angry that you kept missing the bullseye by just a hair - but then you told her that she could go stand in front of the target and place her head on the bullseye, and see if she got killed or not.”

I let him continue.

I didn’t remember the memory.

“But then the instructor said, ‘Why should I do it?’ And then you replied, ‘It was just a suggestion.’ And then you challenged her - if you landed three bullseyes, she would go and stand.” Oh. Now a flicker surfaced. “The instructor agreed. The Guards were putting bets that you would lose, that it was all bluster.”

“But then I won,” I finished the anecdote. “Because-”

“You were pretending to miss by a hair, the entire time,” Lazarus said quietly. “I came up to you, that day, and asked you why. And you said you were practicing, to terrify the instructor but not kill her, because you knew you would win.”

A hazy face floated up.

“And then you asked me why again,” I recalled.

Lazarus finished, “And you said, ‘Because if I don’t win, I don’t survive.’”

It was true, back then.

I asked, “And that struck a chord in you, made you pity me enough to follow me to the capital when I returned to Inevita?”

I heard him shake his head, my Ability detecting the sound. “No,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It made me scared of you.”

Fear.

“It made me doubt myself, made me work harder than ever to be your subordinate,” Lazarus continued. “Because my half-sister, she was better than me. At everything. I began to see what you saw. You told me that you regulate your emotions, that your real self doesn’t matter. What kind of person thinks like that, I thought to myself - what kind of things does a person have to go through, to think like that?” A pause. “The Cage changed you.”

“You fixated on me,” I realized, my voice still.

“I think, in some way, I looked up to you.” My personal Guard choked out a bitter laugh. “Isn’t that pathetic? Some people say they don’t see why the Chosen are legends, but I see it. I see how you’re going to forge your own Legend. And I want to help you.”

I closed my eyes.

“So do it,” I said finally.

When I was young, I loved hearing about heroes and myths of old. Legends, stories, happily-ever-afters. I was still young, but not the same.

Would a hero use her own brother?

I shoved the thought aside, as I said, after a while, “Even as an illegitimate child, you still have a claim to the Marksman duchy. Do you want it?”

“I-”

“Do you want it, Brother?”

“Yes,” Lazarus admitted quietly, as I turned. If I took his age into account, the Duke would’ve been young when he had him. My strands of Ability floated, as he repeated, firmer, his eyes still haunted, “Yes, I want it all.”

A piece.

Would a hero think of people as pieces?

Would a hero, at the end of the story, look into the mirror and not be satisfied with the person staring back?

No.

They wouldn’t.

I wasn’t a hero. I made gambles, deals, trades. I played Games, I made blunders, but I wanted the world. I wasn’t the one gifted by the Gods, I was the one who wanted to go against them.

I looked into my brother’s eyes. “Then take it,” I said, simply.

You want it? As long as it provides a benefit to me, take it.