Atque in perpetuum frater ave atque vale.*

- UNKNOWN REPUBLICA POET

Translation:

(see bottom)

ORDERS WERE TO BE FOLLOWED.

If orders were followed in a specific way, you would get promoted.

If you got promoted enough times before you died, you would get money and power, two forces that ran the Empire.

The soldier knew that fact well, clung to it as an island in the Empire.

Before he had turned thirty, the soldier had been dispatched to the Stronghold that was Notus — there was no war that plagued the continent of Visava, but there were always independent forces that tried to rip it apart. Under the banner of Petra Castellanos, the supposed Ducal Lord of Notus’ capital, the soldier had spent long, hard years campaigning and driving away the more persistent ‘Pubs, and he had heard.

He had heard stories, of those the Republica soldiers that were dispatched to the Union border, of dark branches and abysses and forests that threatened to swallow you whole and spit out your guts. He had heard the drunken sobs of Notian mothers who had lost their children to the Republic’s Legions, and had been returned corpses mutilated by monsters and men.

“The Damned,” finger-pointed those driven mad by grief, “have a country Forsaken by the Gods! Because of their monsters, our children fight!” Those who succumbed to the insanity became the ones who hated. The thought of it’s the Damned’s fault, became all Damned are to blame, to all Kato are monsters, to Lysimachos was right; and you never, ever wanted to agree with the creator of a genocide.

Orders were orders.

“You’re surrounded by Rhianite bandits. One lunges at you. What weapon are they holding?”

“A short handled knife, Major Velasvus, sir.”

Amber eyes stared at the soldier.

“You’re winning the battle against them, but there’s a last person you have to defeat. Who is it?”

“The platin bandit, Major Velasvus, sir.”

“Who? Tell me.”

A hand patted the Major’s shoulder. “Calm down, Orion, you’re scaring the poor man.” A girl, the age of his friend’s daughter, with dark tresses and in robes that were simplistically luxurious. Her blue eyes gleamed. “What would you do, soldier? If you were given command of this mission?”

The question startled him, but he answered: “Take down the platin bandit and his men, Your Highness, sir.”

“No need to bother with formalities,” the assumed Princess replied, waving a flippant hand. She turned to her brother. “What do you think? Chop off the legs and then the head? Or make the head eat the legs?” The gruesome metaphor had the Major blink for a second, before the Chosen turned to the soldier.

“Who is the platin bandit?” he repeated his initial question. “And what does he want?”

“Platin, sir,” the soldier answered, matter-of-factly. “Other than the Republic, the High Kingdom’s a good source of the stuff. He and his people are known for guerilla’ing his way through the bigger caravans. Nowadays, the only metal trade we can get is if we Deathies personally accompany the procession — and even then, it doesn’t scare off the Platoon, much, not really.”

The girl snorted. “The Platin Platoon.” She nudged her brother. “Laugh, it’s funny.”

The Major didn’t laugh.

The Chosen known as Seraphina tilted her head. “So Damokles is in quite a pickle,” she mused to herself. “Father must’ve heard the brunt of it, but why didn’t he—” she abruptly stopped, her eyes almost unfocusing, as she made some faraway calculation. “Ah.” She turned to the Major. “And you didn’t tell me,” she scolded, red lips pulling into an almost mildly cruel smile. “So this is the carrot. Or the stick, you could label it either.”

The Second Prince merely grunted.

“We’re making good on a promise, then,” the Sixth Princess said. She looked at the soldier. “What rank are you?”

“Captain, Your Highness.”

“Arm your forces with the weapons we’ve brought from Drakos,” ordered the Major, suddenly. The soldier could now see that he was almost unconventionally armed, true to the rumors, with a bow. “Prepare for the event of a head-on clash.”

The rumors said much about the solitary archer, but he and Princess — Empress, now, but the fact still hadn’t hit the soldier very hard — were surprisingly favorites in the Imperial Army. Sometimes they said that he could shoot targets from a hundred feet away; other times it was that he and the Empress were lovers, for all that he was five years younger.

The soldier did the Imperial salute. “Yes, sir.”

“If it comes to that,” Seraphina added, conversationally. She looked like she was in another world, an indifferent spectre like the whispers told of, as she blinked. “But it probably won’t.” The Chosen clapped her lithe hands together. “Lead me to the third-biggest bandit den, Captain — I’m sure we’ll have loads of fun together.”

