Pandere uiam infernum honeste.*

- REPUBLICA PROVERB

*the path to hell is paved with good intentions.

TYCHE WAS NAMED AFTER THE GODDESS OF LUCK.

Other than the Twelve - or the Olympians, as the rest of the Empire called them - there weren’t many Deities left over from the Myths that were recovered in Anthinon’s libraries. Eos, Goddess of the Dawn. Selene and Helios, siblings of the Sun and Moon; Nemesis, Goddess of Revenge.

Aeron’s mother, a former Analyst that had studied in the Republic, regaled him tales of Pomona, a Republica goddess of abundance, and Bellona, a goddess of War. She told Aeron about the heroes of old - Heracles and his labors, Perseus and Medusa, Theseus and the Minotaur. Aeron had disagreed, with some of them - Athena’s choice to turn Medusa into a monster, for one, or Hera hurtling Hephaestus off Olympus.

His mother had just said that the Gods were Gods. Then she had died, and Aeron hadn’t been able to keep the house that he lived in, and so he made his way as a sticky-fingered trickster.

He would make his own luck.

“Yer here,” acknowledged the gambling Denmaster, the hardy man. He nodded Aeron towards a table. “There’s a man here, asking for ye. Says that he knows yer ma.” Aeron raised his eyebrows, as the Denmaster continued, “Better sort that right out ‘befer starting yer shift, hear me?”

“Aye,” replied the thief, before giving a wink, “maybe my reputation’s going ‘round. Might give yer a run for yer money, Flint, sometime soon.” But a troubled feeling wormed his way into the dealer’s heart. He hadn’t known much about his mother’s former job, but she had many unusual connections, some of which had caused him much more than the odd trouble before.

The Denmaster grunted, not even bothering a “if ye say so.”

Aeron cast a glance outside at Tyche’s swathes of mist, a gloom that consumed most of the neighborhood, while calculating an escape route that made the most use out of today’s slightly-more-abysmal-than-usual weather. He certainly wasn’t going to lose his job because of his dead ma - causing a ruckus in Flint’s Den was a surefire way to do that.

Starting towards the brown hardwood table, Aeron stopped at the chair opposite the dark-cloaked, hooded figure, and smiled, leaning towards it. “Heya there, mate,” he said, “how may I help yer?”

“I’m looking for an Aeron Nameless,” responded the figure.

“Yer got the first name right,” the trickster said, not letting the surname destroy his broad smile. “Aeron Adino, at yer service. Like I said, how may I help yer?”

Aeron could see dark eyes gleaming under the hood, their darker hair preventing him from seeing more of the stranger’s face. “Anastasia Adino is dead,” they responded, simply. “You are an orphan, and thus you are Nameless. Why do you reject your status?”

“Look, sir? Ma’am? Neither? It’s none of yer business whether or not I reject my status or not, if it doesn’t coincide with yer request for help,” said Aeron, cheerfully. “Please enlighten me on yer reason for seeking me out. Other than that, I prefer we have as little contact as possible.”

The figure shrugged, as if amused. “Perhaps it is wise,” they conceded. “Very well, if you wish to get down to business.” A pause. “You are a card dealer, are you not?” Their refined accent and the way they delicately pronounced the Imperi words suggested a noble upbringing.

“Aye,” Aeron agreed. “But I don’t deal for private games, ye’ see. Too many things better left unheard, and too many people who’d cut me ears off for hearing them. If ye’ cut out those options, I’m all ears for new offers.”

The figure made a motion like they were raising their eyebrows. “No questions on how I knew your mother?” they asked, mildly. “Surprising, but understandable, given your reported practicality. I wouldn’t classify it as shrewdness, but you aren’t stupid.”

Aeron smiled, this time wryly. “Given the increasing industrial traders in our ole Evimeria, and the new diplomats coming ‘round, ye’d be a fool to trust anyone at face value.” He filed away the tidbit that he was being spied upon for later. “But, I must warn ye’, I don’t deal with politics, or Imperials.”

“A generous enough offer might change your mind, though,” the stranger commented. They slid a sack of drachmas across the table. “Fifty gold drachmas. And there’s more where that came from.”

It was too good to be true.

Aeron didn’t touch the money.

