The strong shake war's hand, the weak die by it.

- ANALYST DAEDALUS ICARUS

IT COULDN'T BE SAID THAT THERE HAD BEEN ABSOLUTELY NO CONTINENTAL WARS SINCE THE SKIRMISH, but it could also be said that there had been absolutely no continental wars since the Skirmish.

It was a paradox, like that, Cyrus thought to himself.

There had been a tentative peace made with the Forsaken and the Republicas during the Skirmish, composed of a tacit — but suspectedly written — agreement to ‘discreetly’ deal with the monsters at both ends and not create a war in the middle of a war. As the Republic fought to take back Notus, and their praetors and generals struggled against Angelo the Avenger, their Consuls — understandably — didn’t want to deal with Underworld monsters in the middle of it.

And after the Skirmish war progressed and ended in an Imperial victory, with the Republic drafting a treaty in favor of Notus being incorporated into Imperial territory, the discretion was noticed but ignored because, one: the Empire didn’t want to deal with the monsters; and two: they didn’t want to push the Republicas too far — cornered animals were unpredictable.

The Visavan continent weren’t the Rhianites — they didn’t love peace or relish in it; but it was necessary. Cyrus had wandered in Notus, for a while, after he’d been casted out from the Halgroves (however much he disdained fortune, it had been unbelievably lucky that the Halgroves occupied a northern territory, and it had only taken two Dayhepts to cross the Imperial border).

He joined up with a band of bandits, but, however little he used the Halgrove surname, they came still. Emblazoned with the insignia of a dying hare in a burning grove — symbolizing the light of the Republica sun burning away the false, supposedly — their liveries and spears had killed all of those Cyrus had called friend.

His former family had killed his current family.

What a fucking joke.

It really made Cyrus wonder sometimes what exactly went on in Hortensia’s head. But, of course, that wasn’t the main concern right now.

“You,” the Consul Romus said, slowly, “want us to become a protectorate. A civitates foederatae, of the Empire.”

Greta the Great inclined her head. “That is correct.”

The other Consul, the one named Marcellus — the Demon of the Battlefield, he was called — looked at not the agreement, but the Empress in appraisal. “And you believe that an entire nation becoming your protectorate,” he said, calmly, “is a worthy price to be paid for one of our own assassinating yours.”

Cyrus snorted, internally, but his face remained stoic. It was as if Greta hadn’t hired Marcellus to hire the assassin in the first place, but Zeus’ Chosen supposed that was just politics.

“It has a connection with the matter at hand, but the Empire is not demanding a price,” countered Greta, smoothly. “This is an offer independent from the current situation, in relation to the military aid that the Republic requested as their general premise for the envoy visit. This—” the current Empress gestured lightly with her chin, towards the contract “-is our solution for the presented issue.”

The private solar in which negotiations were held had been scoured by both forces for poison and other unsanitary substances before they’d started the negotiations, and smelled very heavily of honey and those disinfectant plants that Olysseus had grown back in Notus.

Josephine and Arathis had drafted the contract itself, which meant nothing good for the Republic (Cyrus had personally seen them nearly trick a Duke out of his fief by stealing his spectacles — it wasn’t a memory he wanted to revisit).

“If Your Consulships read the agreement thoroughly,” Greta said, calmly, “you may see that we will cede internal authority to the Republic and its Senate, recognizing it as an entity separate from the Imperial’s civil governance, the only protectorate element being that we will provide military aid whenever we deem it necessary. However—”

“You have control over our military,” interrupted Marcellus. “And on any relocations of substantially large forces, which means that you will have a tight leash on all our military campaigns against the monsters originating from the Dark Forest.”

It’s almost...like that’s the point. Cyrus bit back the uncharacteristically sarcastic remark — it was a fact that all the people in the room were aware of. He saw Josephine’s lips quirk into a sliver of a smile, and Arathis’ broad grin. Seraphina had looked slightly off-put, earlier, but now she was standing gracefully and with ease — yet the empty spot by the wall and between the She-Devil and the Evil-that-Transcended-Demonic-Labels was glaring.

Brother thought it was necessary to stand between them, lest the Empire burn down and take the Palace with it.

But that was a bottle best left unopened for another day.

