Leges humanae nascuntur, vivunt, et moriuntur.

The laws of man are to be born, to live, and to die.

- REPUBLICA PROVERB

Envinco | Conquer

overcome, subdue, vanquish, conquer

A Day After the Battle of Ends

Honos, the Republic Roma

Julian Marius Romanus slew a Minotaur at sixteen.

It was all anyone could talk about, when he arrived home three years ago.

Medals weighed heavy on his chest as he grasped people’s hands and forced his lips to quirk, returning home to false smiles and praises. It was then that he’d been bestowed the praetorian cape, working his way from primus pilus to the position he’d coveted for so long. All Julian had remembered, when he came home, was that look on Claudia’s face when she opened the door.

As if her eyes hadn’t been given time to process the situation, she’d croaked out a hoarse “Amadeus?”

The faint sense of pride that had been kindling in his chest disappeared, at that point. The medal he had been cradling behind his back to show to his mother was quickly hidden, shoved into a stray pocket out of sight.

He was not his father, damn her—

No. It wasn’t his mother’s fault.

He stretched a forced smile across his face. “No,” answered Julian. “It’s me, mother — I’m praetor, now.”

That glitter in her eye resembling hope disappeared, at last, and Claudia Hadrianus blinked. “Oh. Right. Marius, you’re home?”

His mother wasn’t perfect. That, Julian knew.

Sometimes she felt more like fragments than person, more pieces than whole. That dreamy look in her eyes as she stared out the window, sometimes forgetting the task at hand — when he was younger, he’d had to rescue more than a feral watering can from her at times — but she never lashed out enough to be named ‘insane’ by society, so her rapidly changing moods were passed off as just a part of her personality.

Of course, it wasn’t.

“There were two twins, born from a mother,” Claudia had told him once, when he was young. The founding of the Republic. “Born from Mars and a mortal, they were abandoned at the waters of a river — now long gone, I’m sure — and saved by the patron God of that river in an act of generosity.” She cleared her throat, stopping stroking his hair in the process.

“As others guided their journey, they were found by a wolf mother, who gave them milk for a while. Eventually, they were taken in by a farmer — but, no matter their origins, they rose above their circumstances and became prominent leaders.” They then got involved into a dispute with their grandfather and the king, she didn’t mention.

You must always keep your promises. They are your honor, Marius, Claudia liked to say.

Julian made a promise to his people, the day he took on the praetorian mantle. He made a promise to himself, the day he slew the Minotaur. He made a promise to the world, the day he realized he wanted — needed — to be in it.

His pride was his honor, his honor was his pride. His loyalty was his prestige, his prestige came with loyalty.

Of course, Julian long knew that you could break your promises; and the reason behind Claudia’s insistence that he kept them was the event that had severed his parents’ relationship forever (it was a dark matter — Claudia was kidnapped and tortured by a rogue, anti-Republic unit; and while Marcellus had promised to get her out as soon as possible, she was stuck there for the better half of a Daycycle).

Julian’s mother — or rather, her mind — had never quite come out of that incident in one piece.

“Sir,” a timid voice broke his train of thought. “There’s a letter for you.”

It had been but a Dayend since what the Imperials called ‘the Battle of Ends’ had occurred. During that Dayend, after he’d returned to Honos, Julian had been busy going through every tactic in his head while both receiving and giving orders. The First Cohort of the Romulus Army had been stationed at the border due to Marcellus’ orders — Julian hadn’t been informed since he’d been part of the envoy in the Empire during escalating hostilities; which meant that he was well behind.

He’d never liked being behind.

“Letter?” the boy-praetor raised his eyebrows. “Where from?”

The legionary — a centurion of the Second Cohort, capable enough, named Augusta — twisted her lips. “It says,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation, “it’s from your fiancee.”

Julian blinked. “Leave it on the table on your way out,” the praetor ordered, sighing internally. It was likely a taunt, directed towards both Julian himself and the Republic. Knowing Seraphina, there was probably some kind of trick, a catch, or a snake of a deal inside the letter’s contents — if it was from Seraphina at all, he thought.

Augusta hesitated, again.