“But, the catch?” the dealer asked conversationally. There was always a catch, when it came to these things.

“There’s a person in the capital,” the figure said. “She’s very, very clever, and very, very dangerous. But she’s also very, very important.”

“And because ye’ can’t get to her, yer thinking a commoner like me can,” guessed the dealer.

The figure gave a nod. Or at least that was what Aeron thought they did, the cloak and hood made it hard to tell. “You didn’t ask, but I’m going to tell you anyway,” they said. “Your mother was a very gifted Analyst. We encountered each other more than once, when she was active as a Dame recognized by the Empire. She often spoke of you, and my reports say you’re exactly what I need.”

Aeron waggled his finger. “But that’s not related to the subject. Tell me more about the target. Don’t entice me, just-”

“She’s been planning something,” the stranger explained. “A plan, a macchination so big, and complex that it’s been in the works for ten years. I need to know something about it.” They barked a laugh. “She’s insane, really, for doing it. Any information at all, anything that you get your hands on, will be paid for immensely.”

“Yer paying for me to infiltrate an Imperial noble,” the dealer summed up. “Likely of a count level or above, judging from the way ye’ treat her identity. From the way ye’ speak, yer a very important noble - and since there’s no way for any noble to encroach upon Evimeria, let’s talk face to face.” Aeron smiled. “Duke Evimeria.”

The recognized Cardinal duke burst into fits of laughter. His mysterious facade was gone, replaced by an almost jolly persona. Like a man you would see at the bar, not someone who paid you to spy on his rivals.

“I admit, you’re good,” the notorious gambler admitted. “But not nearly good enough. See, that’s why I picked you, you know. You’re good, and I like you, and we’re both pants-on-fire liars. But not nearly good enough for her, and not even close to being a person who can even pose a challenge to her.”

“Because yer don’t want me to win,” concluded Aeron. “Yer want me to lose, but hightail it out of there alive with as much information under me grasp.” The dealer eyed the bag of gold on the table. “How much we talking, here?”

The duke spread his hands. “Hundreds!” he breathed. “If you pull this off, you’ll be swimming in gold! That, I promise.” His dark eyes squinted into a smile. “My good friend, Arathis, said this one thing that’s always stuck with me - follow your instincts, lose your gold, watch the winners prance upon their rugs, and pull it out from under them!” The man known as the mad duke threw his hands up in the air. “It’s always the most priceless thing, I tell you.”

Arathis. The Imperial Prince.

A correlation, in this topic-

Aeron didn’t let his smile falter, but said, matter-of-factly, “Ye’ want me to spy on a member of the Imperial family. In the capital. Because they’re planning something. Ye can promise me gold, but can’t promise I’ll stay alive.”

“That’s the gist of it!” the madman cackled.

The trickster already knew the answer, in his mind.

“I’m not sure,” he lied. “I’ll consider it, and get back to ye.”

The duke didn’t look fazed. “Sure, you go do that,” the noble said. “There’s a time limit, though. Unless other news comes up, or my gambles turn up empty, we’ll meet here, again, in a Dayhept. I look forward to our cooperation, Aeron Nameless.”

The madman already knew his answer.

But still Aeron nodded. “Aye.”

And then the duke got up, and disappeared into Tyche’s mists.

Duchess Alina Evlogia stared at the rising dawn insignia emblazoned on her coat. The nearby Guards’ liveries were decorated with the same crest, streaks of a red rising dawn and the curved fixture of a yellow sun. Evlogia in Imperi meant blessing, the light of another day. In Doxa, Eos and Iris were revered, dawn and the rainbow.

But Alina de Evlogia sighed.

Turning fifty, she was old enough. Nikephoros’ death hadn’t triggered a tremendous wave of grief inside her, but there was resignation enough in her heart to her fate as an old crone. The challengers and Victors were always younger, their knack for survival overpowering their lack of experience, but Alina had lived through her fair share. Before she turned thirty, it was Pallas the Proud on the throne, with Nikephoros being the youngest Victor back then.

Back then, the Victors had thinned over time, and the Nightbidden Emperor had apparently been the cause of it. When Alina had chosen to support him, albeit behind the scenes, it had been the most rewarding year of her life. She stabilized her position as Duchess, became one of the Nikephoros’ most treasured vassals to keep the Cardinals in line, and expanded the prestige of her duchy.

