It is much safer to be forgotten than remembered, as history is continued through the voices of predecessors that have won too many battles to have clean hands, and those they remember they have either won a war against or lost. It is better to not fight a battle at all than one twisted with words and recorded, I feel... the concept of the winning move being not to play at all never fails in the Empire.

- ANALYST IRAKLIDIS, On War and the Mechanisms Behind It

YOU COULD SAY THERE WAS SOME HUMAN NOVELTY IN BEING REMEMBERED.

I wasn’t quite clear where the concept began being ingrained in me, where it became the center of my supposed ‘pearl of desire’ — it wasn’t me that had come up with the phrase, blame Iraklidis’ The Imperial Dream — but I remembered being forgotten.

Reliving waking up to the book with my name’s disappearance, my existence’s erasure, every night leading up to that day when my Ability appeared would’ve broken me, I thought to myself, if I hadn’t found something to cling to. For me, that was knowledge. Power. And I would get it — in due time, my Ability whispered. In due time.

I didn’t have all the time in the world, but I had enough.

And that was enough.

If you pretended to believe a lie enough times, it would become true.

“Sister.” I smiled. “You—”

“Look old, I know,” Greta said, in that emotionless tone she always spoke in, with a sigh. Cerenia was measuring her arms, choice draperies of various shades of gold on the table in front of me.

I laughed. “I was going to say you look nice in gold, but I guess old works, too.”

Arathis poked me in the side. “Don’t be mean to Oldest Sister, Sera.” The Forsaken put on an unconvincingly wide grin. “Don’t worry, Oldest Sister, you look stunning. You’ll knock every courtier at your coronation dead with your beauty, you—”

Josephine clicked her tongue. “Stop licking her boots, Ara,” Aphrodite’s Chosen reprimanded, casually. “Oldest Sister wouldn’t want anything to change now that she’s Emperor.”

Orion cut Ara off before he could begin, which was probably for the better: “I don’t even get why I’m here,” the older man grumbled. “You said we were going to get a family portrait commissioned—”

“— Yeah, that’s the only reason why I came, too—” Cyrus piped up.

“—not a whole outfit,” Orion finished, arms crossed.

“We’re getting a family portrait commissioned?” I questioned.

“We are,” responded Greta, firmly. “Right after I get my measurements done.”

Orion huffed. “Imperial court attire and their formalities,” he grumbled under his breath, even though all of us could easily catch it. “Never liked that bootlicking Deimos. Always forced me into chitons and court robes.”

Arathis made a face. “It’s not really court, though,” the Forsaken pointed out. “It’s just a gathering of nobles that happen to be in the capital at the moment.” The Fifth Prince yawned. Boredom — I rolled my eyes at my Ability’s obvious conclusion. “Well, technically, a lot of ‘em are just using the social season as an excuse to come and lick Oldest Sister’s boots. I hear that the Cardinals are coming to pay their respects.”

This time, it was Cyrus who huffed. “They’re already Oldest Sister’s vassals. All of them are only coming to keep Tyche and the military marquessates in check.” True enough.

“Speaking of military,” I spoke up, “have you gotten rid of those Stygian metal weapons you used to frame the Republica diplomats? We’ve already taken care of Cassia, and you are being sent over there as hostage—” I coughed at my brother’s glare, “sorry, peace offering in a couple Daycycles, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” Cyrus snarled. “But to answer your question, yes. I gave them to Greta—”

“Oldest Sister,” Josephine corrected.

“-Her Greatness,” Zeus’ Chosen amended with a self-satisfied scowl. “And it’s Dayhepts, not Daycycles. Straight after the coronation.”

Orion grunted. “Is anyone going to address the fact that the Evlogia old hag pledged herself to us?”

This time, Cyrus corrected: “Not us, Greta.”

“No,” Orion said firmly, “us.”

The light mood flickered for a bit, threatening to turn serious, as I swooped in and laughed. “One of us probably had a talk with her,” I voiced the most likely option. “But either way, even when Duchess Alina steps down, Roxane is the most likely successor, isn’t she? The Cardinals, Doxa, and, if everything goes right, Tyche — the duchies are practically in the bag.”