“Is there anything else, centurion?” asked Julian, eyebrows raised mildly.

A beat. “It came with five baskets, sir,” the legionary responded, quietly. “It was left in the middle of our tents, at night— they were…” Augusta hesitated, and with that hesitance came a flicker of wry realization on the praetor’s end.

“Bones?” guessed Julian, unfazed.

The legionary nodded, slowly. “Of almost all the centurions of the First Cohort,” she replied. “Except—”

“Marianus,” the boy-praetor finished. “And likely the hastatus posterior, as well.” A frown threatened to creep up his face. “No reports?”

Augusta shook her head. “None, sir.”

No survivors. If there were, military protocol was to either send a letter to the nearest base, or report personally— “The information reports mentioned an explosion,” mused Julian. “Likely, reports collected from those who fled across the border would have more use.” But there weren’t any refugees in Honos, yet— even though the granaries were being prepared for the inevitable burden, the current situation was—

“Compile a report to the Consuls for the Senate meeting.” Julian’s eyes flickered to the sun outside. “It should be in about a few more hours. Get it done before noon— and don’t let any deserters escape.” There was both everywhere and nowhere to run in the capital— manpower was needed in war, Julian knew.

The incident was deliberate, and reeked of Seraphina’s touch. The incident was intended to lower morale—based on the state Augusta was in, it had likely succeeded—and very likely word would get out amongst the general populace. To force conscription upon the people at this point— no, rash decisions in general would deal a heavy blow.

Orders.

Julian just needed orders.

The first battle of a war.

The praetor reached out a hand, and Augusta slipped the letter in it. Unsheathing a small dagger, Julian used it as a makeshift letter opener, skimming the eyes over its contents.

______________________________________________________________________________

Dearest Marius,

The heads were my idea (as you might’ve guessed — I would ask you if you think it’s brilliant, but it is probably not the foremost thing on your mind (I will, of course, take this opportunity to tell you the foremost thing on my mind).

I am still open to continuing this engagement. Whether your side or mine wins, we both have a foothold into entering the other’s politics— of course, this is an option that depends on whether or not you’d like to go behind your country’s back (perhaps this letter has already been opened, so it might not matter), but if you agree, I shall as well.

I do not expect collaboration, nor will I wrangle our relationship—I like to think we have quite a well-established one—in my favor, as I have much respect for you am hoping this kindness puts me in your good books.

Or perhaps this letter will turn out to be a fruitless endeavor.

It does not matter.

You may burn this letter, if you wish. You may pen a particularly scathing reply, if you wish.

May you win fortune's favor. Have fun.

Hoping we’ll still get married-

Your dearest,

Sera

_______________________________________________________________________

Julian Marius Romanus' eye twitched.

Molior | Wield

struggle, labor, construct, wield

A Few Hours Before the Battle of Ends

Marksman Manor, Inevita

Lazarus Marksman had thought that taking over a duchy would be one of those things that would be easier said than done, like talking back to his sister once she’d already issued him an order — but, very surprisingly, it wasn’t. All he had needed to do was talk to his father and— step-mother? What was the term for it? — and demonstrate his capabilities.

Of course, Lazarus knew very well that he was but a Soldier in their little Crowngames. Eleanora and Matthias were a cunning lot — the Guard knew that he was being played like a revellazo, a replacement for Seraphina to build up their reputation. But it was worth the end result— after merely a few Dayhepts, Lazarus had gained power and status on the Second Isle that most had merely dreamed of.

Alright, perhaps that was a stretch.

He now spent most of his days licking nobles’ boots, on his way to gaining power and status on the Second Isle that most had merely dreamed of.

Lazarus leaned back.

Inevita was mostly humid stone, a strange combination that meant the former Guard had to be careful where he placed his back. It wasn’t Tyche humid, apparently, according to the people who lived here— it was an unusual type of humid that caused moisture to coalesce in wood but didn’t persist during summer, partially because Inevita didn’t have summers.

It had but three seasons — ‘pouring season,’ ‘dry season,’ and ‘winter,’ but that was about it. No scorching sun here, no sirree. It was now nearing the end of the dry season — he had lived here almost his entire life, Lazarus thought bitterly; the schedule of the weather was practically ingrained in his memory by now — but in the sky lingered the promise of rain.