“We will, of course, give you time to consider it,” the Empress said, sliding the papers closer towards the two Consuls. “After all, I’m sure this is a very tough decision to make. We may first move onto other matters, if that may be a better alternative…”

“Speaking of alternatives,” Valerius interjected, tilting his head, “will the Republic receive hostile retaliation if we do not sign this protectorate agreement?”

Will disagreeing spark war?

Seraphina looked amused. Arathis’ smile only grew wider, while Josephine’s eyes danced across the room. Cyrus snorted, internally — he was sure the reaction made for quite a spectacle.

Greta inclined her head. “It is very likely that the Empire will recognize the Republic as hostile forces after assassinating our predecessor, yes.”

Unless, of course, Marcellus revealed that he was hired by Greta to assassinate Nikephoros, which would one, get him socially hanged for making a deal with the Imperials; and two, get him discredited as a politician. Then, even in times of war the greedy Republica Senate would rush to topple his Consul seat completely and elect a greedier, easier-to-handle opponent — the revelation wouldn’t impact the Imperial population much (assassinations were a nasty, but common business) although it would make them wary.

The alternative to going along with this schtick would earn Marcellus a lot of enemies. Of course, Cyrus knew that his siblings planned to make him even more enemies, but that was besides the point.

Marcellus leaned back. “How will Patrician Cassia be tried? By Imperial law, she should be publicly hanged, Your Majesty.”

Greta smiled. “If Your Consulships read the agreement, there are clauses which state that she may be pardoned, under the right circumstances.” Her lips quirked upwards, lightly. “Of course, the right circumstances depend on a number of factors.”

A public hanging would, perhaps, boost morale, if only temporarily; but Seraphina would take care of that (at least, after Greta ordered her to). Cyrus’ youngest sister was surprisingly adept at agitating people — Cyrus was sure she would have no problem telling the respective public to kill people. Imperials were always too knife-happy for his taste.

Cyrus’ lips twitched, for the second time.

It was true — the Third Prince had never felt happier in his life.

What had Zeus said? Revenge will not be your salvation? It sure as Tartarus wasn’t Zeus’, but the Chosen couldn’t deny that it felt good. He would make Branch Halgrove pay for killing his blood and leaving him with nothing — and they owed a debt that could be fulfilled in more ways than one.

The original plan, before Greta revealed the whole assassination shindig after news of Orion’s death arrived (it was less of revealed, and more of Arathis blabbing), was Cyrus going to the Republic in the disguise of military aid. This? Destruction and war? Perhaps more costly, in the scheme of things, but much, much more suitable.

The Republic would not accept it.

Their so-called honor wouldn’t allow them to be under the Imperials’ thumbs.

War was very likely.

But they would make sure the Empire was ready.

The Consuls both furrowed their brows at the paper for a while.

“We will,” said Valerius, calmly, “be allowed to leave this discussion peacefully, with or without our signatures on the protectorate agreement.”

Greta’s smile turned sharp. “It does depend on the right circumstances,” she said, green eyes gleaming, “but it is a very real possibility.”

The door was within his reach. Collect, and then act.

The exile, the prince of nothing, the wielder of Zeus’ lightning grinned internally.

Even if the Fates pushed him off this path, what could they do? Make him lose everything again?

He would make revenge be his salvation - whether or not the Gods had anything to say about it.

My Ability was going haywire.

I could feel it. It wasn’t stretched too tight, or ran threadbare — it never was run ragged to the point where it became tattered — but it was bouncing off the walls that were constructed possibilities, sending the ones that couldn’t stand on their own crashing to the ground.

A war.

The timing was unexpected.

Because...it wasn’t Wise.

No — my conclusion was reinforced by my Ability. It couldn’t be wrong.

But it was.

It was.

That meant that it had been Blindsided.

But how?

A Drawback that I wasn’t aware of?

A detriment and Drawback are not the same things.

Turning it off?

Turning it off is a detriment, not a Drawback.

Blindsided?

To be Blindsided by a course of action that doesn’t follow what is Wise, it means that we can only Weave the Hints together into conclusions that follow what is Wise.

Everything slammed together like rams butting heads, human thought and rationality crashing into cogs that creaked and whirred too fast, too slow, too much yet too little. A headache gnawed at the back of my head like an insect, stinging and biting like an irritating bee, and I was tempted to pry my head open with an anvil and hack the perpetrator to pieces.

