Melius abundare quam deficere.

- REPUBLICA PHRASE*

*meaning 'better too much, than not enough.'

THE FORSAKEN WERE AN INTERESTING PEOPLE.

Predominantly Kato, the population that made up a good chunk of the continent were usually in the Union of the Forbidden. Most of them could find solace in the Republic Roma, which was relatively free in terms of religion (surprising, Jonas knows, but the Republicas were stuffy about everything but Beliefs), but there were the incredibly few that had the stupid idea to go to the Empire.

The Empire, the very source of the genocide that had wiped Imperial Kato clean.

It was as if they didn’t know that Lysimachos had absolutely demolished the Kato — or, maybe, just didn’t care.

The Slaughter was an apt name. Before the Insane Emperor had taken the throne, there was a supposedly large portion of Kato living in a part of what was now the Lower Quarter. It was a wealthy district, apparently, full of bustling markets and jewels and coins — it was not recorded in history exactly why Lysimachos razed it to the ground (or maybe there was no exact reason, given that he was, after all, insane), but it was a slaughter.

“There was fire everywhere,” recounted a survivor. “People screaming, flames burning their faces and heat— so much heat, scorching— a desert of blood and wails, searing into our skin.” The Empire was set aflame, and the Forsaken migrants burned at the metaphorical, and arguably physical, stake.

Jonas has never been particularly interested in the history of it himself — he chooses, instead, to focus on what came after. Dantaleus Icarus, the Analyst. Lysimachos’ brother had a chance to kill the tyrant — for all Jonas’ morals, a genocide was crossing the line — but had stopped. “They who win against monsters,” Analyst Icarus had said, “become monsters themselves.”

Jonas, even now, scoffs at the quote. Why? Was being a monster that terrifying? For all that people preach, “One for the greater good of many,” the second it comes down to it, they decide that they don’t want to sacrifice their values or kill, because that would “lower them down to their level.” That just means that they see themselves as morally — and, perhaps, internally — superior.

Let’s say you catch a serial murderer, but you turn him over to the Guards because you don’t want to become a murderer yourself, but then that murderer gets out and goes on a killing spree, murdering your family, friends, and the entire city you lived in. Their deaths would be on your hands, not the Guards’ incompetence.

Jonas looks at the people in front of him.

“So let me get this straight,” the redhead, Arden, says calmly, “you have a way to get off this island.”

Jonas nods.

“And this plan can get us all out, if we manage to swim across Lake Ichor, one of the largest bodies of water in the Empire, and to the Second Isle,” the one named Seraphina, interrupts, tilting her head. She’s the one who immediately tried to murder him on the first day, but, after all, he can’t blame her.

He would kill her, too.

The Forgetouched unravels his fist, showing the shard of metal resting on his palm without responding.

The one named Caspian immediately identifies it. “The metal that makes up the bars.” His eyes widen, just a fraction, before they narrow. “You managed to break the Cage,” he says with a suspicious frown. “That’s not possible.”

“It’s possible,” Seraphina corrects, her eyes narrowed as well, “just very, very improbable.”

Jonas sits up. This is the fun part. “It’s better showing than telling,” he says, gesturing towards the jungle. “Come, I’ll show you.”

“Trap,” Arden immediately voices, coolly.

Zeus’ Chosen tilts his head, surprisingly interested. “Might not be.”

“Might be,” the other counters, a streak of shock in her words at the contradiction.

“I’ll go,” he insists.

Seraphina and Cas’ eyes flicker — the former’s gaze is quick like the lash of her knife; the latter’s steady like the blows of a titan. They look, surprisingly, at each other, an unidentifiable exchange of understanding darting across each of their faces, before a mutual decision is made. Jonas’ interest is piqued — what exact relationship do they have, to have an unspoken bond — but it isn’t the main point.

The Forgetouched throws the bait — all of them as volunteers aren’t needed, just preferably Seraphina and Rayan, Jonas supposes. They introduced themselves as Poseidon and Zeus’ Chosen, respectively, so that would get them across the lake. “So?” Hephaestus’ Chosen asks. “What do you think?”

Rayan tilts his head. “What does Bloodthorn think about all this? Where’s she, by the way?”

