The winner of the game is the player who makes the next-to-last mistake.

- UNKNOWN CROWNPLAYER

You would never know if you would accept a deal with the metaphorical devil until the invitation was within hand’s reach. That was what they all said, Arathis knew, and the statement rang true with every person he met.

His mother, for one.

Delawar Katriene was a strong believer in not fearing the unknown. The Delawars were a long line of migrants — it ran in their blood. Arathis’ grandfather was originally a Clan loyalist supporting the only true ‘Clans’ that you could support: Clan Aun, of House Vitejie; and Clan Ace, of House Desarta.

Perhaps some decades before, Delawar was a prestigious family; in some other time — but, Arathis was told, when Katriene lived; Delawar was a “two-bit family” that “was crumbling from the inside like a moldy harpy corpse.”

Her words, of course, not his.

And so Katriene’s father, the great Delawar Iven, fled the Union of the Forbidden and its two rulers, making a home in the Republic for his family. And so there, Katriene was raised — without prejudice against Kato, and safely enough; albeit with a bit too militaristic values. When Katriene grew older, she decided to make the risky (and arguably foolhardy) move to the Empire.

She, and later Arathis, were two of the Imperial Forsaken population that could be counted on one hand — but the life they lived was not one that was beautiful enough to be written down.

The beast that was hunger ravaged their stomachs like an everyday reminder of the cold of famine clinging tight to their bones. Arathis watched it hollow out his mother’s eyes slowly, over time, as her noble lover — Arathis’ ‘father’ — came less and less every Dayhept; with less and less food.

Soon, as Katriene lamented angrily, “the novelty of fucking a Forsaken wore off” and Arathis’ father stopped coming. They had to turn to other means, and Katrine refused to return to their family home in the Republic because they “couldn’t turn back now.” His mother saw life as an adventure, a path you couldn’t turn back on once you stepped on it, even though many a time Katriene was beaten to near death when caught by extremists outside. She died from injuries soon after.

Longing for fun, interest, at the expense of others was the point of no return.

But it also one Arathis indulged in.

Of course, he did see the insensibility behind it, but his past resonated with his present in more ways than one. What had he said to the Duchess Alina Evlogia?

People imagine being in power as some sort of means to an end. They all want something - to never be stepped on again, to make their enemies pay - and power gets them that. That’s what fuels the Imperial dream, because we live in a world where people have no choice but to be powerful to survive.

Of course, he had hammed it up in order to push Alina into supporting Seraphina to the throne, but he did believe in the essence of his words.

It wasn’t, we all die in the end, so what’s the point — that was such a fatalistic, defeatist point of view; and neither the former of the latter were in Arathis’ vocabulary. It was, why are we obligated to survive?

Why are humans obligated to fulfill their own desires? You could slather all the fancy philosophical terms on it, but why are humans selfish? There was an author, Arathis remembered, that defined the three main tenets of ‘objectivism’ as reality, reason, and self-interest.

He agreed with most of the philosophy — reality could not be rewritten, so you had to face it (but with the various reactions from the human race, the emphasis on choice; you would choose how to face reality however you’d like, without judgement or discrimination). Reason, as defined by some, came without emotion.

That was false. Emotion could never truly be vanquished. And thus, the only viable option would be to use both intellectual and experience-based logic, instead.

Self-interest. The originator of objectivism said that a human’s highest moral aim should be to pursue their own happiness (although happiness was a wide definition, Arathis did support the conclusion). Selfishness. Objectivism itself encouraged placing your own self over others, the individual over the whole.

If Arathis decided to take a political example, it would be of the Republic. Culturally, it was extremely different from the Empire — the crudely-nicknamed ‘Pubs encouraged patriotism, pride in the whole over self and an effectively cohesive machine and an overall selflessness that fed into their military system.

The Empire didn’t do that.

Arguably, the Empire did the opposite of it.

It encouraged division — politically, culturally, and socially. It sowed seeds of mistrust in every citizen, from noble to gutter rat, and it reminded all to trust no one in the Empire, least of all the person who rules it. And it worked. The division was controlled, even mitigated (when needed) by the Emperor and the religious system of Chosen.