He was a friend.

“Aunt Alina!” called a familiar voice.

Bursting into her designated chambers in the Palace, the Forsaken was met with metaphorical daggers drawn. Alina sighed, and lifted a hand, motioning for the Guards to put down their guns. “Imperial Prince Arathis,” the Duchess greeted, curtly.

The Forsaken bounded over, and sat his rear on a nearby lounge.

“Father’s dead,” he said.

“Yes. I am aware.”

“He was going to die even before the Patrician killed him,” Arathis commented conversationally. “He poisoned himself deliberately, to hand my sister the throne, with sarawolf. It wasn’t obvious, of course - there were tablets, in his water, made by Poisonmasters that Deimos bribed.”

Alina sighed, and gestured for her Guards to leave. They did so wordlessly.

“Prince Arathis,” she began, “it would be best to keep your assumptions to yourself.”

The snow-haired Forsaken looked amused. “You can admit it, dear Aunt,” he said affectionately. “For all Cyrus has a stranglehold over your heir, you aren’t going to support that revenge-driven freak. You’re not the type to ignore a problem just because the results of it benefit you, no - you’re going to help Greta seize the throne and try to take it from her.”

Arathis was different.

Gone was the playful Imperial.

In its place was-

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” responded the Duchess coolly.

“It might seem from an outsider,” he continued, unperturbed, “that you’re supporting Cyrus for the throne. But he’s too unruly, too single-minded on his focus to the disgrace done to him. A very blunt trowel, a tool that you’d need to shake up the dirt to plant seeds. Greta is closer to your needs, not a tool but a valuable needle to your thread.” The Forsaken smiled. “Josephine you can’t use, so that leaves Seraphina.”

Alina would’ve been worried that his Ability was that of a mind-reader, only it had been explained that he-

“Your Father told me,” she said, “that your Ability is to be able to revive people from the dead, only you have to sacrifice a life of equal importance. The Aquilan law of equivalent exchange applies to your Abilities, provides you-”

The Forsaken interrupted her with a smile. “You’ve been reading Icarus,” he remarked. A silence, as he leaned closer. Alina settled on the seat opposite him, as he whispered, as if sharing a secret: “Death is a much more primordial force than anyone cares to think about. It’s so very interesting-”

“I’m not going to make a deal with you,” the Duchess replied, bluntly. “You’re very obviously goading me into supporting you for the throne. Blackmail, bribery, threats - they don’t work on me, Your Highness. Just because a snake conceals its fangs doesn’t mean that they’re poisonous.”

Arathis looked offended. “My fangs are very poisonous,” he protested. “And you, of all people, should know that the Chryselephantine Throne is plenty more dangerous than it looks. Besides, it isn’t interesting, running an Empire. Considering the fact that I’m a Damned, I’ll be dead before the sun even rises on my first Dayend!”

Then what do you want?

The Duchess replied, dryly, “I somehow doubt that.”

If Alina held out a while longer, people usually started telling her what they wanted of her. The Prince continued chatting about how boring being the Emperor was.

“You know,” he said, “people imagine being in power as some sort of means to an end. They all want something - to never be stepped on again, to make their enemies pay - and power gets them that. That’s what fuels the Imperial dream, because we live in a world where people have no choice but to be powerful to survive.”

This was a speech she had heard before.

“So you want to change that world?” the Duchess asked.

The supposed Chosen of Hades let out a laugh, as if that was the funniest thing in the world. “Oh, Gods no,” responded Arathis, after stopping his wheezing, “I’m perfectly fine with my station in society. The discrimination comes with the territory, I suppose.”

But.

“Because so many people want to be powerful, the imbalance isn’t interesting. The rich win against the poor. The powerful against the weak. You see it once, you’ve seen it all.” The Prince snorted. “In stories, it’s always the bold winning against the meek. The stalwart against the flighty, the true against the false. The brave against the cowardly. One on one, and the author gets to make up whoever wins as a lesson to further their own personal motto.”

Alina did agree, and she voiced: “So you don’t want to pick a side?”

