The thrill of power only comes with the abuse of it.

- ANONYMOUS AUTHOR OF A TREATISE ON POWER

IT WAS SAFE TO SAY THE PRINCESS WENT HAYWIRE.

Almost like the cogs of a machine whirring to a halt before exploding, she froze. The Second Prince was lying on the ground, crimson splotches scattering on the cold ground, fletching protruding from his abdomen, and the soldier could see her processing the scene with those almost glowing blue eyes. Five long beats of silence.

And then she moved — not towards the body, like the soldier expected, but towards the archers. Almost silently, inhumanly, she withdrew knives from almost invisible sheaths and slashed at the one almost brutally. And then the action started, the opponents aiming at the dark-haired Chosen, who looked animalistic, almost; Seraphina ruthlessly dispatched two bandits, arrows sailing past her hair and face as she dodged them like she knew where they were going to land.

The soldier regained the ability to move. “Attend to the Second Prince!” he yelled, signalling for the Winterdeath soldiers to run.

Someone behind him spoke up. “Captain...it’s poisoned.” And indeed, as the soldier looked closer, something dark was spreading through the Second Prince’s veins. Sarawolf. He cast a glance at Seraphina, who didn’t speak or yell out in anger — like a blade that had been unsheathed, she slammed into the dozen-or-so opponents. Like a cornered animal, her movements were quick and rabid, wolves’ fangs sinking into skin as bodies hit the ground.

Something wild consumed the Princess’ features, and the soldier ordered, “Engage the opponents!” He couldn’t order them to open fire, that would kill the Sixth Princess along with the bandits…

Seraphina grabbed a bandit by the hair and smashed him into the ground, kicking his skull and cracking the bandit’s bones with her heel. Arrows bombarded her but they missed, all of them whizzing past her face and heart as the Winterdeath enclosed their opponents. She was almost like a demon, but not the type of military demon that made every move strategically but a demon out of primeval Tartarus; using cruel, callous swipes and jabs that made even the approaching Borean soldiers hesitate.

The Princess pummeled an archer to the floor, leaping off the ground and viciously stabbing every opponent to death; as if propelled by some kind of foresight, every strike hitting true as her wool-lined robes turned scarlet. Her hair whipping the frosty air as if battling the weather; she was bathed in sunlight and blood.

There was no mercy in the Chosen’s eyes as she belaboured and one-sidedly slaughtered; and immediately a thought flickered in the soldier’s head. She must’ve noticed the poison, he thought. She knew the Second Prince couldn’t be saved. Those five beats had been all Seraphina had needed, the soldier realized. Her arms arced and blades sang, annihilating the bandits with well-placed blows and bestial movements.

It was at that moment that the soldier wasn’t sure what had snapped or broken; and whether it could be fixed again; but the captain moved forward.

One, by one, by one.

Corpses bled out on the ground, many of them still groaning from ruthlessly-made wounds — it was like you had given a street fighter the blessing of the Gods and the brains of an Analyst, and the soldier recognized Seraphina’s posture from the days when he hunted down mercenaries. She moved, she calculated, and she stabbed; and the Princess writhed and slipped between the formerly-neat ranks of their opponents like a shadow that left only murder behind.

The soldier had felt the uneasiness of the soldiers behind him before they leapt to action; the shifting of the Winterdeath that meant a position torn between fear and awe. As the long-distance crossbow-wielders were forced into a melee, many of their numbers thinned until the only one left was the one Seraphina was currently fighting.

Instead of tripping over the corpses that littered the camp, the Princess’ footwork was flawless and her knife-work even more so as she danced on the bloody mess she had made. Her blue eyes were either too cold or too bright for the soldier to look at; like a winter sun, almost, as he saw a mad grin flicker across her face like candlelight before it disappeared.

