In war, choosing not to choose is a damning choice.

- ANGELO THE AVENGER, WAR HERO

I WAS SUPPOSED TO FEEL REGRET FOR THE SUFFERING I'D CAUSED.

I didn't.

I used my teeth to sever the thread I’d been stitching up the gaping wound with. “Don’t move too much, or wet the wound — no straining it, either,” I warned the soldier.

“Thanks, fixy,” he said.

I raised my eyebrow. “Fixy?”

“Fixer-upper,” the soldier provided, smiling. He winced as he wriggled his way to propping himself up. “We know our fixies aren’t all that great, but you’re probably one the Duke brought along, so you’re the most impressive out of all of them.” He grinned. His armor was flecked with scarlet, but I’d already peeled the bloody layers off the wound.

I smiled, amusedly. “You flatter me,” I responded dryly, before finishing off cleaning the tools.

The grizzled soldier was about to creak his mouth open again when the explosion happened.

It was a strange sound, the explosion — but it was strange in the way that it was what it shouldn’t be. I had been expecting it, the penultimate moment when the battle was won or lost, but the explosion itself ricocheted throughout the expanse with a brutal — there was no way to describe it — plundering of the ears.

I would’ve flinched if I hadn’t retained at least some semblance of control over my movements. The makeshift tent’s fabrics billowed, the structure emitting a concerning creaking sound, as the sound screamed.

Immediately, the soldier’s hands went to his ears. Even Mercy flinched, and the nearby Physician tripped. The silence that followed was one full of brimmering tension, as all of the people in the media tent mentally processed the situation, some calculating the losses, but all recovering from their respective winces.

“Damn,” the soldier muttered under his breath. “Sounds like a fucking bastard.”

I inclined my head, silently, before my Ability pricked. I met Mercy’s eyes, and darted my gaze towards the entrance, pointedly. It wasn’t long before distant yells came, and a frantic combat assistant burst in the tent, carrying a ragged stretcher with an even more ragged person occupying it.

Blood poured from their forehead, webbing the left side of their face like a grotesque honeycomb, ash and soot dappling their neck and exposed skin — I could feel the entire tent collectively take in a breath. Petra grinned, shakily from their stretcher, before I stood up from my seat and helped heave the Ducal Lord from their stretcher to an awaiting mattress.

The Diamandis bastard was in bad shape.

That, I knew.

I immediately wet a cotton rag in a nearby pail and let the water seep into the burns as Petra hissed breathily in pain.

“First we need to cool it, probably,” I murmured to the Physician who’d hurried next to me, glancing over the Ducal Lord’s arm. “Looks bad. I need to sanitize my hands, I just finished stitches…”

“We’ll need all hands on deck,” he agreed, but his hands immediately went to his neck. “But it would be more convenient if you ran point,” the Physician added, after a moment of hesitation. I would be less likely to be executed if I fucked it up, he meant.

“Fair enough,” I gave him. Naxy came later, unblemished, along with badly hurt generals that I frowned irritatedly at. “Reckless,” I muttered underneath my breath, sinking my hands in a newly-fetched pail of water. “I told them it was a reckless plan.” I hadn’t, really; but it was nice to imagine.

Soaking a cotton rag in the liquid again, I opted to shove Petra’s entire arm in the pail instead, placing the rag on their neck. “Linament,” I said. The bowl of lime water and oil was placed promptly in my hand by the ready Physician, and I poured it over the charred wounds.

What next? It had been a while since I’d practiced — since most of my medical knowledge fairly technical — but there were times where the Poisonmaster had made me treat wounds alongside the Imperial Physician. To them, it had assumedly been just a phase. For me, it was a tool I had added to my arsenal that would need re-sharpening.

“Heated knife.”

Disinfected of the supposed ‘dirt’ that contaminated most surfaces, the blade was ready, soaked in alcohol before being handed to me. Gingerly hacking at the charred bits, I heard Naxy whistle appreciatively. “You know what you’re doing, spider-in-training.”

I ignored him as I descaled the dead skin.

Underneath, there was little but bloody surface. “Alcohol.” The jug was placed in my hand. Brandy was poured over the raw scarlet, and Petra howled in pain. “Easy there,” I whispered, not benevolently. Disinfection, my Ability whispered, back again after flickering in the back of my mind.

