— Avoid conflict.

— If there is no way to avoid conflict completely, do not enter conflicts you cannot win.

— HOW TO STAY ALIVE IN IMPERIAL POLITICS: A CRASH COURSE

THE IMPERIALS NEVER LIKED TO MAKE THINGS EASY.

Take gambling, for one.

Imperial casinos were shiny, glitzy, and full of sleazy con men, which was fair enough, Aeron Andino supposed; but the people inside it didn’t have cards in their hands — they had lives. And Aeron wasn’t even speaking metaphorically. The people that held money? Small-time. They were pigeons, baby sparrows who were pushed off trees. The real customers bet their lives on the game — and by the game, of course, Aeron meant Vóreia Rouléta.

The game itself was introduced by the Northeasterners — not Imperial Northeasterners, that would be the people of Tyche (even though the game was such a big hit here, you’d think it originated here) — but the Rhianite Northeasterners, the chunk of the neighboring continent that wasn’t ruled by that Godsforsaken freak of a High King.

The Tsar and Tsarina had visited the Empire a while ago to build diplomatic relations, and had brought the game along with them (Aeron was well aware of the political connotations, he just decided to ignore them). You put a gun to your head, and there was a one in six chance that you would be dead.

To make it legal, the Imperial casinos made it so only five people played.

Legal. Aeron snickered.

The traditional way to play Vóreia Rouléta, the Imperial way, was of course to play a chance game. It could be anything — a lottery, a card shuffle, a name pulled out of a hat; anything that provided a prayer for Tyche to smile on the person who bet, it was a chance game. If you lost the bet, well, you would shoot.

It was a surprisingly tamer version than the original one, which was just passing a gun around and praying that there wasn’t a bullet when it was your turn. Tamer, and more complicated — like Aeron said, Imperials never liked to make things easy.

In Evimeria, Tyche’s capital and the Empire’s Gambling City, your life depended on which casino you picked. It might seem like an exaggeration, but Aeron wasn’t kidding — it took just one sleight of hand and an empty chamber to get cheated out of the supposed “thrill”; the customers would pay, again and again, to see someone die in front of them — or, maybe, to die themselves.

But there were casinos, and there were Dens. Casinos were for the rich, powerful, and crazy. Dens were for the poor and drunk. Even though his own paid a pretty penny, and Aeron’s capabilities were more than enough to get hired at a decent casino, Aeron preferred to work for the saner population — it was easier that way.

But the jingling of drachmas was ever so tempting.

“Oi.” Someone frowned at him. “Watch where ye going.”

“Sorry,” Aeron apologized. “Me feet are sore, feel like glizz these days.”

The other’s face softened. “Mmm. Careful, now. Watch ye step — apparently there’s someone important in the box this ‘Hept.”

After thanking the stranger for their warning, Aeron couldn’t help an awkward smile climb on his face. He was being paid to spy on that important person. As the dealer crossed the casino’s halls and headed to the wing of private rooms, he started whistling out of nervous habit.

There once was a lady named Glory—

He passed assigned Guards, who looked at him curiously, but didn’t shift from their positions.

Who lived in children’s bedtime stories—

The Duke Evimeria had a token — not a seal, but similar to it — that he had given to Aeron, and it lay heavy in the dealer’s pocket. After Aeron stopped at the door he was ordered to arrive at, he fished it out of his pocket and displayed it.

And lurked in the depths of soldiers’ dreams—

The doors to the private parlor opened.

She promised generals the inheritance of kings.

The folk song died at his lips as Aeron smiled, and then bowed. “It is an honor to meet ya, Your Highness.”

The girl at the chair glanced at him nonchalantly. “Yeah, sure, I guess.” There was a bowl of unpeeled grapes in her hand. Seraphina saw him looking, and thrust the bowl into his reach. “Here, peel them for me,” she half-heartedly ordered, lazily. “You can have some, if you want.” The Sixth Princess gestured towards a nearby longue. “Sit.”

The dealer blinked. Aeron took the bowl, sat, and started peeling. The grapes were ripe and red, unsurprisingly, and with the dealer’s dexterous hands he managed to get through several of them before the Chosen spoke again.