And so the soldier looked at the people on the ground, anda pang of terror sparked in his heart. Every single opponent, dead or alive, that he saw was beaten the shit out of. Skulls were cracked and blood was leaking from crevices in flesh and bone, knife marks making their way across faces and legs and arms like poisonous insects crawling up skin.

He didn’t command the soldiers further; he didn’t need to — every single person there gave the Sixth Princess a wide berth, wide eyes taking in the scene. A cruelty that hadn’t been there was in her gaze and every step — every maneuver, every gesture, every motion — was filled with sharpness. Instead of the playful younger sister, she was a legend, but it wasn’t heroic or villainous; the soldier couldn’t label the source of the Myth, but it was just there.

Finally, the last person went down.

But Seraphina wasn’t finished.

The Chosen turned towards the direction of the arrow, and spoke. “Have you had enough, Boss?” The words rang loud and clear, a pristine bell, as someone stepped out from behind the hill.

As Seraphina moved towards that direction, the seasoned veteran captain was compelled with the urge to fling his eyes shut like a child afraid of bloodshed.

He didn’t.

But he wished he did.

I hadn’t been sure why I flayed the Platin Bandit alive. I’d only removed the skin above his heart before he started screaming — unsurprisingly, there were no gags available in the middle of the continental border and the Northern Stronghold. Surprisingly, I felt myself stop in distaste and stab him to death after the first few seconds.

I clicked my tongue. “Screamers,” I muttered under my breath at the recollection. I looked back at the small group of soldiers behind me, all of them riding on horseback. The carriage was given to Orion’s corpse. “You guys have got his head, right?” The one holding the bloody bag admirably kept from wincing, and nodded instead.

After I strained my Ability, all of them seemed cautious of me. I could no longer poke fun at them, or laugh with them, which should’ve made me feel guilty, but I didn’t. There was nothing to feel guilty about — nothing to regret, my Ability agreed. Its pulsating seemed weaker, fainter, and I clicked my tongue in annoyance again. “Godsbroken strain,” I hissed through my teeth.

My Ability was an organ of its own, because I couldn’t find evidence otherwise. It was a metaphorical living, breathing being that lived on a plane of existence between my physical presence and my consciousness. It was a sixth sense, almost, that could predict what was Wise— no, it Wove things together, fusing the strings of Hints into conclusions about which way to go and what to do. It was alive— I could feel it, as sure as I felt, knew that I could not kill it.

You are distracting yourself, it said.

I am, I agreed.

I continued thinking.

It was a liquid that you could inject into conclusions, a force that could coagulate and break, something that made me see the supposedly logical force behind everything. I could ignore it. I could put it aside. But I could not make it shut up. I could not turn it off. Most of the time, when I really wanted distractions, I would look at an object. A carpet, a tassel, a neckline, a flyaway thread or hair — and I would attach my Ability to it.

I couldn’t do that right now.

I very rarely strained my Ability — a bit like stretching a fabric too tight, using it to predict arrows and drive my physical being could make it metaphorically tear at the seams. It wasn’t hurting, or injured, but it was— tired? Sweating? Worn out, I decided.

If I was being attacked right now, I would have to rely completely on my physical reflexes— which were decent, I had to admit, but not the best option out there. I’d have to exercise myself when I returned home, I thought—

And then I stopped — mentally, of course, halting the horse would be just lengthening the cold journey — and considered something.

Ah.

The Palace was home.

I felt myself shiver — strange, again. Inevita was cold — not as much as Boreas was, but cold enough still — so I shouldn’t be having a physical reaction to the frosty weather. I cast a glance at my hands. Oh — they were trembling.

I want to go home.

Young Seraphina’s voice, speaking. Memories of me shivering with pain after particular bad days, the lashes that remained permanent on my skin until now— one of my hands left the reins of the horse I was riding and climbed up my back. They didn’t hurt now, of course; but they hurt then.

The voice grew louder, more incessant.

I want a Mommy and Daddy.

I want a hug.

If I become a hero, will people love me?