That had been how Athena was born.

Ah, yes. Something I knew.

I leaned against the pillar, an alcove or two away from the recess that had been called in the negotiations — a few good paces away from the actual gathering, quiet enough, but within screaming distance. I attached my Ability to the Tale and rested, for a while.

Metis, a descendant of the Titans Oceanus and Tethys, was Athena’s mother, alleged the one who gave Zeus the potion for Kronos to regurgitate the Olympians. The cunning trickster, the mother of wisdom — many names as they called her, but single was the fact that Zeus feared her as much as he prized her. Metis was prophesied to give birth to two children, the younger of which would overthrow the Lightning King.

The cruelty of fate came by Zeus’ hand, who tricked her into turning into a fly and swallowed her whole. However, as all self-fulfilling prophecies went, it was too little too late. Metis was already with child, and the Titaness gave birth to her while trapped in the Lightning King’s head. That was, of course, Athena.

As the Titaness made Athena’s armor and helmet while shapeshifting into a tiny presence in Zeus’ head, the hammering caused the King of the Gods immense pain — why she didn’t use it to escape, my Ability didn’t know. Myths were strange things.

Either way, Zeus was in pain. He was angry, with an extremely bad headache made from his former wife hammering away in his brain, and so he ordered Hephaestus to split his head open. The God of the Forge, with his magical tools, did so — but, after he cracked at the King of the Gods’ skull with his anvil, Athena — then born magically fully grown — crawled out of Zeus’ head.

I wasn’t quite sure I would be smote if I compared my headache to Zeus’, but I was, essentially, not in the best state.

Being Blindsided caused no physical effects, of course (other than the persisting headache) but it was an unsettling feeling. But there were more pressing matters. I shifted, and gingerly spread my Ability over the situation.

Josephine had said something important.

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.

It had been planned very, very thoroughly.

I didn’t need to ask questions.

But I wanted to.

The thing was, war was a shitty thing. I had never been in one, but it was obvious. It was a leech that drained your resources, funding, and people — arguably the three tenets of getting anything done — and all for, what? A piece of land and more people to order around. A buy-one, get-one-free deal (that was what the Merchants called it, I was pretty sure), only you couldn’t return the ‘free’ objects.

Sure, I wanted that piece of land and the power that came with it, but it was tiring. Winning a war was thankless work, and sure, it was fun; but it didn’t change the fact that it was shitty.

I didn’t need to ask questions.

“Fuck,” I mumbled, quietly. I slammed a fist against my own head, the self-inflicted pain crashing against the already-searing parasitic headache. “Fuck.” I was losing my composure. My Ability was losing its composure.

That was dangerous.

I needed my Crownboard, and I needed it soon. I settled for closing my eyes, my Ability spreading around my surroundings in the case of someone approaching, and thought.

The protectorate.

They would likely refuse it — if they didn’t, the protectorate would be more trouble than it was worth, even though Greta had already militarized the Cardinals. Subjugating a nation was easier said than done, whether violently or forcefully (the former and latter were different words, after all). Subjugating the Republic was more than that.

The Republica Roma had been an undeniable continental power for a long time. Even though, before the First Emperor, it had been — assumedly — little but a fledgling state, they were the balance. They had a mix of both Republica Anothen and Kato, creating a needed point where both cultures merged — but really, the important part was the bit where it was in between the Empire and the Union.

Control over the military, and on any relocations of substantially large forces, Marcellus had put it. That meant that the Empire would get involved with the monsters, and in turn Forsaken diplomacy.

Pieces of paper could make history, just as easily as burning them could break it.

Questions.

So many questions and not enough answers.

But had I ever hesitated before?

Consider the present.

I shoved my Ability aside, and for once, it stayed there.

If this war started, I wasn’t going to forget that I was going to play the Game my way. Not my Ability’s way, not Athena’s way, and perhaps not even Greta’s way.

Power is a means, not an end.

Change is propelled by ideals — If you’re going to change the world, you have to know what you’re going to change it into.

I relaxed, the headache still pounding in my ears, and I peeled myself out of the alcove.

What did I want to change the world into?

Alexandros was not happy.

You could argue that he was never happy, but then again, most days, money satisfied him enough that he didn’t need to be happy.

But, at this moment, he was not happy.