I started with the knife on their neck, going through the same process of removing the dead charred skin. The treatment was done soon after— I tried to be efficient, my eyes flickering every now and then to the dying soldiers at the corner of my eye. After finishing and passing on bandage duty to the other Physician, I moved on to the other bodies, frowning as Naxy peered over my shoulder.

“How many?” I asked, quietly, attaching my Ability to my hands. Casualties.

“Haven’t counted,” he replied, briskly, without making me provide context.

“Other general?”

“Injured badly — he’ll be carried here, soon.”

My Ability pricked. “Yeah,” I said. “He’ll be here soon.” My hands moved nimbly over the tools, almost on reflex, as the thread remained steady and another stretcher was ushered into the tent. I didn’t look, but Anaxeres’ voice was swift.

“Ability?” he murmured.

I inclined my head slightly. The woman’s severe injuries were attended to as quickly as I could, and I turned to the general. He seemed of centurion rank — which was to be expected, given that he led the cohort. Based on my knowledge of Republica military ranks, each cohort was made of six centuriae, and the most experienced centurion headed the cohort.

Ten cohorts make up an Army, and two Armies make up the entire Legion — “First cohort of the Romulus Army,” I noted as I started stripping the centurion’s armor. The wolf insignia’s snout shape resembled the one on my Mari’s chest. “Not too shabby, I suppose — the rest of them must’ve been busy, then, on the other front. Having only one cohort on standby, without a praetor as leader, must’ve been a rushed call.”

“Marcellus Amadeus never makes rushed calls,” said Naxy’s voice from behind me.

I smiled, even though the Duke couldn’t see me. “Well, then, that’s for you to figure out, Naxy.”

I could see the centurion’s groggy eyelids rise. “What— wha— Imperials!” He jolted, and I chuckled, leaning forward to dampen his burns.

“What’s your name, dear?” I crooned, making my voice as unthreatening as possible.

“I—”

I picked up a knife and held his arm tight — he resisted with surprising strength, but I managed to clear the rest of them. He was worse than Petra, unsurprisingly, but given the greatest possibility was that he’d been closer to the site when his forces were forced back, it was reasonable. “Stay still, or I’ll accidentally cut your hand off—”

“I have been trained to resist against Imperial torture—”

I tried not to let the irritation leak through my tone. “Just stay still—”

“The Respublica Roma is full of honor, unlike you dirty, treacherous hounds—”

“You’re making me want to cut your hand off, you idiot,” I wanted to say. I kept my mouth shut — at least, until I was halfway through the bandages, and he bit down on something invisible and went limp.

Concern would’ve sparked in my heart, if my Ability hadn’t fired its pistol first.

I just smiled, amusedly.

“If you’re going to pretend to be dead,” I said, “do it well, at least.”

At least he didn’t complain about my bedside manner.

Marianus Gaius Cassia wanted to punch someone, and he wanted to punch someone now.

He preferably wanted to slug the combat nurse — her position was likely higher, maybe a treasured Physician of the gambler Duke’s? — who’d caught onto his scheme. Because of the Hero blood that ran through his Branch’s veins, he could’ve held his breath for the better half of an hour, by which he could’ve escaped being buried alive via pretending to be a corpse, but—

“How?” he demanded. “How did you know?”

The nurse smiled, toothily. She was young — she couldn’t be more than eighteen — but something about her was familiar. Strange.

“What matters is that I know,” she said, lightly, “primus pilus. I would’ve expected a slightly warmer welcome, perhaps by the Praetor of your Army himself, but of course, we can’t always get what we want. My Marius is probably too busy arranging marches.”

Marianus scoffed. “Your Marius? Don’t taint our leader’s name with your rotten mouth—”

“Your cohort’s hastatus posterior is dead,” she returned, simply. “So is your hastatus prior, princeps posterior, princeps prior, pilus posterior, and your pilus prior.” She named the centurion’s seniority titles in startingly fluent Republica.

Marianus almost flinched.

“You don’t trust yourself not to crack, so you run.” Her blue eyes glinted. “You call us treacherous? You are a cowardly traitor, primus pilus Marianus Gaius Cassia.” She was halfway through the bandages now, her porcelain touch digging deep into his skin with her sharp words.