The Victors told the soldier to wait outside. He did.

He heard screams.

They came back outside, after an hour. Seraphina was holding a spherical bag that was suspiciously damp with scarlet.

He waited outside again.

The same thing happened, albeit longer. The bag duplicated itself.

Evening fell.

The two Victors apparently delivered the bags to the doorstep of the Platoon headquarters. The soldier, a captain under the Winterdeath, wasn’t sure how they managed it.

Orion was drunk. And crying.

I looked at him. Should I stay indifferent? Coax him into making an Oath that would further my own motives? I wasn’t sure, and I ignored my Ability’s incessant whispers, sitting down beside him on the log. Ember light and jet shadow dappled his sun-bronze face, the radiance consuming his earthly features — and he turned to me, amber eyes clouded and misty.

“Little dog,” he said, grinning.

“I told you that alcohol was a bad idea,” I replied nonchalantly.

He shook his head. “Alcohol’s good. It keeps the scary away.” His crisp intonation had the hint of a slur to it, and the childish wording confirmed it.

“What’s the scary?” I asked, leaning in and confiscating the bottle from his hands. “Huh. Wouldn’t take you for the Eurusan wine type,” I continued, looking at the label and turning the iridescent container over in my hands. He seems more of the Inevita label.

“Age is scary,” he replied, shaking his head. It looked almost comical, his straight posture betraying not even a single lurch as my brother smiled. I could see strands of snow beneath the dark that consumed his scalp, and Orion continued, “Greta is scary. You—” he squinted in the firelight, judging even in his intoxicated state “-have the potential to be scary.” This time I saw sharp bitterness. “You told me you would kill my family. Greta said she would protect them.”

A pang of guilt sparked in my chest.

“I’ve never cared about my family, so I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I’m sorry if I crossed a line I shouldn’t have.”

Orion blinked. “But you would cross it again,” he remarked, tone clear but muddled. “Again, and again, and you wouldn’t regret it. You’re sorry, but you don’t regret it; so it means nothing.” He hiccuped his way into a snarl.

I made a noise of agreement. “Regrets are scary,” I said nonchalantly. I watched him open another bottle, but I snatched it from him just as he put it to his lips, chugging its bitter contents as it seeped and clawed its way through my throat. Sweet, like honey; but with the dulling wine-grape sour; and I smiled through it as my brother scowled. Wine leaked through the corners of my lips.

“I don’t regret anything,” Orion said. “The hunt made me feel alive.” He flexed his fingers. The night wind whipped at him.

“Made,” I noticed. “Past tense.”

The tear streaks on his cheeks glimmered in the moonlight. “Maybe it doesn’t, anymore,” the aged hunter said. “And maybe I don’t have any reason to live, anymore.” He snorted. “I wouldn’t call you fools, for playing that game of crowns, because the prize is tempting, I’ll admit. But you all are dogs led by the Gods and their boring, boring hunts. Not foolish dogs, but dogs all the same.”

I slid down the log and leaned against it in my new position on the dirt floor. A dog to victory. “If you have no reason, you find one or make one. But if you have no desire to live, rekindling it pays a heavy price.” Cas died, in the end; smiling as he leapt to his doom.

“I have too little faith in life to make another leap, little dog.” Orion shook his head. His emotions were laid bare, and I could easily pluck the strings and let him snap, but the flames and my conscience roared. He was but another person who had been chewed on and spat out by the Gods, somebody I could be.

A silence.

“Before the day I got my Ability,” I began, looking at my hands — they weren’t covered by that crimson illusion today, which was good — “I had nightmares, for an entire Daycycle. In my dreams, my existence was erased. My name, my deeds, my capabilities, just like that.” I snapped for dramatic effect, and grinned with bravado I didn’t have. “And it made younger me scared, because I couldn’t be a hero like in the books I read. Knowledge wasn’t my power, because it wouldn’t keep me from being forgotten by history.”

“Power is useless,” the hunter said.

“It is an end for me, not the means,” I mildly corrected.

Orion shook his head. “Power does not put a roof over your head,” he responded, “it does not give you food to eat and loved ones to sleep with.”

“There’s no one for me to love.” I looked at my brother. “No food as sweet, no shelter as tantalizing. It’s a mistake, lusting after it, but one I’ll gladly make.”