“What does Duke Evimeria want?” Her tone was light, but it had a serious edge to it that Aeron recognized.

So she knew. The dealer winced. “Uh, he wants me to find out stuff on ye.” Aeron chewed his lip. “But, er, I don’t think I can reveal too much.”

“Oath?” Seraphina asked, barely looking at him.

“Aye, somewhat,” Aeron lied.

“You’re lying.”

The dealer blinked, before instinctively answering: “Aye.”

Seraphina blinked at him — once, twice — before looking back at the view. “It won’t work,” she said, nudging Aeron’s gaze to the curtained window. The glass was made at an angle so it obscured the face of those in the cabinet, the parlor itself constructed like a private opera box, only bigger.

There was a game going on, down below — a slim Imperial gun made of elegant gold was placed on a table, a group of five in grotesque animal masks surrounding it. The dealer, a lanky cloaked figure with even lankier hands, dealt cards with a couple fancy tricks that didn’t impress Aeron, and the game commenced.

“Chalice,” the dealer named the cards with a frown. Even from here, he could see the Olympians’ symbols drawn in comical mockery on the pale cards. It was religiously disrespectful, even though there was no one on the continent who was actually religious (maybe except the Repubs, but no one liked to talk about the ‘Pub Anothen), and playing the game was practically begging for bad luck.

Why? Well, the cards were ranked. They were ranking the Gods so that one of them could win against another, and that was just—

“That gazelle.” Seraphina jabbed her chin at the gazelle-masked gambler on the left. “He has good cards. He’s bluffing that he has bad cards, and only keeps folding to lure someone in revealing something. See that eye twitch? That neck scratch? Too well-placed, too well-timed to be anything other than purposeful.” She snorted. “And the others are all falling for it — fucking half-wits.”

She didn’t seem to be in the best mood, but Aeron saw what she pointed out. “He’s in it for the thrill,” the dealer remarked. He saw the glint in the mask’s revealed irises, familiar yet not. “He’s playing with ‘em — terrible sense o’ humor, a gazelle screwing with the lions.”

Seraphina gave a nod. She reached a hand out for the grapes. Aeron passed the peeled ones to her. “You’re here,” she said, scratching her head while popping the grapes in her mouth, “because Greta’s worried and sent Evimeria to get me.” She chewed a grape, and spat out a seed at the direction of the gazelle as she said the statement distastefully.

The shockingly unladylike action propelled the seed from her lips, the object falling an admirable distance from her person. “I already delivered the dead body to her messengers, and I’ll be back before the summit — what does she want, now?” the Princess asked, finally.

Aeron blinked. “Er, ain’t badmouthing the Empress treason ‘or sumting?”

The Chosen looked at the dealer as if he were stupid. “I’m her sister,” she enunciated, slowly. “If I don’t badmouth her behind her back, who will?” Contrary to the rumors who described her as a ghost, Seraphina seemed very, very real, Aeron realized, and then reprimanded himself internally. Gossip was gossip.

“Er,” he began, nervously while starting to peel the next batch of grapes, “I think she’s worried about ye. Mentally? ‘Cause, ye know, someone’s brother dying would deal ‘em a mighty large blow. Ye know, mentally.”

“You said that word two times,” Seraphina noticed, lazily chewing on another grape. This time, the seed she spat out nearly made it across the entire room, sticking to its destination on the carpet beneath the curtains. It would’ve looked like spoiled noble behavior to others; and if Aeron was being honest, it did to him; but the Chosen seemed exhausted.

“You know how much I’ve won?” she asked the dealer. “Ten.”

“Ten drachmas?” Aeron questioned.

Seraphina rolled her eyes. “Ten thousand drachmas,” the Sixth Princess corrected. “And then the staff basically politely told me to stop winning, and now I’m here, watching gullible fuckers trying to kill each other legally.” She turned to him. “I’m very experienced with that, you know. Trying to kill some legally. There’s only two ways to do that — religion and treason.”

The card dealer shook his head. “Yer wrong there, Your Highness,” Aeron said, shaking his head. “There’s only one method to kill someone legally, and that’s power.” As Seraphina didn’t tell him to shut up, the grape peeler continued, albeit tentatively: “Because money doesn’t stop the coppers from getting ye. I mean, money gets ye a good assassin, but does nothing for the fallout.”