“So what if I am?” Marianus bit. “I am not my mother—”

“Ah, ah.” The nurse’s lips curled into a wider, almost triumphant grin. “I never said you were.”

“Don’t tease the man, spider-in-training,” said the Duke, from behind her. His face was deceptively pleasant, features broad and welcoming but the fact that Marianus could not find a single bloodstain or soot smear on the Imperial noble’s person made the centurion sneer.

“You both ran away from the actual war,” the centurion accused, but pain gnawed at his burnt arms. “None of you saw what happened—”

“What happened,” the Duke — of Evimeria, Marianus remembered; the Imperials had a strange assortment of fief and surname titles that the centurion had a hard time keeping track of — said, “was that we won. You lost the first victory of this war to us. You failed.” The broad man’s affable aura didn’t even change as the words hammered into Marianus’ chest.

The weight of the casualties did, in fact, weigh heavy on the general’s heart; but—

“You are worse,” the primus pilus snarled. “We fight for our land, and the wolves that founded it. We fight to defend our honor, since you all fight to take it.” That was why he fought — even if Marianus did recognize that the Republic needed change; the Imperials weren’t going to be the ones who were going to bring it.

No- he would not stand for-

“Selfish,” the nurse drawled. Her dark hair trailed over her face as it was, tied into a messy knot that reminded Marianus of the hairstyles that girls back home like to frequently don - with that realization, irritation flashed in his eyes.

“I am not selfish—”

Collect your breath, Gaius.

Marianus was reminded of a statuesque praetor on his pale horse, the rider’s dark hair glinting in the sun as blood splattered the animal’s hooves. Quiet, uncharacteristically soft, but—

You will not fail me, Centurion Cassia.

You will not betray our honor.

That was what Marius — no, Praetor Julian Marius Romanus, the Minotaur-Slayer, of the Romulus Army — taught Marianus. The praetor cast a long shadow, and the centurion knew that forever he would be chasing it, but he would not let the Empire’s cronies get into his head. Adopting the boy-praetor’s expression, Marianus cooled his features.

“I will not talk,” the centurion said. But something prevented him — perhaps cowardice, akin to a deep-rooted fear — from biting off his tongue.

“You are selfish,” the nurse drawled, again, “for not providing your country the help it needs.”

Marianus forced himself to remain calm. What right have you, to designate our motherland as in need of help?

As if she’d heard the unspoken statement, the nurse’s tone became unnoticeably gentler, although her features remained unperturbed. “No force can remain unmoving throughout the sandstorm of time,” she continued, quietly. “Only the Gods make it a sin, to remain unchanging.”

The Imperial Duke spoke, again. “We’ll take care of it, Your Highness.” This time, his tone was different, firm, and the — nurse? — gave a small nod.

Now, Marianus placed her face. The Sixth Princess, apparently the most publicly benevolent of the — now five — six.

“Aren’t you supposed to be mourning your brother?” the centurion spat.

She indicted my mother—

Seraphina Queenscage’s pleasant smile didn’t even thin. “It’s old news, now — farewell, primus pilus Gaius Marianus. Ave — or ha-ve, which ever you’d like.” After performing a sloppy salute — arm parallel to the ground in the ancient tradition — the Hundredth Victor left the Republica centurion, bandaged and broken.

The battlefield was bloody, as expected. Bodies were strewn across the site, blackened and burnt — if they had been marching towards the site, it would’ve been— “Wait.” I tilted my head, echoing my Ability. “They used the ballistae to set them off?”

Alexandros hesitated. “Yeah, I heard they did, Boss,” he replied. “I wasn’t there, of course — you told me to go somewhere else but—” Once he heard my silence, he rubbed his hands together, uncharacteristically nervous.

"Yeah," he repeated, "from what I’ve got, they weren’t succeeding in pushing as hard as they needed to, since the ‘Pubs were stubborn; so Petra gave the order to launch the ballistae from afar and got caught in the crossfire along with the other leader."

I shook my head. “The casualties won’t make people happy,” I murmured, half-heartedly. “People tend to resent pyrrhic victories.” It did explain the Ducal Lord’s injuries, though. It solidified the conclusion further that these people — these nobles — were playing a Game within a game, a war between a war.