Jonas blinks. “I mean, if you’d rather to talk to her than me, I suppose I can call her—”

“She’s probably at the site they wanted to show us,” Seraphina guesses coolly, hitting the mark. “Either to gang up on us, or something else. Their new base, right? After they sent out Halkyone and Maia as peace offerings, they relocated to start their new project.” She nods towards the shard in Jonas’ hand. “Unless they’re lying. Then that would change everything.”

Caspian shakes his head in almost admiration— Jonas says almost, because the mocking glint in his eyes far outshines the genuinity of his expression. “Damn,” the one who introduced himself as Athena’s Chosen says. “Well, fuck, you’ve got your entire plan laid out for us, haven’t you? It would be a hell of a pity, if we didn’t accept it.”

Derision occupies his grin, and for a moment Jonas is reminded of the fact that Caspian was the first one to jump at him. The faint scar on his neck is still there, Hephaestus’ Chosen reminds himself — but it’s a benefit that they don’t need to take him along.

“Let’s go.” Surprisingly, it’s the redhead who’s the source of that decision. Her tawny eyes glint as she ruthlessly kicks the — bedazzled? — Iason in the stomach, who rolls away from her feet as she gets up.

“You don’t make the decisions here,” Seraphina says, but it’s devoid of any actual challenge — more of a lighthearted joke than a contradiction; Poseidon’s Chosen gets up anyway. She offers a hand to her companion, who accepts it; and all four get up.

“Then what do I make?” Arden looks Seraphina up and down coyly.

Poseidon’s Chosen laughs flirtatiously in return, her eyes empty and cold, but then Rayan snorts, interrupting.

“Stop playing, dumbasses,” he says while smacking Arden in the back of her head. “Gods, let’s just do this and get it over with.” Rayan’s pinched features are even squintier than they’d been before, Jonas notices, but there’s something in there that the Forgetouched can’t pinpoint.

Seraphina chuckles and Caspian snickers at the same time as Arden rubs her head and complains, but there’s something off about the supposed warmth the scene exudes. Something tense, something hidden. They’re all acting for the audience — who? Him, Jonas realizes with a smile. But he has the niggling feeling that the tension won’t follow him leaving.

“Let’s go,” Jonas agrees, clapping his hands together.

What is balance?

True balance cannot be achieved, just as the game of war cannot be won. There will always be people trying to tip the scales of the world in their favor, whether by force or compulsion. There will always be people for whom wars will be fought, people that will fight in said wars, and people who lead each side. There cannot be a better, because there cannot be a worse. Peace cannot be achieved through war, because peace does not exist.

There will always be bad people, and good people, but whether those who fight to vanquish their perspective of evil are valiant or foolish depends on whether or not you belong to the former or the latter in a specific somebody’s eyes.

There is something to be admired in tenacity — nothing can be achieved without the willingness to follow through with an idea. But the unwillingness to change? The unwillingness to go along with the flow, no matter the direction the scales tip? That leads to a loss, even though you cannot lose.

You cannot lose in life, because life itself is a loss.

You lose the moment you are born into this imperfect world, and you lose again when you decide to change it. You lose even when you pass through this world and accept it, because you lose the game even when you decide not to play. And, most importantly, you lose when you fail at changing the game.

You cannot tip the balance.

You cannot win at life.

You cannot change the game.

And, most importantly, you cannot win forever.

- PETRA CASTELLANOS, DUCAL LORD OF DIAMANDIS

I look at Vivianna waiting for us, and smile.

The noble and I have encountered each other once or twice, before all this, in flashes of memory and diplomatic smiles. The noble scions of the Empire Eoina make up a surprisingly large community (not that I was ever very welcomed there), but Viscountess Bloodthorn I’ve heard of.

The vase-collector, a surprisingly valued Imperial vassal.

“Vivi!” I exclaim. “Nice to see you again!”

Vivianna nods. “It’s nice to see you, too, Lady Seraphina.”

“Unfair,” Cas grumbles lightly. “How come she gets to be called Lady and I don’t?”

I shrug. “Life’s unfair,” I tell him in a mockingly airy tone. “Deal with it.” I spread my Ability across Vivianna as I speak, Reading her lithe physique. Her expression is deceptively mild, but her eyes are much too darting for someone who’s confident in herself. But still, even the worst actors can be the best gamblers — the world is an unpredictable place.