Arathis raised his eyebrows. “I would first appreciate you not trying to ascertain my motives,” he said. “But no. Picking a side isn’t interesting. Winning, losing, it’s all the same. Being a God isn’t interesting, neither is being a Servant. Why does everyone want power, so badly? To get into Elysium? It’s not, ‘we all die in the end, so what’s the point’ but ‘why are we obligated to survive’?”

“We’re not obligated,” Alina half-heartedly challenged, “but-”

“We all have desires,” insisted the Forsaken. “Power, money, love, interest, survival. But what happens to those who live without obligation? No, what happens to those who have desires, but feel no obligation to fulfill them?”

The Duchess was tired. “Please, get to the point, Your Highness.”

“Neutrality does not work,” he said, simply. “The Evlogia Duchy can’t stay still, not with the desires of the other Cardinals, the desires of the Republic. If desires clash, then a battle commences. People can try to argue against it, but, in the end, there’s always a winner, and a loser.”

A silence.

“Once you’ve seen one battle, you’ve seen them all. And observing isn’t interesting,” the Victor continued. “You, dear aunt, cannot afford to observe. Evlogia will support someone to the throne, and you will fight.” A pause. “But whether you need the Gods’ favor to win or not, well-” the puppeteer grinned “-I’m here, aren’t I?”

I smiled. Greta didn’t smile back.

My newfound lord I had promised my vassalage to arched an eyebrow. “If you’re trying to distract me from the fact that your fiance’s acquaintance killed Father and likely caused a massive diplomatic incident,” my sister said, “you are failing. Quite terribly, I add.”

An hour ago, I would’ve been surprised that the First-in-line to the Imperial Throne had a sense of humor. I still was unnerved by the statement now, even after we had casually talked about our days, but took it in stride.

“I’m not,” I protested. “I’m innocent.”

The major’s eyebrow stayed raised. “Right,” she enunciated.

“Now I understand why your troops are apparently terrified of you,” I muttered under my breath for dramatic effect, the information from Lazarus. Greta gave no indication she heard, but if it was her she probably wouldn’t have cared. “But we’ve chatted long enough,” I conceded. “What are your orders, Milord?”

I was a loyal henchman, now.

I had to Act the part.

My sister the Imperial Princess said, wryly, “Crown, wreath, and tome considered, I suppose the first order of business would be the Cardinals. And the Duchies. And then the Marquessates.”

“All in that order?” I asked, before adding, “is there anything you want me to personally need to attend to?” I said this while reaching for the pot of tea on my table, my Ability making sure the porcelain surface was devoid of any poisonous balms.

Greta the Great arched her eyebrow even higher, the pale line reaching an indomitable height on her even paler forehead. “If you’d like to know what I’m planning to resolve the Republica diplomatic relationship,” she commented, “you could just say so.”

I smiled. “Well then, that ruins the surprise, doesn’t it?” I sipped the tea. “I’d thought you’d be using my father-in-law and Cyrus to stabilize things there. They brought an offer, didn’t they? For military support? I’m assuming you’re going to use it to your advantage?” I set it down on the plate. “Besides, aren’t you going to mobilize Orion to start the investigation too? I wrapped him up for you, by the way.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” replied my sister. “And I do have a lot on my plate.” She looked at me. “What do you want to do?”

“What am I supposed to do?” I responded. “There’s the investigation, first - handling publicity on the issue, making sure the citizens are alright, keeping the other Patricians in check, are all roots of the bigger problem at hand, aren’t they? Having a smooth transfer of power, and consolidating your succession.”

Greta’s eyebrow finally sunk back into its original position, and she gave a curt nod. “You should take care of the investigation,” she said after a while of observing me. “I need Orion for something else.”

Stabilizing the Army, preparing for war.

I gave a nod in return. “There are people who don’t trust me,” I said, honestly. “I’m quiet in political circles, and I’ve only been back for three months from the Cage. I have a fairly good reputation, but I’m not a big player.”

“Yet,” my sister corrected. “I trust you’ll use this opportunity well?”

My Ability was already calculating the implications of the sentence.

Opportunity - trust - wording?

“I’ll have to work closely with the Palace Guards’ Captain,” I said finally. “And I’ll use Timaois for the rest. Do I have free rein on this operation?”