Arathis tilted his head curiously. “You’re forgetting Inevita. Sixth Mother and Father’s support only lasts as long as we have a strong foundation.” That’s true. They’re always the opportunists, they are.

I shook my head, lightly. Lazarus would have that handled. “Like I said,” I repeated, slowly, “the duchies are practically in the bag. The only problem right now is the Republic.”

Josephine cooed. “Well, you and your lover boy have that handled, don’t you?” she teased, swaying for a bit before deciding to rest her head in Arathis’ lap, stretching across the couch and placing her feet near where I was, on the floor.

The Forsaken began stroking her hair while Orion frowned at the threateningly close appendages, using his bow to nudge her sandal-enclosed feet away from his seat. Cyrus made a face at the scene, miming pinching his nose and waving away an imaginary stench while leaning against the wall. Josie stuck her tongue out.

It was surprisingly domestic, the entire display.

I raised my eyebrows in response to Josephine’s question, scooching closer to my nearest sibling — Orion — who gracefully allowed me to use him as back support. “He’s not my lover,” I said as a reply. “We’re engaged. It’s a convenient partnership, and he doesn’t look bad,” I conceded, before adding, “we’ve decided to get married when we turn eighteen, though — I don’t want to move to Gloria, though. Too many monsters.”

“One monster,” Greta added from a few paces away, “is one too many.”

Murmurs of agreements.

“I never had a problem with them, though,” Josie voiced. “The people I seduced took care of that for me.”

That was dangerously close to revealing something about her time in the Cage, and immediately the air turned stale and electric, before Ara maneuvered the conversation towards another topic.

“You did finish sorting out the Investigation’s aftermath, right?” the Forsaken asked me.

I teetered my hand. “So-so. The Repubs are probably in a panic right now because their diplomat got found guilty of treason. Their Consuls are aware that we’re giving them the chance to get off easy by giving them a scapegoat — it’s the Republica way to prioritize the supposed tree over the rotten branch.” I stretched, my hand nearly punching Orion in the face. He scowled. I smirked.

“They’ll amputate Cassia, and envoys or some kind of payment will be offered. We’ll take it and use the opportunity to poison some more apples, and steal the tree — or, at least, I think that’s what Sister’s planning.” I turned to Greta, who was almost finished. “Isn’t that right, Sister?”

Greta shrugged. “Believe what you will,” she said, surprising mischief coloring her tone.

Cyrus narrowed his eyes. “I mean, as long as I get the chance to burn Branch Halgrove to the ground, anything and everything goes.”

I watched Arathis tilt his head again, his hand still expertly running through Josie’s raven strands like he was calming a particularly troublesome cat. “Say, Cyrus, my brother,” he began, nonchalantly, in the way that he meant he was probably going to start a fight on purpose, “why do you still hold the Halgrove name then? Wouldn’t it be—”

The air turned electric, again.

I leaned forward and smacked the Forsaken on the forehead. “We’re going to have to get a portrait done,” I scolded. “Don’t pick fights.”

“Owie,” Arathis complained, his hands going from Josie’s hair to the crown of his head, covered in matted snow hair. “Don’t hit me.”

The electricity didn’t disappear.

Greta turned. “Cyrus,” she said lightly, a warning tone in her voice.

Cyrus stiffened. The pricking of my skin disappeared. Orion’s hand that slithered to the bow on his back almost naturally tucked itself back by his side. Josie had unnoticeably tucked herself behind Arathis, using him as a shield, but she scooched her head back into his lap. My Ability had whirred my bladehand into action, but the threat was over.

I was almost positive that it was a reflex and not something they controlled — I wouldn’t have even noticed their minute actions if it weren’t for my Ability.

I relaxed, just a bit.

“Are you done yet?” Ara whined at Greta, the tense atmosphere dispelled as quickly as it came.

“I am, in fact,” my sister called back, rolling her shoulders before gesturing towards the door. Her white blond hair was down today, surprisingly, cascading down her back informally. “Let us be off.”

“Yay, we’re going to get a family painting done!”

The days leading up to the coronation were very stressful. I said stressful in the way that they were jam-packed with nobles trying to weasel their way into becoming an Imperial courtier.