Rayan and Arden are busy looking at the Cage bar next to Vivianna, which hasn’t escaped my notice. Not a hefty chunk, but a barely noticeable sliver has been dug out of the metal next to the noble’s shoulder. It’s covered with scratches from numerous other attempts to gouge out the material, but the shard in Jonas’ hand perfectly fits the injury.

The unbreakable metal from a Cage constructed by the Gods.

It has broken.

My Ability recoils from shock, before spinning possible reasons.

I shake it off.

Vivianna nods at Jonas, who speaks up.

“You see?” the Forgetouched prods us, apparent smugness in his tone. “I wasn’t lying.”

I smile wryly, even though I feel it barely touches my eyes. “Yes, we can see that.”

Jonas strolls to Vivianna’s side, and his eyes gleam at us, challenging us. “Well?”

“How?” Rayan speaks up, first. His eyebrows are contorted into an expression of deep thought. Conflict. The mind battling the eyes. Seeing is believing. “It...can’t. It can’t, it’s— not impossible, no. But very, very improbable — how?”

“Iron sharpens iron,” Jonas replies, simply.

Arden narrows her eyes. “You’ve got to be a bit more specific than that, man.”

“The golems,” Cas says. “There’s something in his golems, that’s made out of the same stuff as the bars.” His electric blue eyes are pools of steady, still waters, but he’s reached the same conclusion I have.

My Ability supplies the next logical conclusion. The— “The cores,” I say, throwing my head back and laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world. It isn’t. “The damn cores are made of the same material.” I shake my head. “But how did you get the cores out? Aren’t they fused with the metal— ah, no. Source of energy, right? It’s not the core itself that’s the same metal, it’s the energy, isn’t it?”

Jonas looks almost pleased. “You’re correct,” he replies. “Vivianna’s peacocks got the cores out, and I harnessed the energy inside them.” Hephaestus’ Chosen gestures towards the gap in the gargantuan bars, the gap sealed by the invisible magical shield. “Throw something at it,” he suggests, eyes gleaming.

Almost immediately, my hand unsheathes my dagger out of its own volition, propelled by my Ability’s urging. I hurl the blade towards the gap between the bars, and immediately I see the sky flicker, the pale gold barrier flaring to life as it shields against the dagger, but—

An irrational smile spreads across my face. There’s a small crack, where the blade has landed. The barrier between the cage has weakened. And that—

That means we can leave.

But—

“It’s not that easy.” I feel the words escape my lips, as my smile unintentionally breaks. “The Gods won’t let us.”

“Why not?” Jonas asks me. “Us trying to escape when a hundred of us have failed, trying to defy the will of Anothen sky? Isn’t it entertaining?” Hephaestus’ Chosen adopts a bland tone, but there’s something simmering underneath. “We can get out, without killing anyone and all the mess of blood and gore. I’d thought you’d have jumped at the opportunity by now.”

Arden interrupts the conversation. “We should talk,” she says, shaking her head. She’s not smiling in childish wonder like I am, her expression instead cold and closed off for the first time since we’ve met. There’s no playful mischief that dances across her face, no flirtatious grin. “This...this changes quite a lot.”

“Let us show you,” Vivianna says casually, giving Jonas another nod, “before you make any decisions.”

Immediately, Jonas summons a golem, bits of metal appearing out of thin air — no, more accurately, bits and pieces, cogs and teeth all are produced by existence, outlines of machinery forming in the air as an invisible force attaches it all together. It’s a bit romantic, now that I see the Ability in motion, the process of it. The core is woven together by the loom of the Universe, a faintly glowing orb that’s immediately sucked into the almost industrial manufacturing.

It’s not a creating Ability, or a piecing-together Ability like mine — it’s a little bit of both, pieces attached here and there like a patchwork cloth in all its ragged glory.

Romantic, leaning towards something that’s not reality, but still exists in it.

I watch as the golem is constructed, a tall figure with a magic orb glittering in its gut. It isn’t indestructible, of course — I’ve cut down, or at least battled, some of them. Just aim for the core, move quickly, and hack it to pieces.