Reckless. Batshit insane. A Tartarus-be-damned tactic.

It fit Petra’s unpredictable character.

That wasn’t good — a competent unpredictable person becoming predictable was never a good sign.

But the fact was undeniable — it was a victory.

Xandros hesitated. “But from what I’ve heard, Boss, the people seem pretty alright.” After a silence, he offered, “If there’s resistance, do you need me to go quash it like I did the capital anti-Imps? I’m short on people, but I can make something work—”

I shook my head again. “This isn’t the Eternal City, Xandros,” I replied. “We have to get authorization for operations here. Besides, there’s a lot of things — messy things — that we need to clean up.” I gazed at the formerly flat plain, now all carnage and smoulders.

Alexandros shifted behind me.

And shifted again.

“Let me have my moment of brooding in peace, won’t you?” I asked him tiredly, with a sigh. “Where’s Mercy? Still doing the task I asked her to do?”

“Lady Mercy’s doing stuff in the city, yeah.”

“Damn.” I turned. “Where’s Naxy?”

“Duke Anaxeres? He’s with the corpse collectors.” The boy gestured towards the plain below.

I looked at my boots. “The Universe has formed me the very nasty fate,” I muttered underneath my breath, “of habitually needing to step in blood.”

Blood stained, after all.

I approached one of the arguably most powerful people in the Empire arguing over a dead body.

“What do you mean, you’re going to toss the head?” Anaxeres Evimeria threw his hands up in the air. “It’s a perfectly good skull!” He pointed at the skull in question. “Look at its noble crevices! Besides, it belonged to one of my friend’s friends! A Tartarus-be-damned Notian chancellor! It would be disrespectful to bury a—”

“Look, buddy, if you don’t want me to toss the head, all you need to do is—”

“I’ll pay you for your trouble,” I interjected, passing by Anaxeres while flipping a drachma to the corpse-collector.

“Well—”

“Give me the skull, or it’ll be yours being returned to your family.”

The corpse-collector handed over the skull.

I handed it to Xandros. “Well, you look in bad shape,” I commented, conversationally. “I was going to ask you for permission to clean up morale, but now I just feel bad bothering someone who looks like they’re a dead man walking.” It hadn’t been obvious back in the tent, but Naxy’s pleasant smile had dimmed, just a bit, to the point where it started to look forced.

A gambler exhausting his poker face? An unpredictable person becoming predictable?

Strange. Due to my lack of using my Ability — its conclusions were unreliable, so it was probably for the best — I could feel something was going on, but I couldn’t put it into exact words.

Anaxeres grinned. “I can’t be that bad,” he protested as he sat on a small hill.

“Careful, I’m pretty sure those are someone’s bones,” I warned as I sat next to him on a slightly less soot-and-blood-stained patch of the ground. I stretched, and let the silence linger before I asked what I wanted to know. “You used the ballisate?” I asked, mildly.

“Yes, I did.” Naxy tilted his head. “Or, more specifically, Petra did. But we were both thinking the same thing, so it doesn’t matter.” The Duke shrugged. “It was a risk, I’ll give you that; but what matters is that we achieved a victory — no more, no less; and I won’t take any backtalk on that subject, spider-in-training.” His tone was light, but I knew he meant it.

I waved off the threat. “I’m not going to get on your case — I have nothing to gain from playing peacekeeper.” I really don’t. I studied him. “You’re going to ask something.” I Read the anticipation in his face. “Ask away, Naxy.”

The Duke smiled. “How did you know?” he asked, tone turning serious but affable features unmoving. “You knew when the centurion was going to enter the tent — naturally, by either instinct or reflex. That means that your Ability functions like a network, not just a prediction or memory tool like at first glance. A sixth sense.”

Anaxeres shook his head, smiling to himself. “See, the word itself seems so innocuous — your character, in itself, seems so innocuous. A child, playing at being a strategist with a halfling Ability and a shit ton of luck — that’s what so many people consider you as.” The gambler’s eyes glinted, dangerously. “Petra’s always had an eye for talent, but I think they’re off the mark this time.”

I remained silent, continuing to grin.

“I see myself in you,” said Naxy. “That might sound arrogant of me, given that we’re only a few years apart, but you are fit for something — a role — I can’t pinpoint. It’s not potential, or anything mystically vague like destiny, but you have something. Your siblings have it, too — they all have something people can’t see, and—” The Duke halted, a sardonic tinge to his expression this time.