Aeron shrugged. “I mean, with power, ye can frame someone for killing them and then threaten the actual killer to stay silent. Win-win, y’know.” He couldn’t stop his mouth, strangely, from forming the words. Still, the dealer cleared his throat. “The point is, apparently—” at least, according to Duke Evimeria “-that the summit will be held in three days. It would be best if Your Highness returns back to the capital as soon as possible.”

Seraphina looked at him with those unnervingly blue eyes. A shot rang out in the air, and immediately Aeron looked towards the floor below. The gazelle had been unlucky — no, they had purposely lost, and then they had been unlucky. A six in one chance. The dealer skimmed his eyes over the blood seeping from the corpse, and returned to the Princess.

“Alright,” she said, stretching. “I feel better, anyways.”

She nodded towards the door. “Right, then. Let’s go.”

Aeron blinked. “Now?”

The Sixth Princess finished off her grape. “No, in an eternity.”

A silence.

“I’ll take that as a joke,” the dealer said, finally.

They stopped before leaving the city, at the massive statue in front.

The goddess Tyche, in all her alabaster glory, glinted multiple chryselephantine shades under the currently invisible sun of Tyche’s capital. Folds of painstakingly sculpted chiton fell to the ground, swathes of mist consuming the goddess’ head. A blindfold was tied around her eyes, the surprisingly Republica mural crown circling her temple barely visible — the luxurious cornucopia that hung from her other hand was made of enticing marble.

But there was a difference between a Goddess and a goddess — the former belonged to the Anothen Olympians, the latter belonged to one of the few minor gods that were remembered even after the establishment of the Queen’s Cage. Tyche wasn’t worshipped, and it was unlikely she had a physical manifestation, but she was a goddess still.

At least, that was what Aeron’s mother had told him.

Seraphina didn’t look like a tourist — no, in Tyche, it was dangerous to be a tourist. Republica tourists, as stiff and rigid as they all were, were surprisingly easy to fool; easy pickings for even amateur fleecers. The Sixth Princess stood neither tall nor proud, instead taking up a neutral stance examining the tourist attraction.

Accompanied by her Guards, who were probably handpicked from Tyche’s branch of the Army — it was hilarious, to the dealer, that the notorious stick-up-their-asses were forced to guard an Imperial Princess sightseeing — the two were given a wide berth by the sharp-sighted public.

“Why do you think the blindfold’s there?” she asked him.

Aeron blinked. “Er — ye want sumting philosophical, or—?”

“Nah, just your honest opinion.”

“Um,” he said, very eloquently. “I mean, the saying goes that justice’s blind, right? They say that fortune’s blinder, so instead of giving ‘er a silk blindfold, they gave ‘er a steel one.” The dealer pointed at the statue’s head. “‘Cause it’s ironic. Not really ironic, just— ye know, when the people that ye hate, the ones that stepped on ye to get up in the ‘ierarchy?” Aeron asked without expecting an answer. “When Tyche lets ‘em, when fortune favors ‘em, she’s blind. At least, ye know, metaphorically.”

“Better cynical than naive, that’s how the Empire goes,” replied Seraphina, mildly. He hadn’t noticed when, but the Sixth Princess had changed while he was distracted. Her relaxed posture had turned rim-rod straight, her words now full of friendly but alluring charisma that was different from the force she had exuded before. Now, she seemed like a ghost — small changes, but they were there; her penetrating blue eyes now seeming mistier.

What had he said?

“But change is propelled by ideals.” Aeron felt the words escape his lips, before he quickly remedied them. “I mean, at least that’s what me Ma used to tell me. If ye want the world to change, ye ‘ave to know what ye want to change the world into. Wants don’t count — ye can want whatever ye want in the world, but they’re not a result. They’re not an end goal, otherwise you’ll spend forever trying to fulfill them.”

The dealer shrugged. “True change comes from ideals and people willing to act on them. Power’s a means, not an end — if it’s an end, it’s a never-ending one. It’s a tool that corrupts, but one that works.” Aeron added, again, with a cough, “At least, that’s what me Ma used to tell me.”

