Never look a gift horse in the mouth - shoot it from a distance and send someone expendable to loot its corpse instead, it's much safer.

- THE FIFTIETH DUCHESS TYCHE, NEPHELE EVIMERIA

IT WAS EASY TO FORGET A LOT OF THINGS ABOUT SERAPHINA.

It really was hard to remember that nobles were nobles when they put on their masks of smiles and laughs, Macedon thought to himself. He looked at the noble in question - his lord, the Sixth Princess - with an easy greeting. “Princess,” he said with a smile, “what brings you here?”

“Mace, my good man.” The Chosen grinned back, from beneath her cloak hood - it was surprisingly well-worn, made of cheap light blue fabric that was a ripoff match of the Princess’ indigo-pupiled gaze. Dark filaments that caught blue in the afternoon sun peeked out from beneath the cloak, framing a well-shaped, almost delicately angular face. “What have you got for me?”

It was extremely easy to get sucked in with that amicable facade Seraphina wore, sometimes - she made it so easy, to follow along with the dynamics and boundaries she established; to step in the snares of expectation that were set beneath her every word and turn of phrase. Even Macedon, a swindler of a man that he was, had a hard time getting a grip on events when she was around.

When the confidence-man was young, his mother had told her of Legends of the Chosen - the Tales of Angelo the Avenger, the sayings of Dantaleus the Wise. The villains, too, Mama spoke of - the Slaughter caused by Lysimachos the Insane that cost the formerly-thousands of Imperial Kato their lives was a recurring topic. The Origin myths of before the Cage was established, of the former heroes of Myth - Achilles and his Styx-coated heel, Cadmus the Snake-Slayer who founded the city that came to be Eurus-

“The Emerald Seas.” Macedon felt his lips moving on reflex. “Since Lady Alia delivered the deed, we’ve already contacted the brothel’s Abbess and the staff. If you’d like to personally go over-” He was interrupted by the Princess raising a head and elegantly sitting on the chair across from him.

“There’s a lot of green,” Seraphina observed languidly. She acted like she always was - having the fluid, practiced manners of a noble, but with an almost mildly friendly expression on her face.

Macedon looked around. The Emerald Seas was a higher-class establishment than most, with neat viridian paint. He had currently seized the accounting room as his office, but- “I’ve been told it’s the theme,” the swindler commented sheepishly. “If it’s a bit much, I can change it-”

The Princess leaned back. “Repaint it and buy some new decorations,” she said in that light tone that meant even though it sounded like a suggestion, it was an order, “using the brothel’s funds from last Daycycle, get it ready for a reopening at the end of this Dayhept.” Seraphina crossed her legs casually. “I’ve recruited around four grunt workers, but new brothel owners, new contracts - there is some way to make the ‘tesans sign something that you can exploit for menial manor labor, correct?”

Her tone was more steely than usual, and brooked no room for argument.

Macedon’s protests for a raise died down in his lips. “The Abbess is capable,” he admitted, honestly. “I don’t think I can spring a loophole on them. Before, the former owner apparently used the brothel as a transition point to smuggle illegal Ecstasy and aphrodisiacs.”

The swindler reached forward and spread the files on his desk like a fan. Sorting these gave me a headache. “I've reached out to them and told them-”

“Cut them off completely,” Seraphina interrupted. The Princess tilted her head, her obsidian tresses exposed to be tightened in a harsh bun.

Her feathery smile made Macedon halt internally. “Excuse me, Your Highness-?”

“You heard what you heard.” There was barely anything opaque about the Chosen - she was mist itself: swathes of promises, lies, orders, laughs - dangerous plans. When Macedon thought of the blade from Princess’ almost sculpted bronze hand launching itself in the air and being embedded in a pale throat, fear flared up on his own.

Seraphina continued, “Scandals are what we’re trying to avoid. When the investigation’s over and a coronation ceremony’s held, there will be backlash. Rivals with power and money on their hands, who will take any and all opportunity to dig up whatever things we try to keep hidden. Cut them off, completely and as soon as possible.”

Macedon sighed.

“It’ll take a lot of funds that we don’t have, Princess,” he admitted. “We-”

The Chosen reached into her cloak amusedly in response. Macedon wordlessly watched Seraphina’s hand bring out a bulging pouch. The Princess shook it once like a dog bone, the drachma coins jangling inside almost alluringly, as she threw it down on Macedon’s table.

It was a siren’s lure.

“If a single coin goes missing from this bag,” she commented, “I’ll cut both your hands off and give it to my siblings to use as back-scratchers.” Seraphina’s deceptively mild smile contrasted the very serious glint in her eye. Macedon was smart enough to know that she overlooked his embezzling because it didn’t cross the line, and that the threat was a frighteningly real one.