Will people be my mommy and daddy?

I want to become a hero.

I want a home.

I don’t want to hurt.

I don’t want people to stare at me like that.

If I know everything, will people praise me?

If I take every opportunity, will the Duke and Duchess be my mommy and daddy?

I want to know everything.

I want a family.

I want to be loved.

I blinked.

Somehow, along the way, maybe after the dreams and my Ability, it had become a—

I want everything.

“Your Highness?” a voice asked. It was the soldier from before, an unreadable expression etched onto his face as he rode beside me. “Are you alright? Do you need us to stop?” He had a normal face, passerby features that you would see on a stranger. The only thing that was different about him was his sharp nose and the shiny medal on his chest. Somewhere along the lines I had gotten used to people being older than me.

“Nah,” I responded. I looked at the horizon, the blue sky and the flat ground. “I don’t think I’m quite alright,” I murmured under my breath. “But then again, I was never quite that alright in the first place, yes?” It was a question that was directed towards no-one in particular, but the soldier blinked. I ignored him, and looked at my hands. They were still trembling.

“I want,” I began, quietly, “to kill that guy’s boss.” I jabbed a thumb behind me, towards the decapitated head in the makeshift bag of ripped cloth. “But revenge—” Is pointless. I shook my head. “I don’t usually do pointless things,” I said, this time to the soldier. “So—” I looked at him. “Come to Tyche with me. Be my subordinate.”

Just because one has shown you kindness once does not guarantee loyalty for a lifetime, my Ability resisted, albeit weakly.

The soldier blinked again, probably thinking that I went mad with grief. “Uh, Your Highness—”

I waved a hand. “No need to give me all that diplomatic balderdash,” I said flippantly, tired. “The offer’s always open. At least, until you go and do something stupid like rebel against the Imperial Throne or anything of the sort.” I tilted my head. “What’s your name?”

“Ajax,” he replied.

“Ajax,” I repeated, smiling. I reached over and patted him in the shoulder. He flinched. Ah, a simple man. “You’re a very rare person. I hope you’ll accept the offer.” And then I shook the reins of my horse, and sped further ahead of the procession and towards Boreas. I tried to ignore the fact that my hands were still shaking.

Damokles looked horrified when I told him that Orion was dead. And then he looked terrified that he had gotten Greta’s brother killed on a mission in his Stronghold. I told him not to worry. “You’re too useful for Greta to kill you this early,” I promised, stretching while yawning. “I’ll have lunch later — first, could I enter the Athenaeum?” I let some of the tiredness I felt touch my face. “I just need silence right now,” I admitted, honestly.

It was true.

Damokles’ scholarly features turned into one of sympathy— and anger. “Those Rhianites,” he snarled, surprisingly animalistically. And then his features were drawn like curtains, and he looked at me with surprisingly genuine eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss,” the Cardinal said, patting me on the shoulder while adjusting his spectacles. “He was a great travelling partner.”

I smiled, mildly, and the sympathy surprisingly deepened further as the Duke almost awkwardly embraced me. He smelled fatherly, like olives and sandalwood. “You’re too young,” the Duke of Boreas, Damokles Anthinon, murmured, quietly. “They all are.”

I stiffened, my Ability alive and screaming at me, before I shut off my flight instincts. His wife had died of illness, and from what I’d heard she’d been a caring person — even when Damokles brought in Katherine, a girl he’d had before marriage, she’d apparently taken in Katherine like her own child. He was just being friendly because I was the same age as his children would be, I said to myself. I was feeling sentimental, so I let him continue.

“You don’t need to be a politician, or a diplomat,” he said, and I could feel him sigh. “No one’s watching you, here. You can cry, laugh, be the child you are — no one’s watching you, Seraphina.”

I felt the words escape my lips. “They always are.”

This was a play to lull me into a false sense of security.