The Empire Eoina was a broken nation, ruled by a government full of despots that stood on the backs of the abandoned and the miserable — but it was still standing. It wasn’t the last one standing, but it hadn’t swayed or wavered against the nemesis called time.

And the Forsaken knew his sister saw it.

From that killing-his-attendants incident, Arathis had prodded all the right buttons — which was a first, for Greta. He hadn’t been lying, his oldest sister really had initially come to force the Forsaken into matching clothing to greet the envoys; but, of course, the discussion had taken a mildly concerning turn. He remembered the scene — vividly, as if it had happened yesterday.

“Ten years ago,” drawled Arathis, grinning, “you sent out a bunch of letters.” He leaned back, purposefully casually. “I wasn’t there, ten years ago, but Josie was. It was only a matter of very careful digging before we found out.” He tilted his head at his sister, who was remaining admirably stoic.

“I was wondering, dearest sister, why such a mastermind like you wouldn’t make any moves for, what, twenty or so years? It wasn’t your love for Father, that’s for sure.” The Forsaken smiled, amiably. “But you did. You prepared your forces for ten years, made moves in the other ten, and now you’re in control of the entire Empire! It’s a cause for celebration!”

It was, if you thought about it.

The Fifth Prince leaned forward and tapped a corner of the table. “Damokles Anthinon. Rhianites killed his parents, and the Empire did a shitty job of getting payback.” Arathis let his finger dance across the surface, and tapped again. “Elexis Cadmus. The Empire discriminated against her because she was half-Galani due to Eurus’ longtime discrimination against those from the Snakelands.”

The Forsaken continued. “Delphine Hyacinth, the author of various anonymous strategy works that caused an uproar in the Empire due to its contents bordering on treason — the Empire’s laws and atmosphere hamper her development.” Yet another corner. “Petra Castellanos, bastard child of the Diamandis family line, who kept their mother’s surname — they conquered Notus with their own hands and a motley band of rogues, only accepting their legitimate succession after they had already claimed most of the Stronghold.”

Arathis threw his hands up. “I may be rambling,” the Ninety-Ninth Victor remarked, mildly, “but it’s a very, very large coincidence that all of them have either grudges, or motivation to change or destroy the Empire.” The Forsaken’s lips curled into a smile. “And,” he added, “it’s an even larger coincidence, that all of them received personal letters from you after or before they ascended to their Cardinal seats — isn’t it, Sister?”

Greta met his eyes. “It is,” she replied, simply.

Of course, she couldn’t outright deny or confirm it, as they were exposed to many listening ears — Arathis’ attendants all pretended to not hear the treasonous claim, but many of their poker faces had already slipped.

“I’ll be serious, now, Sister,” the Forsaken informed her, a smile still on his face. This was interesting. “What do you intend to do with the Empire once you’ve already conquered it? Josie has so many fun theories, but I’d like to hear it from you, face-to-face.”

Josephine was adept at reading people — that, Ara knew. She was a lot more capable than most people gave her credit for, but what the Forsaken said was true. What would Greta the Great say?

The First Princess blinked. “I am not going to conquer it.”

The rational thing to say was, you have to, for it to change. But Arathis didn’t say that.

“Alright,” he said, giggling. “If you say so, Your Greatness.” The Forsaken tilted his head again, watching his sister. “But I do wonder why you hate the nickname,” he commented. “After all, it’s a tribute to your power — Greta the Great. Doesn’t it sound cool? Like a historic title, Cadmus the Snake-Slayer? Jason the Captain? Greta the Great?”

Greta remained impassive, but the change in her aura spoke volumes.

Arathis pushed, still. “You are a conqueror, sister. You cannot enforce an ideal into an entire nation — some argue that the concept of authority, in itself, is tyrannical. You will oppress people if you rule, Sister. You have to. Dictate people, bully them, subjugate them into submission, in order to keep power. It is inevitable.”

The Forsaken didn’t believe in what he was saying, but it was obviously causing a reaction, as his sister said, mildly, “I am aware.” So she wasn’t totally against using autocratic means — perhaps a dead giveaway, due to her personality, but it was an interesting observation.