Seraphina laughed — it wasn’t mocking and self-derisive, like the smile she’d put on before; but light, feathery, and grating. Purposefully so, he could tell. “I have a feeling you’d get along with my sister very well,” the Hundredth Victor told him. “And maybe you’re right. Who knows?” She stretched. “It doesn’t matter,” the Victor said, turning away from the statue, “if you’re a spy or not — you’ll fit in politics very, very nicely, I feel. The Empire needs someone like you.”

The words were filled without pressure into choosing, surprisingly, Aeron thought.

“Well, it is due time to go back home, I suppose,” Seraphina added, speaking almost to herself. Her gaze gleamed with a newfound glint that was hidden as quickly as it came. The former card dealer would’ve labelled a trick of the light if Tyche hadn’t had a scarcity of it.

They left the gambling city.

Home didn’t feel like home.

Of course, I said this because I didn’t know what home felt like. Stories said that it felt like this cozy kind of warm inside your heart. I, however, pinpointed it as a place where I’d witnessed the most attempted murders.

Josephine and Arathis hugged me when I got back, the journey taking three days from Tyche. I made sure that none of them had poison on their gloves.

Cyrus was silent, greeting me with a surprisingly polite nod. Julian was still there, although noticeably tenser than usual, and reached for my hand via professional reflex. I shook it bemusedly, mouthing look at this at Josie and Ara to the side. Greta also gave me a nod, but it was accompanied by many a surrounding Guard.

Oh well, it was to be expected.

I paraded around my new casino earnings — met by no small amount of disapproval from Julian and Cyrus — as Josie and Ara congratulated me on my achievement. We had a small, personal feast — a surprisingly intimate family affair, plus Julian — that night, where I ate veal to my heart’s content.

And then, of course, we got down to business.

“The time for the summit has been established,” the Empress said after a while, demolishing her paximathia bread surprisingly quickly. “The leaders will begin to arrive tomorrow, and it’ll formally begin the Daystart after.” Greta’s eyes pierced through me. “You cut it close, sister.”

Josephine threw her head back and laughed. “Don’t be so harsh on her, Oldest Sister,” the former courtesan said while reaching over to pat me comfortingly on the shoulder. “We took care of most of it,” she told me. “You know, the shiny things, decorations, food.”

Cyrus harrumphed. “You mean I had to monitor both of you to make sure you guys actually get things done,” he corrected, sending a dissatisfied glare towards Josephine and Arathis; and maybe me, too, considering that I was sandwiched in between them. “I had to make sure they didn’t kill anyone,” he grumbled.

A silence.

“Important,” my older brother corrected himself. “Anyone important.”

“And they didn’t,” Julian assured me from two seats away, voraciously devouring a slice of steak. “I made sure.”

“Back to the original topic,” said Greta firmly, shooting glares at the speakers, “you have quelled Rhianite influence at the border. Admirably so. I’m told you decapitated the second and third most famous bandit leaders and killed all of their people?”

I nodded, pausing to take a swig of a nearby glass. The (pomegranate?) juice went down my throat, the added sugar prominent. “I managed to nick the biggest one, in the end,” I informed her. “I don’t think there’ll be any more, anytime soon — and even if there are, the major factions have been gotten rid of, so the Winterdeath and the Duke can take care of the rest.”

I leaned back. “Rhianite peacekeepers haven’t been spotted, but that’s probably the cause of someone pulling the strings from behind the scenes — I don’t know what you’re going to do about that, but as long as the High King recognizes you as a legitimate sovereign, and he has no reason not to, we’ll likely be fine.” I reconsidered my words. “At least, until you start a continental war. That’s cause for concern.”

Something dark lurked in my sister’s green eyes.

“Yes,” she said, mildly. “That would be — and is — reasonable.” She sipped her wine.

“My apologies,” Julian cut in, setting down his fork, “to be the one to bring up the proverbial elephant in the room, but it is on the table, right? A continental war?”

Josie smiled a shark-like grin. “War is always on the table, my dearest brother-in-law,” she commented. “It’s more of a question of can we endure the war, than can we go to war. I’m sure, as a praetor, you would know the difference.”

My Mari blinked, and for a second his stoic exterior trembled, before Arathis gave his input.