“It’ll cover the re-opening you need, and hopefully the penalty fee for the contracts with the Ecstasy dealers,” the Imperial Princess continued. “There’ll only be more where that came from if you get the job done. Move all the Scouts and Seraphs here - only eight, right, in total? Recruit more. This base should be up and running by the end of this Dayhept.”

Macedon suddenly felt an oncoming headache, but the swindler knew what he had got into before he had accepted Seraphina’s hand that day. “Fuck,” he quietly swore. As he drew in a shaky breath, the con-man made mental calculations in his bed.

Glory to the Sixth, she who comes from myth - a fitting motto, now that he thought about it. Myths were dangerous to believe in, and so was his employer. “I’ll get it done, Princess,” Mace grumbled, heaving a sigh.

“Of course.” A smile - more like an animalistic baring of teeth, really - stretched across Seraphina’s face. “My good man, Macedon.”

Gossipy taverns were easy enough to find. Really, the harder part was entering an establishment that allowed murder on its grounds. Alyssa I had left with Macedon, opting to bring Mercy instead - she was surprisingly efficient in finding a place that fit all the above criteria in the form of the Eternal Crown.

Contrary to its name, it was swarming with anti-Imperialists, or, according to the less formal, more affectionate nickname, ‘non-Imps.’ Really, if you categorized the citizens of both the Eternal City and the Empire itself on whether they were against the hegemony or not, all Imperials would be non-Imps. No, real supposed ‘non-Imps’ weren’t the ones who wanted to rule because they thought they could do better, they were the ones who wanted to reform the Imperial system by force.

Of course, some non-Imps were Anothen extremists and were in it because they believed that the Chryselephantine Throne’s interests didn’t align with their ‘religious views,’ but others were in it for the force of change itself without the throne. Those who wanted to take that change for themselves, seize it and use it as not a blade but a way to carry out their dreams of a better future, those were called Rebels.

The Eternal Crown was a hotspot for them.

It was the perfect place to hire assassins to kill the Emperor.

“Mercy, could you order some apple juice for me?” I requested of my assassin, settling on a table as I felt hidden eyes on me. They really thought they did something, digging concealed eyeholes in the walls, I thought to myself. I- could’ve done much better, my Ability insisted. It isn’t Wise, to-

Oh, shut up.

It wasn’t long before I was approached. I narrowly dodged propelling saliva to the face. I looked at the perpetrator, a man that stunk of wine and musk, with raised eyebrows as he jabbed a finger in my face. “You’re one of those non-Imps, aren’t ya? Approaching our patriot territory, the Eternal Crown? Long live-”

I looked up at the man. He was a terrible actor. “Pathetic,” Mercy commented. I tilted my head in agreement, and I could feel the hidden eyes narrowing further.

“Tell me who killed the Emperor, and I’ll let you live,” I said.

“What-”

My hand crept to my cloak and brandished one of the seven daggers on my person. Lunging forward, the blade was soon on his bronze neck as I slammed him against the wall. At the movement, the bladehands of some of the people in the tavern twitched, the bawdy noises dimming down an almost unnoticeable notch.

They planted him to root out the actual Imps that wanted to spy here, but they should’ve hired better.

“Tell me,” I repeated, softly, “who killed Nikephoros and I’ll let you live.”

“I don’t-”

It was almost impulse, my knife tracing a line across his neck. A quick gash, and his life was snuffed out - I let him go, and he flopped against the wall, crimson scattering on my cloak. With that, my Ability led my eyes to the nearest peephole, one carved right next to me, and I smiled.

“Tell me who killed Nikephoros,” I said for the third time to the sliver of green eye staring back at me, “or I’ll burn you all alive.”

The eye disappeared. The surrounding noise lessened, this time noticeably - gazes were now on us, assessing our weakness and strengths. I, in response, just reached into my cloak and brought out a matchbox.

Seven people that seemed like a challenge, so- I scraped the tip against the side of my matchbox, and flame blossomed. I blew it out. I repeated the action almost rhythmically, ignoring the dead body at my feet.

Sometimes I spun the match between my fingers, letting the fire dance over my knuckles, but the carefree cycle only stretched out for a few more minutes before the supposed tavern kitchen door opened, and the leader appeared.

I set the match and matchbox aside, and drummed my fingers on the table’s surface as the man approached our table.

“You haven’t ordered anything,” he remarked.

I stopped drumming my fingers and met his green eyes. “Maybe there’s nothing worth ordering,” I remarked, leaning back against the chair while tilting my head. “Are you going to accept my proposal, Your…”

“Face,” he supplied. “Face Vasilos.”

King. “That’s a tall order to live up to,” I said with a laugh. I nodded towards Mercy, and she obeyed my motion, freeing an empty seat. “Please, sit down, Face Vasilos. We have much to discuss.”