This time, Vivianna wordlessly summons her peacocks. I haven’t noticed before — I probably have, I think to myself, my Ability just hasn’t brought it to my consciousness — but their beaks gleam almost impossibly bright.

“They’re made of the same material, too,” I say out loud, lifting my chin to point at the animals. “Their beaks.”

The Lady Bloodthorn gives a small nod. “That’s correct,” she says, lightly. Like a puppet master controlling her puppets, she delicately moves her fingers. The animals move forward, multicolored plumage swishing against the ground, but they attack the golem with surprising viciousness.

The golem stays still due to Jonas’ influence, and for a while my Ability compares the scene to carrion being consumed by hungry hyenas. It’s unnerving, like I’m a child and someone’s telling me a horror story, except there has been no one to care enough to.

Ah, there it is.

The self-pity.

It’s always a vicious cycle, isn’t it? Whenever you see anything that makes you doubt yourself, a voice sneers at me.

I ignore it.

The core is fished out with surprising ease, and Jonas holds it gingerly. Still, a manacial glint appears in his gaze as he— blows on it? Gently, almost reverently, the Chosen puckers his lips and breathes on the glowing core. “Step back!” the Forgetouched yells, and immediately runs away.

I run away, too.

I’m intelligent like that.

Everyone does, too, although some hesitate longer than most; I watch from a distance as the core floats up, illuminating the surroundings a bright golden shade. It whirs to life, a life that transcends the life that it occupied before; a life that exists upon a plane of existence above existence. It sears my vision, and all-consuming light rages my senses before I hear a loud sound that isn’t a sound.

There’s no other description.

My ears ring for a few seconds before the regular life seeps back into my vision. Somehow, the sun seems less bright, the grass less green, the sky less blue, as I sense life but not life. The golden tint is gone, and the sound that isn’t a sound has gone.

There’s a sense of wrongness everywhere.

Like when I first stepped on this island.

This jungle is wrong.

“Look.” Cas’ voice is uncertain, shaky, for the first time since I’ve met him, like he’s learning how to speak again. “There’s a crack, there.”

I look at where he’s pointing. There is, in fact, a crack there.

It’s more unseemingly than just a crack — it’s a gaping injury in what shouldn’t be injured, and my Ability blares that it’s wrong. It’s not supposed to be there, and the only remark, however unfitting, I can manage right now is a raspy: “No shit.”

Ah.

That’s Seraphina. The actual one.

A mistake.

Surprise flares up in Cas’ expression — a genuine emotion, amid all the spite and bitterness and mischief — but then it’s shut down. We secure both of our masks in place, and we make an unspoken agreement when our gazes meet to never speak of this incident again.

Then we look at the crack.

“Fuck,” Arden breathes from afar, and it’s the only fitting description.

“The Olympians have taken a very large shit,” Cas agrees, his mischievous grin in place again.

There is, currently, a golem-sized hole in the unbreakable Queen’s Cage.

You know, Athena sighs, I made a riddle that took humans a hundred years to solve, and the person who solved them wasn’t even the one I Chose.

The Goddess looks down from her throne on Olympus, and shakes her head.

I cannot express my disappointment enough.

Then don’t, Hephaestus speaks up. The God does not speak in a drawl, nor does he speak briskly — his words whir with the heated iron of the forge, and echo with the ticking of time. My Chosen found the answer. You may applaud his capability.

I will not, Athena says. She looks at the scene below. The Fates have predicted a Harbinger to spawn, soon. Their first verse, they say, will come in three or four human Daycycles’ time. She shakes her head, grey eyes gleaming as the war helm on her head glints under an unidentifiable light.

Iron sharpens iron, she says. She turns to Hephaestus. Did you tell him? The hint?

You know we cannot visit them when the Cage’s doors close, the God of the Forge replies, calmly. It is the rule. Games cannot be played without rules, just as they cannot be played without players.

What are we then? The makers of it? Athena shakes her head. The Cagekeepers barely do anything, even though they are Chosen by Uncle.

That is why they still exist, do they not? They do not do much, Hephaestus responds easily. If they did do much, if they interfered with our game, they would need to be destroyed. Ares would jump at the opportunity.

He shrugs.

The riddle you speak of is one that can only be solved through chance, Sister, he says. Coincidence, that one with an orchalcum Ability, and one able to extract that orchalcum, are Chosen.