“Then I wish you luck in your endeavors, Sister.” Arathis grinned. “Margaret Highlander is such a beautiful name. I sometimes wonder why you don’t use it.”

Her eyes narrowed, just a bit. “My name is Greta,” she corrected, mildly, hands still folded in her lap. The forty-year-old nodded towards the pile of clothes sitting next to her. “Please be dressed and ready to greet the envoys, promptly, Younger Brother. We must not bring shame to our family.”

The Forsaken beamed. “Of course not!” He nodded towards a designated attendant. “Myatha will see you off.”

Martha didn’t correct him, but extended her gloved hands, as she was instructed. As Greta acknowledged her politely, the First Princess dusted off her hands and stood up from the lounge, just as Martha reached in and delicately touched the Victor’s bare hands, casually— or at least, she was about to, before she slumped onto the floor and started convulsing.

White froth bloomed at her mouth, as all the other attendants crashed to the floor, indistinguishable sounds filling the air. Shrieks of names and wails tainted the inside of Arathis’ Residence, blood streaming from their noses as they clawed themselves to death, whites of their eyes exposed to the air — some of them slammed their heads against the pillars repeatedly, bloodying the pristine walls, as they twitched and writhed like they were possessed by a snake slowly going insane.

Arathis smiled as Greta leaned in, and almost gently, viciously, seized him by the throat. “Do not,” she commented conversationally, stranglehold constricting her brother’s neck, “test me.”

And then Seraphina came, and the conversation ended.

The Fifth Prince smiled at the memory. Ah, the wonders of family bonding time.

If someone you vaguely remembered from a military campaign came up to you at a party, clapped you in the back and made the remark of “oh, it’s nice to see a friendly face around here!” you had one of four options:

Cut their hand off Participate in diplomatically mild conversation Cut their line of conversation off by pretending to forget their name Pretend like you’ve known them for years.

Julian didn’t believe in the concept of friendly faces — in his experience, familiar faces were anything but friendly.

Seeing a familiar face meant that, after multiple encounters that led to Julian recognizing them as familiar, they approached them yet again (usually with ulterior motives). Familiar faces were persistent, irritating, and came with the promises of political bribes.

His father and Consul Valerius fell into all three categories.

“Your Consulships,” he acknowledged, folding his knee while inclining his head towards the ground. “What have you—”

Valerius Romus batted a hand. “Cut the bullshit, Julian.” Ah. This was Uncle Evander talking, now.

The Consul crossed his legs while shooting a dirty look at Marcellus. “Amadeus made the brilliant decision of accompanying me, as you can see,” said Valerius with a sigh, massaging his temples. “Make no mistake, I trust Cecilia with the military issues at the border, but with Octavia in prison and the rest of the Patricians rushing to make some sort of decision at the Senate—”

Marcellus snorted. “They’re always pushing for a decision to be made at the Senate.” The other Consul was pouring an amber liquid into a cup, which he immediately sipped half of before settling on a chair. “And I came because this entire summit has complexities beyond just a diplomat getting caught assassinating the Emperor.”

Julian raised his head but remained on his knee, merely blinking.

Valerius leaned to the side and snatched the glass out of Marcellus’ hand, chugging it instead. The grizzled veteran looked younger than his father, but still he had always been more of a politician than a soldier, Julian had been told. “I know, Amadeus,” the praetor’s godfather grumbled with a tired sigh, placing the quickly-emptied glass on a nearby table, “I know very well what this is.”

Marcellus inclined his head. “It’s good that you know, then, Evander.” The Consul turned to Julian. “It is in my understanding that you are consorting with the enemy. What is all this engagement business I’ve heard?”

The praetor shouldn’t have been surprised, really, even though his father had barely spent a day on Imperial soil. “I signed an agreement which I thought was best in that current situation,” replied Julian, slowly. “It will not interfere with the negotiations.”

For once, it was Valerius that scolded him. “A stupid decision, Julian.”