A silence occupied by the crackling of the flames.

“People either want to protect, or be protected,” the Fifty-Sixth Victor spoke up. “You think you want to protect yourself, because no one protected you. In actuality, you just want someone to finally protect you; lay by your side when you sleep, kiss you good morning and good morning, bear arms and fall in graves for you.” His tone bordered pity, melancholy in his words. My brother smiled, again, bitterly. “Love. That’s what we all want, in the end.”

I took out my dagger and fiddled with the hilt. “Did they?” I said. “Love you?”

Would someone end up loving me?

The man shook his head. “No,” he answered. “Truth be told, they hated me. I didn’t respect the hunt, according to them; it’s supposed to be necessary and hallowed.” Artemis’ Chosen threw his head back and laughed. “They were just jealous, even my father and mother, that I had better aim than them.”

Then why?

Orion answered the unspoken question: “It’s the right thing to do. It’s easier pretending to love them. Greta understood.” He scrambled for another bottle. I slapped his hand. The hunter scowled and closed his eyes, instead. “Greta understood me,” the other Chosen spoke again. “Our family — everyone thinks we all pretend that our family dynamics are forced power plays, but—” he made a noise of frustration “-I don’t hate you all. You’re the—”

“Only ones,” I finished. It was easy to label his feelings, because they were mine. I looked up at the sky, blade still in my hands, moon full and glaring. “We’re the only ones who can understand, in the world.”

Orion nodded, slowly. “It’s not love, but something’s there. We’re family.” He laughed, bitterly.

“Till the end.” The words tasted both sweet and bitter in my mouth, like the wine I’d just downed. Was there an end? An end to all of this deceit, fear? Sleepless nights, mistrust, hate? The hunger, that void to fill. “I feel so empty.” I looked at the dagger in my hands — it was a new set, the blade clean and shiny. “I want to feel whole, brother, not broken.”

I felt him shuffle. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel those amber eyes boring into me.

“You’ll never be whole,” he said, matter-of-factly. The statement would’ve hurt me, if it wasn’t delivered so quietly and honestly. “Because there’s nothing to fulfill in the first place. No one can fix you, not even yourself, not the thrill and rush or the satisfaction of victory.”

I felt my lips curl up involuntarily. “Maybe,” I replied.

“I had good aim,” Orion continued, seemingly off-track. “I always did. When I was younger, it was small rabbits; then boars; then bears. We lived in the outskirts of the Second Isle, you know — my father and mother were Woodsmen — and in our village I was known for being one of the best hunters there.” His eyes grew misty. “There was a girl named Galena, who I wanted to marry when I grew up — she never said anything, when I told her I felt joy in killing things. She was the one who helped me realize that I found happiness in the chase, not the prey.”

I didn’t break the silence.

My brother smiled. “One day I woke up,” he said, “and I found out I had perfect aim. I could hit anything, from almost any distance. My Liege visited me in a dream; and, like a fool, I ran away to that Godsbroken isle out of my own will, because I thought there would be fun there. I never said goodbye to Galena.”

He shook his head, and his eyes sparked for a minute, before it went out again. Greta was right, I realized. He was flickering.

“It was fun.” Artemis’ Chosen prodded at the flames. “For a while. They fell into my traps, fell to my arrows, just fell. And then I Won, and it just—” Orion drew in a breath, but not out of emotion. Of consideration. If it wasn’t for the dozen bottles at his feet, I wouldn’t have realized he was drunk. “I came back to my village,” he said, not finishing his previous sentence, “and saw Galena. She said that even if I was broken, no one could fix me, and that was alright. I never came back again, for some reason.”

“Why?” I asked, like he was telling a story.

He shrugged. “I’m not sure.” He stopped poking at the fire. “Years passed. There were new people who could understand me. Greta was the only one who did. Father tried, for a while, but then he’s dead, now.” Orion smiled. “Artemis hasn’t talked to me for around twenty years, now. The spark’s gone out for twenty years, now.”

I could feel the pain, the emotion, the doubt and conflict inside the words.

Chewed up and spat out by the Gods, used and discarded.

You all are dogs.

Love is what we all want, in the end.

He was right.

“You loved it and lost it,” I said, looking at him.