I peeled away from him. My eyes burned, just a bit. “I’m going,” I said with a curt nod. “I’ll leave for Tyche tomorrow.” Duke Evimeria was at the Palace, but it would be good if I could establish a few contacts or two — since Boreas was isolated due to its cold weather, I could send a message back home, gamble a day or two and pretend to let off some steam. I shook my head to myself, smiling. “Goodbye.”

__

True to my word, I shuffled through some books later in the day. They didn’t help, although I did discover the Pandora text that we had talked about on the way here. It was cold, and I was bundled up in more layers of luxurious fabric than I cared to count, but there were, surprisingly, Before texts that I hadn’t gotten my hands on.

Before I had gone to the Queen’s Isle, I had crammed every tidbit and bribed every single Librarian I knew; smuggling every book I could get my hands on in Inevita. By the end of that Dayhept, I had some sense of memoirs and an idea of what would happen, but, then again, I hadn’t been able to go to the Athenaeum.

The source of the First Emperor’s name, Pandora, came from the myth Pandora herself — the girl who was created by the Gods to punish Prometheus’ brother, Epimetheus, who’d honestly done nothing wrong (you know, aside from being born).

After Promy’d given fire to mankind, he told his brother, Epi, to not accept any gifts given to him because they might be traps given by the Gods, a jack-in-the-box only the jack that popped up was ‘you-are-his-brother-so-you-must-die.’ Promy was whisked away for punishment, and Epi was stuck denying everything that came to his door.

The Gods banded together and eventually came up with the splendid idea of creating a woman, the first woman in the world if you could believe it (it was technically wrong, because the Goddesses were arguably women, but I liked to read history, not argue with old men about it). She was beautiful like Aphrodite, smart like Athena, and was made by Hephaestus. She was given with the blessing — or, in this case, curse — of curiosity.

Pandora was sent to Epi’s door, and he accepted — stupidly. The Gods sent Epi and Dora a wedding gift (a jar); and while Epi had the modicum of sense to tell Pandora not to accept any gifts, Dora was told specifically not to open the jar.

And, of course, she opened the jar.

What came after wasn’t important (it was, but it wasn’t important in the context of the Emperor’s name). Absolutely nothing was known about the First Emperor that the Gods spawned to start the practice of the Queen’s Cage, except their possible name — ‘Pandora.’ That led to many theories about the Emperor being Pandora, except that Dora and Epi’s myth happened Before. The start of the Post-Queen’s-Cage Era, or the P.Q.C., began as a measurement after the Cage.

A possible hypothesis was that the Gods made the Emperor as a puppet for starting the ‘Legacy’ of the Queen’s Cage. Now that was likely, the fact that the Emperor could be named something like Pandora, maybe with the same prefix, but wasn’t actually the Dora from the Myth.

This particularly riveting scenario did nothing to lift my foul mood.

I ate moustalevria. It didn’t help.

I had a breakdown that evening. That helped, surprisingly.

It started with the tangent, that could be me.

Orion could be me. Twenty-one years from now, burned out, left and abandoned by the Gods and the world, clinging to alcohol and anyone who cared to listen to my backstory. A person who failed at getting everything, getting nothing in return.

When you witnessed death — and I had; many, many times — the kicker was that it would happen, and you couldn’t stop it. You would die, one day; and so would every single person in the world that you loved. I had very few people I loved, so— that could happen to me. My breaths were short and unsteady, now.

“I don’t know—”

The sound of a slap echoed throughout the room. Taunting voices.

“The daughter of Duke Marksman doesn’t know? What do you know, then?”

“Mother, Father—”

The Duchess frowned. “You never called us that before,” she said icily. “Don’t start now.” The Duke never said anything, but the two left, eyes filled with some sort of disgust.

Nobles’ calculating eyes and background waltzes, garnished words and empty flattery. To tailor-make a persona, carefully—

“This game is called Queen’s Crown.” The mercenary teacher unfolded the latticework board. “Have you heard of it?” After hearing the response, she continued: “If you want to win, you play the game. If you want to lose, you topple the board. But if you want to win everything—” she folded her arms “-you gamble.”