Athena blinks owlishly. Chance is all that matters, does it not? she asks. Victory lies in chance, and Ability.

The God of the Forge looks at his sister. You, he says, sighing, are too little and too much. They will not escape. They can never escape.

You cannot escape the game, the other agrees, before smiling. It’s a strange expression on a war Goddess’ face, especially one dressed in transcendently beautiful regalia, but it is a smile nonetheless. They cannot escape Fate. That is the fun of it.

Yes, it is, Hephaestus leans back on his throne. Now, let the true game begin.

“There’s no way it’s this easy,” Cas speaks up, voicing both our opinions. “Even if the Gods are entertained by this, it’s the Cage. The Godsbroken Queen’s Cage. Even if we broke some of the barriers — and I’m not sure how we did that, by the way — there’s got to be some sort of catch.”

“And,” Rayan adds, thoughtfully. “It’s an island. There’s got to be either a cliff or a long drop, and even then if we manage to scale our way down, there’s no way to secure a rat or boat that’s well-constructed enough to get through the entirety of Lake Ichor.”

“Not the entirety,” the Forgetouched corrects, shaking his head, “just enough for us to get to Inevita.”

I consider it. “Even then,” I say, “we’ll have to run from a whole lot more than just Guards. They’ll call in the Imperial Army, the stationed forces on Inevita — it’s unheard of, for Chosen to escape. My family will be less than welcoming — they probably think I’m dead; and even if I’m not, if I don’t win, you can’t expect help from the duchy.” I snort. “And the capital city? Suicide.”

The plan won’t work.

The plan can’t work.

Arden tilts her head. “Not necessarily,” she says. She picks up a stick and draws lines in the sand, sketching an admirably clear picture of the Visavan continent. Aphrodite’s Chosen prods it at a sector. “The Snakelands. We could take refuge there, make a deal with the Galani tribes or live it up in the jungles. I mean, other than the occasionally deadly spider, we should be alright.”

Vivianna speaks up. “I should be able to—” she clambers for a word “-relocate some funds from the Bloodthorn viscounty. I still have personal influence there, if my mother’s still at the capital manor and not our actual fief.”

“You can use the word steal,” Cas interjects, amusedly. “I promise, it doesn’t bite.”

The other noble glares at him for a bit, before struggling to school her features into a mild expression. It ruins the effect, but I don’t point it out — I’m not sure I’m any better, either way.

“But what’s the point?” I ask, frankly. “Not to be devil’s advocate, here, but slaughtering everyone here and then getting a stable, reliable life as an Imperial royal sounds like a much better option than living a life full of uncertainty as people on the run.” Silence follows my arguably well-made point.

Jonas is, unsurprisingly, the first to speak. “I mean, you’ve got a good point,” he admits. “But I would rather stay alive and peacefully find my way somewhere, maybe set up my own workshop; then get involved in the muddy waters that are noble politics. It’s a personal choice, really, but you can always say no.” His eyes glint. “And, if we die in the attempt, you’ll Win.”

What if the Cage doesn’t open if you’re not dead — what choice has more — what if you succeed and you get caught, and I get exposed for —

Vivianna looks at me intently. “Let’s play a game, then,” she suggests, gesturing towards the circle we’ve made. It looks almost deceptively like a warm campfire, the fire, and we like friends huddled together to share its warmth. But, of course, that’s where the word deceptively comes in.

None of our hands have left our weapons since this conversation has begun. Vivianna’s fingers are poised, albeit politely, to summon peacocks at a minute’s notice. Jonas is less polite, and is drumming his fingers on a nearby log as he examines his nails. Arden’s smiling at them, suspiciously bright, and Rayan’s scowling.

Cas and I are very obviously sharpening our daggers. I’m spinning the blades between my fingers in a bout of elegant showmanship, and Cas is, less delicately, using them to get the grime out of his nails.

I wait for Lady Bloodthorn to finish.

She inevitably does. “A betting game,” the noble offers. “If I win, you all join our cause. If I lose, we all start over and try to kill each other again. What do you say?”

I stay silent, thinking.

Before I open my mouth, Cas opens his.

"Sure," my partner accepts for me, "why not."

___