“Forever.” Orion looked at me with those hauntingly amber orbs. “It’s gone now, sister, forever.” His eyes were glossing over again, tears dripping from his lashes — he started convulsing, shaking, almost bitterly with that expression on his face. He looked so defeated.

I felt something tear inside me — not fear, that I would turn out to be like him; not pity, either; but that kind of emotion where you saw someone you loved in pain and couldn’t do anything about it. But I didn’t love my brother, that would be arrogant, presumptuous.

“Humans — they’re so broken,” he said. “And I can’t give in anymore.” He looked so empty, as he smiled a soul-curdling smile. The world had carved some kind of scar in him, and for the first time my Hints didn’t click, my Ability didn’t provide me a conclusion — I saw, just me, alone and helpless. The scar was inside me, too; in a different place, where the Cage spat me out and stained my hands permanently.

“The hunt can’t fix it, anymore,” he said mildly, alcohol drawing out his words. “Greta — she’s on the throne, now, she’s accomplished her dreams.”

Orion shook his head, age not marrying his youthfully smooth skin, but instead consorting his eyes. The pupils formed an insect trapped in amber — at first glance, his irises would seem the Eurusan gold; the tint of Cadmus; but it wasn’t. That amber was dark and threatening, a malevolent shade; copper swimming in brown, the jewels of a hound’s gaze.

It was an abyss — empty and tired of searching.

“I can’t.” Orion said the words without hesitation. “I waited for Greta to be happy, but I’m not. I can’t be, not anymore.”

But still I leaned forward and embraced him.

“I'm sorry,” I said, my voice surprisingly firm. He could be the age of my father, thirty-eight years, but I would protect him.

"You're not the Gods," the former hunter replied, tired.

He was family.

The army behind us barely made fifty, but they were fitted with bayonets and rifles while the opponent in front of us held but knives. Damokles had wanted to come, but I had assured him we were more than enough. And we were.

“Small fry,” I observed to my hungover brother. “I’m not sure if Face Platin either listened to my warning, or ignored it.” The last part I said loudly, almost provocatively, and some of the bandits flinched. The hardier ones stood impassive, and the leader snorted.

“That’s Lord Frey to you,” he said. “Boss told us you were coming. You all but paraded your arrival by beheading Oscar and Victoria and delivering their heads to us. Boss says thank you, by the way, even though you got blood all over his carpet— hey, is that guy drunk?” The leader laughed as Orion swayed, holding his head.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I told him not to — Eurusan wine’s always too strong, with how much booze is in that stuff, you deserve it,” I told him casually as I spread my Ability throughout the scenario. “He drank six whole bottles,” I informed my opponents. “Can’t be good for him.”

The leader of the small fry was confident, not unsurprising, considering there had to be another card up his sleeve. A Rhianite was trying to snake their tendrils into the Empire, and I wouldn’t let it.

I looked over their clothes — tattered, made of ragtags but organized ragtags — and smiled. “Tell Lord Frey,” I said, grinning, “that I’ll skin him and make a carpet out of him if he doesn’t get his ass out here in the next thirty seconds.” I counted mentally, stringing a thread of Ability to the Hints before me as I physically supported Orion — “Gods, I told you it’s bad for you” — and the leader shook his head.

“You’re a joke,” he told me. “And I thought the Imperial Chosen could actually pose a threat. You deserve to get stolen from—” My fingers wrapped around a familiar hilt, my other hand smacking Orion, as I heard it sail, sliding through the air. It landed in his eye, the blade, and he screamed — Maia did, too — as he fell to the floor.

I heard even the army behind me collectively draw in a breath, as I tutted. “Twenty seconds,” I informed the small fry. “Move or I’ll open fire.” You’re feeling merciful today, my Ability told me. It’s a mistake. Don’t let emotion bog you down. They didn’t move, although some were hesitant.

My Ability sighed. I signalled with my now empty bladehand, and the guns roared alive. Steel sang and the sound ravaged my ears, but I merely frowned.

We marched through the makeshift camp’s gates — not before I retrieved my knife from the dead leader’s eye, though; it was a pity it was stained so early — and killed a lot of people. Surprisingly, the Winterdeath soldiers were more organized than I gave them credit for — they shot bandits very efficiently.

“I don’t want to strain my voice,” I told the soldier who came with us. “Yell something vaguely threatening. Three seconds left, now.”