“Or you’ll burn me alive?” asked the green-eyed man. I hadn’t heard of a Vasilos, before - none of the non-Imp organizations had gained enough traction to achieve sufficient notability for the nobles to pay attention. Of course, it was largely due to the fact that they were no match for six Chosen combined, but-

“Maybe I’ll stab you instead,” I responded, amicably. “Jury’s still out.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Vasilos smiled. “It’d be an honor to die by your lovely hand.” Ah, so he knew my face. That’s alarm enough, my Ability said.

I laughed, again. “You can just call me Sera, then, and dispense with the formality.” I did away with the hood, and heard faint intakes of breath from the passerby. I turned to the broad-faced Rebel leader. “Would you prefer a private meeting?” I asked him, but Vasilos shook his head.

“In matters concerning our organization’s confidentiality, our entire organization prefers to be involved,” the man remarked, mildly. “I’m sure you understand, given that you represent the Imperial Family’s interests.” Bait. I laughed a third time at that, shaking my head amusedly.

“I’m willing to pay for the information. How much would be enough for you and your organization?” I leaned backwards, rolling the match on the table between my fingers.

“A price too heavy for you to pay.”

“No heavy price has not been paid for the crown, no scale so fragile that can break under the throne’s burden,” I recited, “except-”

“The balance of the mind, the unravelling tapestry of a uniting’s gown - no reverie so deep that it swallows reality I find, no way to vanquish fear or desire for certain,” Vasilos finished wryly. “I never knew you were a fan of the Theatre.”

I smiled. “Well, then we’ve learnt something new about each other. I ask you again: how much would be enough for you and your organization?”

The slight smile on Vasilos’ face vanished. “A price too heavy for you to pay,” he repeated.

I raised my eyebrows. “What, because the person who hired you was backed by them?” I deliberately left the pronouns vague. “I never knew the non-Imps were deterred by war - isn’t that what you’re all after, anyway?” Testing the waters, making them-

“Not all of us,” Vasilos corrected lightly, unknowingly - or knowingly - taking the bait, “we aren’t the goldcoat extremists - the Prásina Mátia isn’t built for following along with your plans and games. If we say that the price is too heavy for you to pay, it is too heavy for you to pay, Your Highness.” A new organization? I never kept track of unimportant alliances.

“Was the price too heavy for dear Octavia?” I tilted my head. “Perhaps your Verdant Eyes have gone cloudy with idealism. You are not being given a choice.”

The man shook his head. “That is what you all say,” he said. “You speak of choices and fate and destiny, of glory and ruin and dreams of fantasy, but we have never chosen. Never given the opportunity to choose. We haven’t been Chosen by the Gods, like you, Your Highness.” His words were laced with emotion, and for a second those green eyes turned an electric blue. But then the illusion was shattered, just as quickly as it was built.

“So you are lucky.” I smiled. “Are you here to brag about it, or to make a deal? I won’t repeat myself thrice - how much?”

Vasilos ignored my question. “The streets of the City are turbulent - the Emperor died without an Heir Designate, and they don’t know-”

A mistake.

The Hints clicked together.

“So you don’t know,” I mused. “You don’t know where the assassins came from, because-” The conclusion hit me like a train. “Ah. Of course. She wouldn’t be that stupid to leave traces.” Greta and the Republica Consul wouldn’t be that short-sighted. It was all a part of their plan, and I was a foolish dog barking up the wrong tree. A surge of anger roared up in me, but Vasilos narrowed his eyes.

And so I did the only thing I knew what to do - consume.

My hands stopped fiddling with the match, and my Ability took it upon themselves - myself - to teach the man a valuable lesson. “The Verdant Eyes, you call yourself - this wouldn’t be your only stronghold, would it?” I smiled, reaching for the matchbox with my free fingers. “For all that you prize yourself on seeing all, it’s almost funny, the fact that you haven’t realized.”

They hadn’t heeded my warning.

“The blind one here isn’t justice, my dear King of Faces,” I told him, “but those who think themselves capable of delivering it.”

I lit the match, and dropped it to the floor while gesturing for Mercy to sink a dagger into Vasilos’ stomach. My cloak was stained with blood. This time, my conscience remained silent.

The investigation made little ripples, in the scheme of things. For the common people, perhaps, the process was a special one, but for the nobles, the results were more important than the stages of the Imperial Investigation itself. Who would the Empire decide to scapegoat? How would the Republic handle things? What would the Imperials demand as recompensation?

Thoughts flooded through Julian’s head.

The praetor frowned. He had, of course, sent a letter to his troops in Gloria. The Waves were usually composed of around a hundred monsters, which sounded less threatening than it actually was. Monsters weren’t organized like human troops, but they didn’t have emotions or supplies that could be manipulated - they couldn’t be stalled or ordered, and even though the lines were composed mostly of harpies and griffins, the possibility of a Minotaur had occurred more than once.