The boy-praetor met the Consul of Romus’ eyes steadily. “I signed an agreement which I thought was best in that current situation, Your Consulship,” the Praetor of the Romulus Army repeated. “It is in my understanding that I was not given much of a choice, nor backing.”

This time, the Consul Romus winced. “Perhaps,” Valerius admitted, “that was some oversight on our parts. But a stupid decision, still.”

Julian blinked. “I had active control over the direction of the Imperial investigation,” the praetor said, “and have gained rapport with all the members of the Imperial Family as well as a willing source of information — Seraphina has surrendered important data on all of the Imperial nobles to lure me into this deal, and I have accepted and gotten much more. If milked well, this cow will help the Republic in the long-term.”

Marcellus’ gaze bore into him like a hawk. “But things have changed, Praetor.”

That, Julian couldn’t argue against.

“Yes,” the praetor agreed with his father, inclining his head further, “things have changed.”

Valerius drummed his fingers against the table. “Is she, at least, the type of person that can influence diplomatic negotiations?” the Consul asked, finally, before correcting himself: “No, more specifically, is she the type of person willing to influence diplomatic negotiations for us?”

Julian said, almost immediately: “She will not argue for us unless we offer something in return.” It was true. Seraphina was not that type of person, even after they went on that date the other day — the cakes were, true to her word, delicious; and they’d had suspiciously whimsical conversation; but their relationship had not changed: they had just gotten to know each other more.

“And we have a small amount of leverage, indeed,” the other mused. “Marcellus? What do you think? You accepted Greta’s offer, correct?”

The Consul in question shrugged.

“It was needed, to keep the Harbinger in check,” said Julian’s father, evasively. “But if you think one measly deal can keep us from the Empire declaring a war on us, you’d think wrong.” Marcellus turned to Julian. “That Princess you signed an engagement contract with likely thinks that her sister doesn’t have enough foundation to declare a war. She’s half-right.”

Valerius waved a hand. “According to what Amadeus said, his statement is correct,” the former general said, before turning to his comrade, “Be a dear and pour another cup for me, won’t you?”

Julian watched the honeyed wine trickle into the cup as the Consul of Romus sighed. Valerius’ regalia glinted on his chest — fewer than Marcellus’, but nonetheless worthy of respect. The sigil of Romus, the snarling wolf Remus — House Romanus had its brotherly counterpart, Romulus — curled itself into a ring around the other’s neck.

The boy had fond memories of that ring, from when Valerius turned into Uncle Evander and was more of a father (outside of politics) than Marcellus was. The praetor knew that the rumors circulating — that Valerius, Claudia, and Marcellus were childhood friends — were true; but he also knew how little it mattered.

Politics were politics. Friendship was friendship.

From his father’s and Valerius’ relationship, Julian knew it was best to keep it that way.

“War is a very real possibility,” conceded Marcellus with a sigh. “It would cost her quite a hefty amount of support amongst her people; and she does have an unstable amount of experience; but in terms of political foundation, the Empress is much better than she seems. She is threateningly capable.”

“However,” interjected Valerius, “negotiations are not impossible. If the Empress doesn’t want the Republic overrun with monsters, we have a chance of gaining an advantage — if the Empire gives us a concession, of course. But even then, we’d need to sacrifice. Push and pull. Carrot and stick.” The Consul’s fingers glide across the armchair in time with the rhythm of his words.

“But, if I may,” Julian said, interrupting, “what is our end goal, here? It seems like the first priority is damage control, but—”

“Not damage control,” the Consul Romus corrected. “A war cannot break out.”

Marcellus took up the mantle of communication. “Gloria is your stronghold, praetor. You have been in charge of it ever since you slew that Minotaur and earned the patrician title — you might have control over your Army, but you cannot command from afar.”

His father shook his head. “Praetor Cecilia is in charge of trade in Azareth, and has influence in Honos, but the Army of Romus is meant to uphold the current law and land. The Army of Romulus is meant to go on the offensive.”

Marcellus’ gaze bore into Julian’s. “But, sooner or later, there will be division. Dissent will be sowed — your Army will, sooner or later, have grudges against both the Patricians and the other Army for not doing their thankless work. The rift will grow over time, contributing to the overall problem of Republic-wide imbalance.”