“Rosalie,” he said with a sigh, “what did I tell you to do?”

“Not burn the anti-Imp headquarters down.”

“And what did you do?”

Rosalie pouted, sullenly. “Burn the anti-Imp headquarters down.” A silence, before she protested, “But Boss already burned the place down in the first place! I just burned all the people that tried to recover the work documents — it’s not the same thing, Xandros!”

“It’s the principle of it, Rosalie,” Alexandros said with a sigh. “You’re in charge of information, not the killing. Boss is in charge of the killing, or me, or Leo after we’ve gotten approval from Sir Macedon. If I let you get off the leash once, you’ll be killing the beggars under your leadership willy-nilly, and you’ll be endangering all of us by going rogue.”

Rosalie pouted, again, dragging her feet childishly across the carpet. After observing no reaction, she conceded. “Fine,” she grudgingly accepted. “I won’t do it again. Gods, Xandros, where’s your sense of fun?”

“Fun doesn’t get you wages,” lectured the other. He sighed again, leaning back in the small Emerald Seas room that had been allocated to him while drumming his fingers on the table. “But, either way, give me your status report, Rosalie.”

Rosalie made a noise of annoyance, but complied. “The remnants of the Verdant Eyes have been dealt with,” she answered. “Of course, that doesn’t mean they’re fully, fully dealt with; but other organizations are larger priorities at the moment. Although the Eck dealers have backed off the EmSeas—” the nickname was pronounced with Rosalie’s rough drawl, like the initials ‘M.C.’ “—they’re still sources of funding for the Motley.”

She made a face.

“All of the anti-Imps are eyeing the fancy guys from the Republic, but the Palace is pretty airtight. Guards everywhere, blindies are useless since they’re too spaced apart, and all the Servants aren’t allowed to leave the Palace. Apparently, the Guards have been shooting down birdies, too.” Rosalie lapsed back into infiltrator speech, but Xandros didn’t correct her, merely continuing to drum his fingers against the table.

Leonidas, who had been silent the entire time, spoke up. “So they likely won’t be successful in getting in. That’s good, but, Xandros — we don’t even know why we’re doing this. We’ve been told shit but nothing, and we don’t know what we’re working for—”

Xandros interrupted. “Traitors?”

Leo nodded, grimly. “Yeah, one or two. Dealt with them, of course, but loyalty’s scarce these days.” Gone was the scaredy-cat Leo, Alexandros mused to himself.

Still, he arched an eyebrow. “It always is, Leo,” he said with a sigh.

The past Dayhepts had felt almost surreal, being plucked out of the miserable existence that was being a Guard initiate and becoming a leader of a crime ring. At least, Xandros was pretty sure that was what you called it. A crime ring. He almost snorted. It was the stereotypical fate of a street rat, and he’d hated he was condemned to only one future, but it was surprisingly fitting.

He got paid more than he did back then, so that was a bonus.

Alexandros propped his head on his hands. “Keep surveying them — place as many people as possible near all of their hideouts without giving away the plan. We only have to stop them from making any big moves, but that’s it. No killing, no burning, no nothing without my express permission.” And then he’d have to ask Sir Mace or Lady Mercy for actual permission, but that was besides the point.

He eyed Rosalie warningly, but turned to Leo. “Have you paid them yet?” he questioned his friend. Them was of course referring to both the other orphans they’d gathered, and the beggars.

Leo shook his head. “It’s not a problem of money, Xandros.”

If it wasn’t money, then it was pride.

“Do they need a speech or ‘sumting?” Ah, his accent was back again. It always came from underneath its smooth mask at the most random times.

“Let’s walk,” said Leo, firmly.

Alexandros raised an eyebrow again.

The other remained firm.

Xandros sighed. “Alright,” he surrendered. “Rosalie, be sure to follow my orders. You’re dismissed, I guess.” The current Seraph stuffed his hands in his pockets, while nodding towards his friend. “Let’s go.”

______________________________________________________________________________

There was death everywhere. Like always.

The sun was high in the sky like an executioner’s knife, hanging above the dark and grimy depths of the Lower Quarter as it threatened to descend on people’s necks. Wealth was an invisible boot on people’s necks, here; children didn’t run or play, instead stalking and thieving for their day’s rations. It was despicable, it was grotesque, and it was, most certainly, Alexandros’ home.