“Go easy on the poor praetor, sister,” the Forsaken said, the tone sugary but the words mocking. “It shouldn’t be easy for him, a man of considerable military standing, to hear of the enemy’s war plans. After all, patriotism is a value that wears off ever-so-easily. It’s a phase. Let him go through it—”

“Ara,” I said, evenly. “You aren’t helping.” Of course, they knew they weren’t helping, but that was another matter. I turned to my fiance, ignoring Arathis’ mock hurt expression as I leaned over him. “Yes, it is on the table. No, our engagement does not compel you to be on our side. It will begin, hopefully, after we get married and you return back to your Army, and I do not expect you to be lenient on account of me.”

It was a very real possibility, considering Greta’s ambitions.

But a possibility that would only come after we’d settled the Empire.

Julian’s long eyelashes fluttered as he closed them for a beat or two, and then opened them again. “Alright,” he conceded, with no small amount of grace. “But we’ll talk about this later,” he warned, ice on his features. “And before the summit.”

I gave a pleasant nod, and retreated back to my seat. It was only fair.

“Cyrus?” I questioned my other brother. “You’ve been quiet in this discussion.”

A silence, as my older brother shifted uneasily in his seat.

“Brother,” the half-Republica Chosen spoke up, raising his head, “is dead.” I couldn’t Read any strong emotion on his face as he stated the sentence indifferently. Another silence, but not a somber or dark one.

“Yes,” I answered, quizzically. “I saw him die.” His corpse was in the Imperial morgue, probably already readied for the best Undertakers there were.

“Why did he die?” Cyrus asked. Ah.

I didn’t avert my eyes — that would be a disservice.

“There was an unexpected arrow, launched by a crossbow-wielder hidden from view,” I said, slowly. “It was the bandits’ leader.” What I didn’t say was unspoken, but not unheard: Brother could’ve dodged it. “There was sarawolf, on its tip,” I continued, meeting Cyrus’ eyes before looking across the room. “He died, painfully and silently.” Just like how he lived.

Julian didn’t catch onto the hints in between, but he did know from my expression that there was more to it, and remained tactfully silent.

“No last words, I suppose,” remarked Greta. “Rion was always the type to not care for those.” She drummed her fingers on the table at a steady tempo. “We won’t hold a funeral,” the Empress said, finally. “At least, not a public one. His family will not be informed; but he did say he wanted to return to his village on the Second Isle. After the summit, and Seraphina’s...acquisition of the duchy, all will be sorted out.”

So she did know that I had sent Lazarus to do exactly that.

My Ability spat out a reasonable conclusion: I needed to check in with my subordinates.

I would. Later.

“Both Consuls are coming to the summit,” the Empress continued. “As it is of political importance, and the other Cardinals have not left, I have extended an invitation to nobles of marquis level and above to attend the initial banquet. Nearly all of them have accepted, and arrangements have been made; but political discussions will be made individually.”

“And by individually, you mean with us or without us?” Cyrus asked, arching an eyebrow. “Julian excluded, of course, since I’m assuming he’s already communicated with those on his side.”

I made a mental note to not put Julian and Cyrus together ever again, as Greta tilted her head. “It depends,” she said, slowly. “It’ll be a long journey to stabilize the entire Empire. But we’re one step closer, and that’s all that matters.” The Empress’ green eyes glinted. “I — we — will reform this entire country to its bones.”

“Cheers to that!” Arathis said, leaning forward while lifting up his cup. Josie was the next to join in, and then Cyrus, and even surprisingly Julian. I clinked my glass next to my family, and tried to ignore the churning in my gut.

Athena’s words echoed in my head.

Something is brewing. You are a part of it.

I’ve had better Dayhepts.

By better Dayhepts, I mean, of course, less politically charged Dayhepts.

“Bring the little scoundrels in,” I called with a sigh.

Julian was looking around the establishment we were in, mildly concerned — of course, we were in ‘my’ office in the Emerald Seas, and he was only gaping at the sheer amount of courtesans outside my private office, but his concern was appreciated, if unconsidered.

“What little scoundrels?” he questioned, placid curiosity dappling his face. “And is this...your establishment?” The praetor looked around the room, at Alyssa and Mercy. His eyes lingered on Xanthe in a way that was more tactical analysis than flirtation, but his casual clothes made him seem less out-of-place than I’d expected.