What the Consul didn’t include was that, before, the imbalance benefited House Roma’s honor. Now, it was a threat.

“There is no solution other than a diplomatic victory,” said the praetor, a half-realization. Julian rose from his bowed position. “I understand. What are Your Consulships’ orders?”

“I hope you understand, young Marius,” Valerius said with a sigh, “there is only one route to take.”

"I do," Julian Romanus responded. The purple cape was still heavy on his shoulders.

Honor.

“What is this?” I looked at the agreement in front of me. “No,” I corrected myself, “do you think that they’ll actually sign it?”

Arathis grinned, broadly. “We don’t need them to,” the Forsaken said, deceptively lightly. “They either sign it, or take offense at it and then, boom—” he clapped his hands together “-we go to war.” The Prince’s toothy smile unsettled me, like it always did, but this time I felt the expression physically crawl up my face.

“I thought we would at least wait.” I slid the protectorate agreement across from me. “If you spark a war this early, you won’t survive the public backlash — it’s too sudden, Sister, we haven’t had proper—” I cut myself off, as my Ability noticed their faces. Ah. “Ah,” I echoed my thoughts. “You have planned. You just haven’t involved me in the process.”

Josephine shrugged. “You were in Tyche,” she said, easily. “We couldn’t necessarily do that.”

Cyrus scowled. “We should have,” admitted Zeus’ Chosen, surprisingly. “But this is what we’ve got, now.” He crossed his arms, although a bit uneasily.

It was a good strategy, I would give them that. But—

“You didn’t tell me yesterday.” I struggled to keep my lid on my emotions. “If you did, I would’ve been a bit more prepared, but I suppose there’s no use crying over spilt milk.” Yes, my Ability agreed. What’s done, is done. I drummed my fingers on the table, shrouding my face in false calm. “If they don’t sign the protectorate agreement, even though the more superficially honorable people would be happy to go to war, Mari’s Army in particular wouldn’t; since they’ve been killing monsters all this time. But how would you sow civil dissent, unless—”

“That’s right,” said Arathis, still grinning. “Sister’s readied her spies in the Republic ever since her coronation. With the military praetor away, and the other more focused on civil upkeep, it would be a matter of—”

“Don’t get overeager,” reminded Josie. “But yes, that is essentially the point. With the new weapons delivered to Boreas, it is fully militarized; letters have been written to Eurus in case Republica troops try to climb up the Draconian Peaks and ambush Cadmus through the Snakelands; Notus has accepted the request for increased border patrols; and Zephyr has already sent back the war strategies and coordinations.”

My sister was in her element, I realized — of course, not her element, but a role that she had managed to fill. All of them donned different faces, unrecognizable from the supposed warm family they’d been at dinner. I smiled.

“You’ve calculated the losses and the gains, already,” I mused, slowly. “That’s good. What role do I have to play in this, then?”

Cyrus was the one who answered. “You,” he said, “just need to help us win it.”

My Ability curled around my siblings unbade, but I could see the gleam in each and every one of their eyes even without it. They looked as alive as they’d ever been — Orion’s image didn’t cling to their visages, but all of their auras were sharp, like the blades of knives once your fingers danced on it.

What had I said?

I was going to help her change the Empire.

Gambling had been fun, but this path?

It was too late to turn back now.

Rise a Chosen of conflict and desire,

Insatiable are they, of ruin and glory,

A crown of greed encircles the head of the liar,

Witness the crumbling of Olympus’ last story.

United the Empire stands, divided they fall,

Inherit a throne forsaken by evil,

A war-banner risen, in the name of origin’s law,

A conqueror’s dream, a nightmare primeval.

Carrion torn, a surrender within reach,

Light is lost and darkness is found,

The sky shall fall, the herald shall preach:

A ruler blessed by death is crowned.

The carrier of a queen’s last wish,

An eternal dream, an eternal longing,

Bearer of knives, the reaper’s first kiss,

Six becomes nix - see the final sun dawning.

— The Harbinger's Verse, I—