Leo led him around the back of the Emerald Seas, and towards the corpses.

Xandros blinked. “Who’re they?” Their faces were too badly mutilated to tell their identities, blood seeping from crevices and ugly gashes like a human appetizer slathered in scarlet sauce.

“Aria and Nora.”

The orphans he brought in a couple days ago. Why—

“The Motley got them,” Leo explained, quietly.

Ah.

“I don’t think we’re doing the right thing, Xandros. We’re working for the very Crown that abandoned us,” he continued, eyes undecipherable. "The very kingdom, the very hierarchy that left us out to rot in the blood and the murk."

Xandros tilted his head. “Even in the Guard, we were. If we don’t do something, we still are.” He shook his head. “Get some drachmas, Leo. We owe them a burial.”

This was a chance, either way.

And Alexandros was going to take it.

It was recess, and diplomatic shit was boring. Josephine wanted to yawn, but she was pretty sure it would be diplomatically insulting. “Ara,” she whispered quietly to her brother. “This sucks. Can’t they just fucking say no, we won’t sign your damn protectorate, and get it over with?”

Ara shrugged. “I have an idea, though,” he said, excitedly. “I know where Greta keeps her Stygian metal weapons she confiscated from Cyrus—”

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking,” Josephine guessed.

"Of course."

The two sneaked off.

We started again, after the recess. Arathis and Josephine came later, with mischievous expressions on their faces, Cyrus grunting at the sight and mouthing, You better keep an eye on them.

I, of course, mouthed back, Why me?

Cyrus glared at me warningly. Because, he mouthed.

Because what?

And then Greta glared at us to stop, and we did.

The solar we were in reeked of sweet herbs — but none of them were poisonous, I checked — and was decorated austerely, stark violet drapes streaked with gold hanging alongside tasteful murals that depicted the might of the past Emperors. It could’ve been an intimidation tactic, the suspicion of poison and the threatening history, but it was nice architecture, at least.

An open-air atrium branched off the gallery, twisting silver spirals bordering the small pavilion it housed — pretty, but also the cause of the many insects visiting the room itself.

Ah. Now that I thought about it, the herbs were probably some pesticides, based on how the dragonflies wobbled drunkenly on their legs before falling to the floor. Before the recess and after the more important bits of the discussion, Arathis and I had engaged in a small game, competing on who could flick the most dragonfly corpses in Cyrus’ hair.

Cyrus was not amused.

It was probably why he’d asked me to keep a watch on Arathis.

Of course, I hadn’t spent the entire time “fucking around” (you could guess who the accusation belong to).

There had been no progress on either front, although that wasn’t to undermine Greta’s capabilities. She was like a metaphorical spear being brandished at a rock — two very stubborn rocks.

If I was right, I did agree that there was some point in this, even if it was all for show. It was best not to agitate the Republica’s sense of honor too soon into the conflict (even though the conflict hadn’t even started).

But still, I kept an eye on my brother.

Which was just as well, since while the dear Consuls (and Julian, but Julian was just sitting there, stony-faced) were going on and on about the importance of militarization, Arathis reached into his shirt. My Ability sprang to life, and I got immediately out of my seat, trying to grab his hand unsuccessfully.

I managed to smack his wrist, however, and that was likely the part that counted — as my brother, the Fifth Prince, shot his (stolen) Stygian metal pistol at the two leaders of a continental power, his trajectory was ever-so-off.

The damage was still done.

Now that I thought more about it, that incident was probably the bit that started the entire war.

I was born with a bleeding heart;

It tears at the seams and falls apart;

It stains my hands with flowering red—

Perhaps a belonging of a fool who dreads

The time — morning come — when they once again tread

A road that leads to a kingdom of red,

As they threaten to fall apart,

For again, for they were born with a heart.

I met many who spit at my hand, and

Many who curse that still I stand,

For I am not a broken king,

I cannot promise riches and rings—

I am simply a fool with a bleeding heart,

A fool who can do nothing but fall apart, yet

Morning come, I once again dread, that I have no choice but to tread

A road that leads to a kingdom of red.

They say: ‘take heart,’ as I stand alone—

But I would, any day, offer my own.

- Take Heart, Bleeding Heart, a poem by Author Unknown