Arathis was right in the way that Imperial Court was just a gathering of nobles that happened to be there in the moment — the large expanse that was the Empire meant there was at least a Daycycle’s worth of leisure travel between most Cardinals and the Eternal City, perhaps two Dayhepts, if they hurried.

That meant that the military marquessates, positioned along the stretch between Eurus and Tyche informally known as the Armistice — the joke was that since Drakos and Williams had their own branches of the Imperial Army, a signed armistice agreement wouldn’t be enough to prevent war — would be the first ones to arrive.

And they did, steadily trickling in like flies to honey. Timaios’ father, the Marquis Damianos Drakos, was a slimy man that promised a substantial supply of the latest versions of bayonets; the Marquis Williams pledging an absurd amount of crossbows to the Imperial cause with sharp words and a steady gaze; the counties of Callas — Alyssa’s family — scurrying to my side.

Apparently, I had already been designated as Greta’s right hand and Deimos Greta’s left, only I was the supposedly easier one to bribe. Of course, I had taken the useful ones with the approval of Greta, and rejected the other offers, but already we were looking at official appointments.

“Evlogia’s keeping the Imperial vassalage,” Greta had informed. “The Cardinals just need to renew their Oaths in the Imperial service, but the marquessates still haven’t made their yearly military donations to the Boreas’ border Army, so there might be dispute on that.”

I had asked, “But that comes after your coronation, doesn’t it?”

Deimos had snorted. “Noble spats happen without consideration for time nor place. You’ve wrapped up the Investigation — and you didn’t mess up doing it, mind you — which means that there’ll be plenty of people trying to exploit your capabilities.” The personal assistant had shared his experience, privately, soon after: “When Her Soon-to-be Majesty ascends the throne, you’ll have to clean up after her messes. She expands, you handle the fiefs she leaves behind.”

There was a lot to handle.

While Josephine and Arathis handled the celebratory decorations — of course, Orion was deployed to make sure they didn’t do anything too homicidal before the actual coronation took place — Cyrus surprisingly took it upon himself to bond with my fiance.

It was more talk about military strategies — they had nearly gotten into a fight about Angelo the Avenger — but Cyrus reconnecting with his half-Republica heritage and the fact that he was probably gathering intelligence about how to destroy his family from Julian warmed my heart, just a bit.

I sighed, before I said to my dear lieutenants, “What do you mean, a sudden influx of recruits have come in? I’m not hiring nobles that want to steal information on me, I’m looking for grunt workers that don’t know my identity, Mace, and—”

“Your Highness,” my lieutenant began, “they really don’t know your identity.” He looked a bit desperate as I reached for the dagger near my ankle, continuing, “Those new recruits that you’ve brought, the ones by the name of Alexandros and Leonidas, they’re the ones going out and bringing street rats in.” His tone turned into a babble, “I told them, we’re not a stray shelter, and that they’ll have to pull their weight, but—”

I waited for a dramatic pause before smiling brightly, breaking the tense silence. “That’s exactly what I wanted! You deserve a raise! Raises and all around!” Mercy snorted amusedly, Alyssa’s eyes widening, while Alia pretended not to see anything. I cackled, Macedon sighed in relief, and I proceeded to lean back in the chair I had stolen from my dear embezzler’s office.

“I should meet them,” I added, casting a glance towards the window. The position of the sun — it was an ungodly hour in the morning, but it was the perfect time to check in before I would be called to get ready for Greta's coronation ceremony. “You know, to make sure they’re not traitors and all.”

Mace nodded a tad faster than what would be deemed inconspicuous, but he still obeyed. Rubbing their eyes sleepily, a surprisingly large gaggle of eleven ragmuffin orphans marched into my office. Alexandros was the first one to recognize me, and he bowed. “Your Highness!”

That got a jolt out of the group, and I watched all of them narrow their eyes almost immediately. I laughed, letting my Ability roam through their lives and stories, as I gave a casual wave. “I hear you’ve been busy, Xandros,” I remarked conversationally, smiling. “Don’tcha think a couple introductions are in order?”