“These are my lieutenants,” I informed him, nodding towards the trio. “Ah, there’s Mace, but he’s just outside the door. You can come in, it’s just Mari.”

The door slid open, and the familiar ragamuffin orphans filed in at almost military efficiency, and I snorted, amusedly.

“Did you practice that?” I asked Xanthos. It didn’t escape my notice that they seemed a bit fuller, their clothes neater and less ragged. Evidently they had been paid.

Alexandros’ eyes shifted to Julian, before travelling back to me. “Yeah,” he answered, simply. “I mean, if it’s wrong, we’ll do it again, Boss.”

“Nah.” I waved them off. “You did fine. Update me on your progress — Mari’s authorized to hear all this, you’re fine.”

Xandros relaxed. It wasn’t his problem anymore. “Right then, Boss.” He nodded towards the one named Leonidas. “Leo sweet-talked most of the homeless guys into spilling their guts. Ever since Lady Mercy killed Aen, they’ve been uneasy. Looked into other sources of income, protection. It doesn’t help that the anti-Imps have been trying to poach them.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Ah, the Vasilos guy and his Eyes.” I made a face, before considering it. “They’ve never been a threat before. How did you handle it?”

I already knew how I would handle it, of course. But this was a test. My Ability covered all the orphans, but still none of them looked me in the eye.

“They’re like cockroaches, Boss,” Alexandros answered, matter-of-factly. “You kill them all, but you miss one, and the infestation starts all over again. I distracted the anti-Imps with a wild goose chase by telling them there was a Palace leak, and I managed to peel them away enough to put someone loyal in charge.” He turned. “Rosalie, introduce yourself to Boss.”

Rosalie scampered in front of me. “Hiya, Boss!” she squeaked. “Name’s Rosalie! I’m the head of the homeless system, now! Thank you for having me!”

“Charmed,” I replied, dryly, letting my lips quirk. “So you’ve wrapped up the information agency all up in a pretty bow. Nice. Are you sure the distraction for the anti-Imps will be enough? The summit’s coming up, and we can’t afford any resistance aside from the two main parties, cockroaches or no.”

Macedon cut in, this time. “We’ve got it covered, Princess,” the former confidence man said, grimly. “I might not be good at politicking, but Lady Alyssa and I haven’t been busy for nothing. We’ve hired new courtesans, upgraded this place with the brothel madam, and covered up your identity. Our profits are quite a hefty sum, along with the drachmas you won at the—”

I frowned. “Don’t touch my casino earnings,” I protested. “They’re—”

Julian coughed, awkwardly. “I may have already allocated them to your personal funds.”

“Aw, Mari, that’s so sweet of you—”

“And donated a twelfth to charity.”

“What?” I raised both of my eyebrows while letting my eyes widen, just a bit. “You donated to charity? Using my money?”

There was a dead silence, as I felt everyone freeze. Julian met my eyes calmly.

“Yes.”

Another silence, as I heaved a big sigh. “I’ll take that as the cost for springing the thing on you,” I grumbled, conceding. “But don’t touch my things without warning, next time. I might poison your Army’s water supply, instead of being so generous.”

I felt everyone’s surprise at the concession, but I waved a hand. “Anyway,” I began, anew. “I will be busy. But Mercy will check on you. Don’t take this as an excuse to slack off. You did a good job on this one,” I amended, “and your raise is earned. But I have a lot of tasks to get done; I’m not a micromanager, anyhow.”

I would have to set up a team building exercise soon — or throw all of them in a life-threatening situation, the two words were practically the same, anyhow.

You have a lot of work cut out for you, my Ability mused.

We, I corrected.

We have a lot of work cut out for us.

“Keep the anti-Imps in check,” I summarized, before shooing them all away. “Now, go away. I need to talk to Mari.”

My lieutenants left the room, and I gave a pleasant smile to Mercy while casting a meaningful look towards the door. She returned with a sharp nod, meaning that she would cut off the ears of any eavesdroppers, as they all filed out the room.

“So,” the praetor said, heaving a sigh, “I’ll take you up on that promised date.”