Everyone on the isle had malice in their eyes and malevolence in their whispers. “Did you hear? The Lady Marksman’s a witch — she stares at you, that unfavored spawn— the Duke and Duchess even lets outsiders beat her.”

“Never change, Sera.”

“You nobles are so fucking sick. What, we’re naive for wanting to change a world where we’re stepped on, again and again? An Empire that pillages, and loots, and backstabs? You murder us, and you murder our people, and none of you have ever experienced anything close to true fucking misery.”

“But you would cross it again. Again, and again, and you wouldn’t regret it. You’re sorry, but you don’t regret it; so it means nothing.”

“You can’t have everything— life doesn’t work that way.”

STOP.

I heard My Liege’s voice slam her way into my breakdown.

I blinked. “My Liege,” I greeted Athena. “Is my breakdown too loud? I can quiet down the hyperventilating, if that’s bothering you.” The words were reflexive, flippant and careless, and I shook my head at myself, sighing. A silence. “Apologies for the curtness. What would you like me to do for you, My Liege?”

I couldn’t see her, even as the evening light shone through the windows of the guest room of Damokles’ estate, but I was polite, regardless.

You. The Goddess sounded more tired than hostile, but I didn’t bother to pinpoint her intentions. You forget that there is a Harbinger?

I shrugged. “Greta will take care of it,” I said. “Besides, it’s more likely that she’s the Harbinger than someone we haven’t discovered — she plans to take over the continent after she solidifies her position on the throne, which means war.” I looked at the view through the window — bright pink light reflected on the thin layers of ice, and I blinked. “I’ll make it so she can’t kill me. Then it’ll all be fine; after she dies, I’ll get it. I’ll get it all.”

I pronounced the words slowly, and Athena sighed.

There is a prophecy, she told me. The Fates have spoken. It is not enough.

I laid back on the bed. “You’ll stop talking to me sooner or later, won’t you, My Liege?” I asked, casually. “If it isn’t enough, I’ll make it enough — he died, My Liege. And so many people that care to make a difference are dead, and I—” I smiled. “I care only about myself.”

To conquer a ruined world, Athena spoke, the statement seemingly out of place, is not glorious.

“Maybe,” I agreed, flexing my fingers. “I can’t take revenge — it would cause a war with the Rhianites, and a war with the other continents? The throne can’t afford it; not right now.” I sighed. “Greta’s setting up a summit with the Republicas, and she needs stability. Support. It would be best if I were out of the way in Tyche.”

Gambling your way to salvation? Athena questioned, dryly. I thought you wanted to be her right hand.

I shrugged. “Josephine and Arathis are handling the capital business. Besides, it’s the closest way to contact her about Orion being dead and I—” I broke my voice off, considering the situation. “I don’t want to go home, yet.”

An emotional decision.

I shrugged, again. “Is the prophecy important?” A defeated feeling had wormed its way into my chest. “I mean, it must be for you to visit me, but...Greta’s the Harbinger, isn’t she? In the early stages? It shouldn’t be anything alarming, right?” I was tired, exhaustion pulling at my eyelids, but Athena shook her head.

It is, she said, her words clipped, very alarming.

“Since you haven’t told me about it, I’m assuming I can’t know?”

Your assumption is correct.

A pause.

Perhaps it’s best, Athena conceded. For you to clear your head. Something is brewing. You are a part of it.

I dipped my head in acknowledgement. “Alright.”

A silence.

“I’m tired, My Liege,” I said, closing my eyes. “Thank you for visiting me. I appreciate your advice.” But I knew that she knew that the cogs in my mind were already whirring — what could be brewing? War? — and so I felt her cape whish. That feeling of a godly presence, superior in that infuriating way that they had seen more millenia than I had, disappeared after a while.