Perhaps his accomplishments would’ve looked great to others - during his first year of holding Gloria, he had turned it into a strong military Stronghold, a base for the Romulus Army he was the head of.

It was a touchy subject, the entire affair. Indirect cooperation with the Forsaken? Imperial politics? This required diplomatic finesse, not military brute force. Strategy, careful thinking, holding together delicate threads of a tapestry that was threatening to unravel and spell ruin.

It irritated Julian, just how his fiancee expected him to trust that her sister would be able to weave new threads after burning old ones. Trust.

Honor. Loyalty. Prestige.

There was trust in honor, in the foundation of origin.

There was trust in loyalty, in superior and subordinate.

There was trust in the power prestige commanded, in how the world worked.

But the Praetor Romanus did not trust power itself.

He closed his eyes.

Julian Marius Romanus was many things - by all the Gods, Jupiter and Saturn - but he was not a traitor. In the fatherland he had been raised, in the Roma Republic, there was a bond in his heart. But what had she said? I am a perfectly capable partner.

She was a perfectly capable partner. But she was asking Julian to place his faith not in her capabilities, but in the fact that the Republic would be better off conquered than allied. The irritating part was that he could understand the how and the why behind her reasoning, but it still felt like a downsized version of a deal with Death himself, a tantalizing invitation sitting within arm’s reach.

Yes, it was very, very irritating.

The boy-praetor curled his left hand into a fist.

He had slaughtered a Minotaur himself, for House Roma and Branch Romanus. It wasn’t for his father that he did those things - Julian had learned a long time ago that no matter what he did, no matter how he did it, Marcellus Amadeus Romanus would never look back and praise him.

The Consul would never.

His father would never.

Honor. Loyalty. Prestige.

The praetor missed his mother. Not the praetor, but Marius. Marius missed his mother much more than he should. The stronghold of Gloria was humid and damp, the Imperial mildly sunny; but neither climates could compare to his mother’s estate he had purchased her, where you could see and feel the scents of flowers and sun.

What would she say about this?

About Julian thinking himself capable of turning over an entire country, to a person he thought capable of fixing it?

Suddenly, the cape on his shoulders - he had put it on again, almost as a habit - seemed less like a symbol of Republica pride and more like a heavy reminder. A reminder that while the Patricians gambled and drank, soldiers - his soldiers - defended the borderlines and kept the Senate from running the country to the ground. While they laughed in joy, while they abducted children from the streets for their pleasure, battle roared like an angry beast and charged just as worse.

He shifted. The medals of honor on his chest jingled. None of them were Aeneas’ Star. Hero blood ran through his veins, made him stronger, faster, smarter - but the feeling of disappointment never ceased. His father had already sold the Republic out for power - why not-

Dangerous thoughts.

Julian was striding in dangerous waters.

He was already going to be married to a treacherous Imperial, as mild and friendly she might seem, so why-

Why not?

For honor. Loyalty. Prestige.

For the honor of the Republic-

No, for your honor.

Honor.

The Minotaur-Slayer smiled, and relaxed his fist.

Days passed.

My plan worked.

I hadn’t seen much of Greta lately, which was to be expected given the responsibilities on her shoulders. It would stain the Imperial Family’s reputation if word got out that we were already planning Her Greatness’ coronation when we were still mourning Nikephoros, and we would be put in an even sticker situation because the Investigation hadn’t technically excluded from the list of culprits yet.

The Emerald Seas were coming along quite nicely. Macedon had refurbished the entire space, the bright greens toning down into a demure, elegant pistachio pearl - it had changed, at least enough to excuse a reopening. The funds I had tossed him made those under my employment reach a satisfactory number, according to Alyssa - only the finest of the dregs of society were accepted, her report had indirectly said. Alexandros and his lot had accepted my invitation, and the work I had heaped onto my ever-so-capable subordinates had been finished.

The Ecstasy dealers had been dealt with, the brothel turning into a fine establishment that stank of being used as a covert headquarters, and my plan was working.

From the Verdant Eyes’ ashes I had personally forged ledgers that said that Cassia employed them to assassinate my Imperial Father. I had given the ‘foolproof’ evidence to Summanus, so Cassia’s guilt was a done deal; as I had instructed, there was enough excuse to pounce on him at the nearest available date - which was, in fact, today, at the Emerald Seas’ opening - and so once he turned over the evidence to our dearest Captain, the diplomats would be in the clear.

Julian would take care of the political fallout on the Republic end, and as long as the Captain didn’t ask any hard questions - like, for example, how did Titus acquire those documents when Cassia never contacted him enough to warrant suspicion? - the plan was working.

The plan worked.

Life was good.

I watched from behind a pillar as the Captain and his Brigade crashed into the parlor of scantily-clad courtesans and the drunk Patrician as scheduled.

Yes, life was good.

Already, I was planning out what robes to wear for Greta’s coronation as Emperor.