Xandros blinked, not missing a beat. “Y’said that you were hiring. That noble girl over there—” he nodded “—said something about you not having the numbers for your plans, about your former henchmen quitting. We went out and hired the people we knew from before we entered the Guard, to help.” At the last statement, some of the younger children — although most of them were around my age — jutted their chins out, as if daring me to say something in challenge.

“I asked for introductions, Xandros,” I said, twirling the blade I’d gotten out of its harness while he was talking, “not a reason.” At the expressions that flitted across the group’s face — suspicion, paranoia, fear — I laughed, again. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to stab you. If I wanted to get rid of you, you wouldn’t have seen my face in the first place or gotten your first paycheck.” I turned to Macedon. “You have paid them, right?”

The hesitation said it all.

I sighed. “Mercy,” I said to my best — and only — assassin, “why is everyone I hire — not you of course, Mercy and Alyssa, you’re both dears — so inept?” I wailed.

Macedon rushed to his defense. “I’m sorry, Princess, I—”

“Wait you’re the Sixth Princess?” someone asked in a small voice. “Athena’s Chosen?”

I gave them a half-salute, turning away from tormenting my lieutenant. “Seraphina Queencage speaking,” I replied with a wink. I faced them all. “I first used the homeless people, in the Lower Quarter, but then the leader was a traitor, he was executed, and now all of them are uneasy. That’ll be your first job, I suppose — establish an information network through the Imperial underworld. If you can get that done with a few Dayhepts, I’ll give you all your first raise.”

I smiled. “By the way Xandros," I continued, "you can recruit as many as you want, as long as you can keep them in check. It would be messy if I or Mercy were to step in.”

Alexandros nodded. “Got it—” he hesitated. “Your Highness? Your Ladyship? Boss?”

I waved off the formal address. “Boss is fine. Might be a bit weird since we’re the same age, but—” I shrugged. A pause. “You can use the Emerald Seas as a base,” I mentioned, “and I’ll pay you all two gold each month. Be sure not to break the budget, though. I won’t make you all swear an Oath, I’m sick of them these days — but if you betray me, I’ll kill all of you. It won’t be just your head on the chopping block.” The last sentence I accompanied with a sharp grin. “You’ve been warned.”

Faint nods.

“They’re much better terms than the Guard,” Xandros admitted, “but more high-stakes.”

I shrugged again. “Like I said, as long as you keep your people in check, you’ll be fine. You’ve been given your first objective. Do try not to mess it up,” I told the prickly crossbow-wielder. I clapped my hands together. “Now, my Seraphs,” I said dramatically while raising both my hands in a benediction, “we rise!”

Silence.

“Tough crowd,” I mumbled under my breath as I stood up from my seat. "Now, if you’ll excuse me," I said, dusting my now-clean cloak off, "I have an Imperial coronation to go to."

When you think about power, the average citizen thinks of crowned kings and blood.

Socially, politically, culturally — in any category, the Empire has manifested into our heads misplaced trust in the form of distrust. The Roma Republic relies on patriotism, the Union of the Forbidden on some form of common religious practice, but the Empire Eoina — the ever-so-eternal continental power — relies on trust.

If you picked any citizen off the street and asked them what they thought trust was, contrarily, you wouldn’t get a traditionally idealistic answer. Perhaps you would, but they certainly wouldn’t apply that in their everyday lives — to survive, you can’t trust, is the message hammered home in the whispers of the Fishers and the eyes of the Servants.

That is what holds the Empire in all its glory together. Instead of trying to unite a country together by providing a common interest (i.e. religion, loyalty, Chosen, etc.), the Imperial system sets up the common enemy that is ‘power’ — in gaining it (and you have to get it, you have no choice but to get it) you inevitably resent it.

Imperials build that resentment, direct it against the people who uphold the hierarchy rather than the hierarchy itself, and it spills over in the form of the attempted rebellions that do make its way past the intimidation of the Chosen.

If you take the time to examine the way the Empire’s system works — and it does — it’s a crudely complicated machine that relies on a sole desire (power) and a common trait (mistrust of those in power) to function. There’s no way to escape it, either — Iraklidis states that “the winning move is to not play at all,” but that’s fundamentally incorrect.