He cleared his throat, before obeying: “The Platin Bandit, the Empire Eoina has decided to convict you with the charges of multiple crimes committed against the Chryselephantine Throne!”

Silence, before a vaguely aristocratic voice yelled back: “Fuck off!”

I shrugged. “After you.”

“Fuck you!”

“I think that’s illegal.”

“Oh Gods, can’t you all give me a fucking break—”

“I don’t think you can take vacations from being a criminal,” I replied cheerfully. “I’m here to arrest you. Or kill you, whatever works, I guess.” My eyes scanned the surprisingly cold flatlands for any hidden spots, and found none — at least, until archers filed out from the nearby tents and aimed their crossbows at us. “Ah, so there was the rest of you,” I said, my Ability spinning as I frowned, turning to my allies. “No one thought to check the tents? Absolutely no one?”

I felt the arrow’s release before I heard it, a whizzing sound towards my back. I couldn’t say it was backhanded — unintentional pun — since that would be denying its effectiveness. My Ability drove my reflexes, and my hand snatched the fletching out of the air, my fingers burning against the thin wood as I looked back.

“Really?” I asked the voice. “I’m deliberately being a piece of shit, and instead of bringing me to your leader to behead me, someone tries to shoot me. What kind of subordinates are you? Shame on you.” Some of the crossbow-wielders looked fearful now — I had just snatched an arrow from out of the air, with my back turned — but I just shook my head.

“Brother, you see?” I asked Orion, who was irritatedly leaning on me. “Gods, there’s no sense of showmanship these days.”

I watched as, from the biggest tent behind the rows of archers, a young man emerged, the source of the aristocratic voice, assumedly. He’s pale-skinned like a Rhianite or a Borean, green eyes narrowed in irritation.

“I told you, to fucking give me a break!” he snarled. “I don’t care—”

He’s shivering.

“Next,” I said.

He paused. “What? You—”

“You’re shivering,” I pointed out. “Five years of campaigning here and you haven’t gotten used to the weather? Weak.” My tone was light, playful, delicate but my mind whirred. Blind spots. I felt my former teacher’s rasp in my ear. I looked at the only vantage point possible — to my left, and grinned in that direction. “Please, let’s sort this out as peacefully as possible.”

An arrow sailed from the other direction.

I let it — even though Orion was there, he would dodge it.

My conclusion wasn’t reinforced by my Ability.

I whirled my head before the sound of a point piercing skin ricocheted through the expanse.

Artemis did not weep.

Why did you Choose him? Athena asked.

The two goddesses were figures of light and darkness. The two forces tangoed and danced across their faces and limbs, wisdom’s illumination and the radiance of the moon sparking aeons of life and death. Artemis stood above the world, her silver bow and arrows curving behind her back as the Huntress made an expression that wasn’t quite a smile.

Because, she replied.

The Goddess could see the young boy who prided himself on the aim, the boy who cried when he realized he felt joy at killing the young rabbits in the jungle, the boy who longed for the hunt but suffered because of it. She saw the boy grow into a man with bloodstained hands who drank the pain away when it came, dispelling the nightmares that Artemis could not replace with dreams.

This man saw the world populated out of dogs that were driven by their dreams and desires, and waited for his sister to achieve her own before leaving the world. He had a true love, the hunt, the chase, the prey — Artemis saw her love in him. Apollo took those who wanted to heal others and gave them an Ability to; Artemis took those who wanted to heal themselves and gave them the Ability to see the fact that they were broken beyond repair.

He can see, Artemis said. Her amber eyes gleamed. What I can.

The Gods were the rulers of the world, breaking and repairing humanity as they saw fit. The Empire Eoina could never stay eternal, but the Gods did. Humanity could never stay eternal, but Olympus would. And perhaps, one day, the Gods’ power over the humans would be broken — the Fates foretold that possibility, and their prophecies proved that.

A hundred Chosen. She had Chosen a hundred of humanity, those who could see what she could. The Goddess would not remember Orion’s face, but the young boy would be another candle at the altar, another sacrifice.

For the hunt.

Move forward blindly and be at peace, Orion Velasvus. That was the first and only time the Goddess of the Hunt and the Moon said her Chosen’s name.

Translation: Forever hail and farewell.

- ROMAN POET CATALLUS, MOURNING THE LOSS OF HIS BROTHER