“I see something worth betting on,” the gambler said, simply. “It sounds creepy, when I say it like that, but Greta, this entire debacle—” Anaxeres Evimeria waved his hand around “—it might be worth going all-in for. I’m not sure. I’ve never seen anything worth the risk, and Petra hasn’t either, but…”

“All-in’s a strange word,” I mused.

Anaxeres gave a small nod. “Yes, it is. Greta — Her Imperial Majesty — has that talent, of being that horse you know will pull-through; that card you know stands a fighting chance.” He paused. “After this battle, this ‘all-in’...it’s become real, for me. I’m sure Greta’s camp felt that urge to back her up.”

The urge to bet a kingdom on a single Empress.

“My sister is something,” I agreed.

My Lord in Oath. She makes you want to bet on her — yes, that was the turn of phrase.

“I want to see the finish line,” Naxy said, turning to me. The friendly twinkle in his eyes was gone, as if it’d never existed in the first place, as he asked a question (one that I’d been asking myself, really): “Will you be the dark horse that competes against her, or will you be waiting at the end?”

In a way, I’d answered that question long ago.

In a way, I hadn’t.

“I don’t know,” I answered, honestly, gazing at the crimson plains that occupied the war. The blood spilt held the promise of better, more — a new horizon, but years and years of toil that needed the sacrifice of more. Back then, I had perhaps known what I was getting into, but I hadn’t at the same time.

“But,” I said, meeting the Imperial Spymaster’s eyes, “I never enter races I cannot win.”

That day, victory had tasted like moustalevria — sweet on my tongue, yet tangy.

Maybe this time, I would just need to find it somewhere else.

Anaxeres ended up allowing me to regulate morale, and I, of course, already had a plan.

“Xandros,” I said to my minion, “do you know how to sing?”

Alexandros blinked. “Excuse me—?”

“You’re excused. Mercy, hand me the papers on Marianus,” I called. “Before I visit my dear centurion, I need to teach Xandros how to sing— ah, and also, I need to write a letter to my Mari — wait, are you a soprano or an alto? Xandros? I mean, it doesn’t matter; as long as you can sing well, I guess—”

“Boss,” he cut in, “what exactly do you want me to do?” He looked genuinely anxious, a contrasting image with his formerly — or perhaps still currently — mistrusting self.

“I’m going to make up a song,” I explained, “and you’re going to sing it.”

“Wait—”

I technically made up the words and collaborated with Xandros on the lyrics.

“The battle of ends and beginnings, where the Gods collect their winnings— and we...what rhymes with glory? Story? Gory?” Xandros asked, folding his fingers at the possibilities. He looked hesitant, before he asked, “Lady Mercy came back with the papers about the thing you asked her to look up.” He opened the satchel and handed over the papers in question to me, and I took them.

“Why don’t you hire a bard to help you compose? Pay them to spread it among the taverns? Strike up a merrymaking atmosphere?” I said, rubbing my eyes before starting to skim the information. It confirmed most of the information in Anaxeres’ reports, as well as some...intriguing personal tidbits.

“You can hire bards?” the other asked.

“That’s not the point—” I cut myself off. “We’re here at the tent, alright? And I don’t need you for this— I’ll expect you to have made headway by the end of today.”

Xandros saluted. “Yes, Boss.”

I ducked under the beige fabrics of the medical tent, leaving my minion behind.

Instantly I was hit with the smell of iron, exposed metal mingling in air— injured soldiers were making bawdy jokes and wincing after letting out guttural laughs; while the Physician was scuttling around holding dried herbs in his hands and wincing after hearing the punchlines.

My target — the centurion — was glaring at his surroundings, surrounded by a circle of tired, annoyed guards. I laughed as I approached the occupied straw mattress, fruit basket in my hand.

“Did he try to escape?” I questioned a nearby guard, smiling at Marianus as I stuffed the papers underneath the basket cover and pulled out an apple (the fruits were, of course, carefully arranged amidst coins).. Passing apples and pears amongst Petra’s soldiers, I chomped into one.