Greta gave a slight shrug. “Do as you must,” she replied evasively. “But do make sure to keep your subordinates in check. You never know when one of your cards chooses to reveal themselves.”

A warning.

I gave a nod. “I will,” I said simply. “Should I consider this as a test, of sorts?”

The look in her eye told me that I had probably gotten through more tests than I’d known of. It spoke and screamed, the hint of madness that was always there. She knew, I knew, and she knew that I knew. “You should,” she said finally, “consider this as your first operation. Do not make it your last.”

I gave no impression that the threat affected me. “Of course,” I replied after a beat. “Deimos has handled the death announcement?”

Greta gave a wave. “He’ll take care of it, soon. The investigation will begin tomorrow, after the traditionally given mourning day.” She didn’t say the last sentence with finality, which meant that- “Come,” my older sister said. “I’ll show you something.”

My sister led me to the Lower Quarter. We left the carriage behind, and I watched the older woman walk through dilapidated roads full of shivering, barely-clothed children and ragged houses, blocks of crumbling brick stacked atop each other in worldly grotesque pyramid-forms. Leftovers and bodies of young and old gathered flies on the streets, as we faced suspicious, calculating eyes.

Everything reeked of blood, mold, or starvation.

I blinked.

I could Read the poverty in the hands of the passerby, but even without the Hints that screamed at me I could see the lack of hope in their eyes. I was sure that without the Guard that hovered threateningly by my side, I would’ve been attacked by now. The younger people were more desperate, the candle not yet put out.

The funny thing was that I couldn’t completely quash the flicker of disgust that lit itself in me.

Or the pang of slight guilt that came after.

Both were quickly extinguished.

The noble brat Seraphina Marksman was long dead, and so was the child that dreamed of becoming a hero. You say they’re long dead, but why do they still appear in your dreams? My Ability whispered. You lie to yourself.

I blinked again.

But that’s what I do, I replied. I lie.

Greta didn’t speak, so I didn’t either, although I kept shouldering on.

We stopped at a large, creaking building. It was a sorry excuse for a structure, a peeling empty thing that made you pity what it had once been. Damp wood planks were consumed by mold and termites, and I read the sign’s faded letters: HIGHLANDER INSTITUTE FOR LOWER EDUCATION.

Highlander.

I could already guess the possibility.

“They said it was better called Highlander,” said my older sister, suddenly looking her age of forty years, “than being called Nameless.” A cold fury was laced in my tone, and my surprise at being able to Read her clenched fists was overpowered by my shock at her showing emotion at all. Fury.

I didn’t say anything.

The Guards were out of earshot.

“I want to build a future.”

Quiet but even, small in volume but not in words.

“I want to build an Empire,” she continued. “Where its people can trust.”

Cyrus was driven by revenge. Orion by the hunt, Arathis by interest, Josephine by the play. Greta Highlander, Her Greatness, at the moment would’ve seemed like a generous martyr if not for the blood that stained her hands in the years she spent waiting. If not for the madness that glinted in her cold eyes, the secrets that lay hidden at her tongue.

“I Swore to help you,” I replied, simply.

There was a pressure - guilt? - that hung over my consciousness like a shroud, now - I was driven by no such noble purpose, no such loyal motivation. I had done many, many things. I had gone through many, many things, but never had I felt the pain of losing everything.

I felt Greta turn to me.

I continued fixing my gaze on the building. The blue afternoon sky was bright and clear, the clouds that floated upon it almost irritatingly cheery. The Eternal City of the First Isle, the capital of the Empire Eoina, was broken.

The Empire itself was broken.

The world was broken.

If I fixed it, would I be satisfied? Was I wrong, was the hunger in me not for power but for change? I was grasping at moral straws here, trying to feel like a good person when I was nothing but, I thought to myself. If I became a hero, would my future reflection praise me?

I heard Greta let out a sharp breath. “You did,” she said. “Will you?”

I ignored my Ability screaming at me that if I meant the words I said, I would not take them back. If I broke the Act, if I truly meant the words that I said-

“Maybe,” I replied.

Alea iacta est, as the Republica said.

For me, the die had been cast.