If you exist, if you have loved ones and acquaintances that are cogs in this system, you are supporting the system itself. By not playing at all, you are feeding into the system. By going against it, you are feeding into the system. By existing, you are feeding into the system. There is only one way to break the system, and that is if you are Chosen.

The root of all this — the fantasy of power and origin of mistrust — is the Queen’s Cage. The first step to unravelling the system would be making the supposed ‘Footage’ of the Chosen public. The Chosen is a very big cog in the Imperial machine — if you first grease it so it spins in a way the machine isn’t prepared for, it would be the first step into reforming the Empire. It would take an idealist, a truly altruistic person in power to take the first step, the first leap against the Gods and the Imperial system.

Conclusion Drawn: There is only way to truly change the Empire for good, and that is to destroy the Queen’s Cage and the system that controls it.

- SOCIO-POLITICAL ANALYSIS assumedly made by Greta Highlander Queenscage before her reign as Empress, 82 P.Q.C

Everything reeked of the stench that was wealth.

Pale-feathered peacocks on golden leashes were attached to palatial fountains, luxurious decorations placed on every available surface - from the roofs dangled strands of traditionally aureate beads, while ancient tapestries brought out of storage were now hanging from high windows and balconies. Nobles dressed in ceremonial attire whispered to each other, groups populating the pews that framed the sides, as a flaxen carpet resembling a bridal path winded between the seats.

Laid opposite the entrance were three pillars resembling ornate pedestals holding cushions, the left pillar with a twelve-spired crown — each of the points representing an Olympian — the right with a laurel wreath, and the right holding the thick Tome that held the Anothen Verses. I and the rest of the Imperial Family stood on either side of the stage that held the three supposedly holy objects, the koudoúni — the more traditional version of the modern day revellazo — players strumming a strangely fitting somber dirge as the ceremony began.

“Let the First-in-line enter!” an announcer boomed in the Higher dialect of Imperi, and the mahogany doors slammed open, and from the other side of the room strode in Greta, her figure faint but her eyes surprisingly blazing.

An Imperial robe hung from her shoulders, a traditional chiton with belted knobs that flowed just the right amount to radiate an aura of power, and her white-blond hair — the strands that usually neared Arathis’ in terms of paleness — pulled up in a bun.

This time, perhaps because of the sheer amount of wealth and Imperial greed in the room, it glowed resplendently, utterly gold. My Ability whispered to me that it was probably dye. I ignored it.

Her green eyes gleamed, and you could never guess that she had passed the threshold of forty, the way my oldest sister held herself. A childish sense of awe bloomed in me, perhaps a seed of a bigger sapling, but one that would grow another day.

Greta the Great marched down the aisle, the bearer of gazes and awestruck silence, her robe’s train sweeping against the floor.

It was either aeons or seconds when she reached the three objects.

“I, Greta Queenscage—” she left out the Highlander, was my only thought “- swear by the Gods and the crown, wreath, and tome, to rule the Empire Eoina and lead it through glory and ruin, till I bear the reaper’s kiss, for all of Eternity.”

Perhaps her speech was longer, but those words curiously stood out to me. She kissed the crown, the wreath, and finally the tome, before turning.

Everything after that was a strange silence, like I was underwater, before I heard the nobles stand up and genuflect. I tilted my head down, as per ceremony, and watched my family do the same. My...family.

Family.

A curious word.

“All hail Empress Greta the Great!” one of my siblings — I forgot who it was — cried.

The nobles surprisingly followed, echoing: “All hail Empress Greta the Great!”

As I looked at my oldest sister from my position by the side of the stage, the shining figure now my Lord by Oath, my Ability didn’t need to supply me a conclusion.

She was going to change the world.

And I was going to help her.

Greta Highlander Queenscage, also known as the Fifty-Fith Victor, ascended the Chryselephantine Throne at the age of 41, in the year of 100 P.Q.C. (post the establishment of the Queen's Cage). The Empress was known for making many reforms, such as in ********** *** ***** **** and ******* *** *********. Her bestowed title, reportedly cried by a family member, was Greta the Great. And this is where her story - and the tale of one other - begins.

- A TALE OF WINE AND OWLS, PUBLISHED 200 P.Q.C.