The guard accepted the fruit and replied while biting into it. “I’m pretty sure he’s planning something, Your Highness,” he said. “He keeps muttering in Republica about ‘Imperial traitors’ and how he could easily ‘snap our necks’ after he’s healed — as if we can’t understand.” The guard’s words, spoken in Republica, were accompanied by a chuckle and a glare from the centurion.

I snorted. “Seems a lot like him,” I admitted. The apple tasted surprisingly fresh, but the seeds’ ridges bothered me — I couldn’t bother Aeron to peel the fruit, this time; so I swallowed it anyway. I offered the bitten apple to Marianus — newly chained to the first guard’s wrist — and dodged as the centurion’s spittle spilled from his lips.

I continued eating the red fruit, unperturbed.

“Do you mind if I talk to him?” I asked the guards, smiling while discreetly pulling a coin from the basket. “Of course, everything would be strictly private— would you all particularly care?” I twirled the drachma between my fingers — not pointedly, before I leaned in and used sleight of hand to pull the coin from the guard’s ear. I then slipped the disc in my pocket before flinging a pear at Marianus.

The centurion-taken-prisoner scowled at the thrown fruit.

The guards grinned. “Of course, Your Highness,” they chorused in unison.

I winked.

Marianus was still scowling.

I sat down in front of him, leaning forward in a range where I could dodge spittle with ease. Slipping a blade into my hand, I started slicing the fruit into halves.

“You killed a Branch Head, a member of the Senate, when you turned seventeen, because your mother told you to — you’re a bastard, so that was your rite of passage into becoming a legitimate member of Branch Cassia, correct? It was then, and only then, Alberta redirected the Branch’s resources into helping you win the seat of centurion of the First Cohort, primus pilus.”

I popped a slice in my mouth.

“Are you not sick?” I asked nonchalantly, voice low. “Sick of your country? Sick of your people? Sick of this world, that denies you your pride? Your worth?”

A bastard-born, of all people, would know how it was — a bastard-born that managed to climb his way up his ranks, even more. Marianus was like my half-brother, albeit without the personal connection — that personal connection, really, was why I’d sent Lazarus to take over Inevita. Out of sight, out of mind; but not out of use. Emotions were strings to be pulled — nothing more.

Marianus paused, just long enough for a flash of triumph to tug at my lips. “You’re trying to get into my head, Imperial,” hissed the centurion. “I refuse—”

“You can only refuse,” I contradicted, lightly, “when you acknowledge the possibility of accepting.” I smiled. “Apple?” I offered my now-finished core.

He spat at it seconds after I threw it at him.

“Will you be a left-over forever, centurion?” I asked, casually, letting him watch the apple roll to his feet. “Standing against change, alone in your stubbornness, damning yourself to rigidity? Those old rules bind you, Gaius — and you choose to remain chained.” I reached into my basket.

Marianus’ face was broad, like Anaxeres’, but something in him reminded me of Julian. But I could Read the centurion, Read his hesitation, Read his abilities, ardor, and admitted capability on the battlefield. My fiance’s chains were more material — that praetorian purple cloak, his father, his mother, his Army.

But Marianus?

The world had failed him, and it shackled him still, like it did me— like it did all of us, really. Those were the invisible, unbreakable chains that hung on his frame, chains that he did not choose to bear. Of course, there were burdens that the centurion had chosen to shoulder, as well—

I was monologuing.

“I will not lie,” I continued. “Unshackling you is a long and arduous task that I do not care to participate in — after all, true liberation is a lie. True freedom is a lie.” I let my lips curl. “Death is the only release, dearest Gaius — humans are empty puppets, driven by their own selfish desires and greed— taking, but never giving. You can never, truly free yourself from the world and its hands.” I might not fully believe what I was saying, and I did sound a bit preachy, but...

“Cynic,” he spat. “Defeatist.” But they rung empty, just a bit more hollow than he’d liked, and we both knew the other noticed.

I inclined my head. “Perhaps,” I admitted, before tilting my head. “The question is, though, Gaius — regardless of the burdens you bear, will you move forward, or stay in place?” I let my fingers unravel over the object in my hand. This particular one was a vibrant scarlet, a crimson that shone even through the fabric roof of the medical tent. Luscious, irresistible.

I smiled.

“Apple?” I offered the centurion, again.