I thought in silence, for a long time.

Greta was excellent at writing letters.

From a young age, she read and wrote better than most — it was hard to come by willing teachers in the streets.

Curves and flourishes, stacks of gilded ink writing — when she was younger, it was more chicken scratch than comprehensible text; and even now it leaned towards the messy side, but it was more what she wrote than how she wrote it.

Margaret, they named her at the orphanage (if it could be called that, it was more a haphazard building of abandoned children). “Pearl.” When Greta was three years old, one of the orphans (whose name she didn’t remember) gave her the name, because apparently you could manifest wealth if you named your friends after it.

But when she entered the Palace she was known as Greta, and Greta only. Greta Highlander Queenscage. Highlander — the surname of a Galbraith missionary that wriggled his way into the Empire a decade ago — had constructed a few structures in the Lower Quarter, hung out with Galbraith nuns there for a couple years, and had left the orphanage dilapidated with pissed-off nuns and empty promises of salaries sent by monthly letter.

The supposed Institute for Higher Learning had deteriorated over time, leaving only a supposed shelter over people’s heads.

It was there she had tasted madness, but true insanity.

She shook herself out of her reverie and looked at the letter in her hand.

The Republic had responded very fast — the seal of the Respublica Roma glistened on top of the letter, the golden wax sparkling under the light as Greta swiped her letter opener underneath. The Empress gathered the parchment in her hands, green eyes skimming the elegant ink as she smiled.

As expected, they accepted the request for a summit. The demure way they addressed that one of their nobility was the Empire’s captivity, but avoided the usage of military arms, indirectly but directly making concessions — all according to plan. Greta had Romanus in her metaphorical pocket, and quite a few others — Hadrianus, for one; and Greta had probed using indirect but still remarkably Imperial venues at most of the Senate — and she could use this.

Greta drummed her fingers on the table, and smiled.

Life was good.

Even though the Palace was slightly quieter, with the disappearance of two of her siblings, it was still surprisingly warm. Josephine’s teasing, Arathis’ laughs, and Cyrus’ growls filled the halls every breakfast and dinner — the political probes had declined noticeably, the spark of supposed familial ambience lighting the rooms after Greta’s coronation. The Dayhept was filled with shocking lightness, with an amazed lack of public executions, and—

The Empress stopped.

Life was good. It would be best to stop it there.

Prioritizing individuals over the whole ideal? A mistake.

The summit would be held in a Dayhept, which meant that after Seraphina’s return and the nobles had been properly subjugated, Greta could take a step towards plunging the continent into war. Of course, that step was, first, knowing the enemy. Peace cannot come without war — she could never be a bringer or beacon of peace, it was true.

But she could try.

And if she returned Victorious?

It was a very large possibility.

Greta picked up her quill and wrote another letter — this time, to a friend.

Aceline, where are my congratulations?

The newly-crowned Empress of the Eternal Empire was excellent at writing letters.

There once was a lady who called herself Glory,

A woman who lived in children’s bedtime stories,

A spirit who lurked in the depths of soldiers’ dreams—

She promised generals the inheritance of kings.

There was an Emperor, who looked at the pale moon,

And asked, “Glory, have you forgotten me so soon?

I remember, when I was a child, I dreamed of you,

When I grew older, my pursuit of you ensued—

But once I returned from war, and there you were waiting,

I smiled at the prize of your favor, illuminating—

But Glory, I long for you, I miss you, I love you—

“I have aged, but come back home— the girl I knew, she

Can spurn me, hate me, avoid me, destroy me,

But I beg of you, my love, to never leave me—

“Come home again, this time I’ll uphold —I swear to Zeus—

Uphold the promises I made in my naive youth—

—You know, Glory, youth is the only thing, I lack—

Glory, my only love, please come back—

I miss you, I love you, I long for you—

You made me never forget, the day I met you.”