Usually droughts sometimes plagued the island’s less fortunate farmers, outside the Stronghold and in the outskirts’ fields. They would be expecting Zeus’ blessing soon— a blessing that would serve them well during the war where the granary requirement shot up.

“Lord Marksman?” a Servant questioned, quietly. “The Duke and Duchess request your presence in the parlor outside— the Duchess suggests for you to bring an umbrella, the next time you decide to go out, as it is almost Seasonend.”

He supposed he should be grateful for the fact that Theadora was looking after him, a bastard child, with such care. Really, he just thought of it as another leash they put on him.

“I’m going,” said Lazarus, heaving a sigh.

Lord Lazarus. He needed to get used to that title.

There hadn’t been any fanfare when he’d been officially recognized as a member of House Marksman, although it had earned him many a whisper and unkind glare from the residents of the Second Isle. Matthias and Theadora were not well-loved, that Lazarus knew. With that fact, he’d have expected the citizens to adore Seraphina, but the former Guard knew that the animosity directed towards the Sixth Princess had been far, far worse—

For what reason? he sometimes asked himself. Rumors that she knew ‘witchcraft’? That she was possessed by a ghost?

That was just making it complicated — everyone knew that it was because of her Galani blue eyes, the color that had skipped Theadora’s Eurusan golden and occupied the Sixth Princess’ face. Blue eyes were perfectly average in the Empire, outside of Eurus; if not for the fact that Seraphina was rumored to practice dark Galani arts and was generally ‘creepy,’ she would’ve been perfectly fine.

At least, that was what Lazarus told himself.

The lord followed the Servant inside the Marksman manor, built all stone tower and rock spire, as he was led into a parlor he was sure he’d never seen before.

Theadora’s eyes glinted golden, Matthias’ simply watching him.

“Lazarus,” acknowledged Matthias, breaking out into an unnaturally hearty grin.

“Son,” said Theadora, smiling.

“Your Graces.” Lazarus inclined his head as per noble manner, as the Duke and Duchess both waved offhandedly.

“How many times have we told you?” asked Theadora, frowning mildly. “You can call us mother and father— we’re your parents now, Laz.”

The statement made Lazarus sick to his stomach, but he let himself smile. “Of course, Mother,” he said, sitting down. “For what reason have you and Father called me here?”

Theadora spoke. “Well, since you’ve been acclimatizing all this while,” the Duchess of Marksman (daughter of the Cardinal Duchess Elexis, as well) said, “we were thinking about making everything official— since everything’s starting, and we’re reaching out to Damianos about war coordination, along with the battle preparations—”

“We’re planning to appoint you as heir,” Matthias cut in, to a glare from his wife. “You will inherit the duchy, by the end of this Dayhept.”

Even as an illegitimate child, you still have a claim to the Marksman duchy. Do you want it? Seraphina asked.

I want it all, Lazarus had answered.

He would wield his right— and he would make them all pay.

Pasiscor | Deal

deal, bargain, negotiate, stipulate, agree

A Few Hours After the Battle of Ends

Diamandis, Notus

Marianus—surprisingly or perhaps unsurprisingly—accepted my deal.

“This is good work, Sera,” beamed Naxy. “Look, Petra — she bagged her first enemy defector! Aren’t you so proud?” The Duke of Tyche was sipping a strange tea blend that stank of magnolia, turning to his friend.

I raised my eyebrows as Petra waggled their eyebrows. “I couldn’t be prouder,” they drawled, cackling while clinking their teacup against Anaxeres’. “That capture spilled a whole useful lot—war clean-up should go smoothly with our efforts. With that song Seraphina circulated going around, morale is at its peak—we’ve experienced a boost in enlistment rates; and a casualty report was sent to Gr—the Empress.”

I let myself grin. “All in a day’s work, right?” I said, lightly, leaning back. I had already written and sent off a letter with approval — and an additional present. After re-fortifying Notus, Greta would likely send back my orders and hopefully the war would be moved someplace with less insane people.

“Speaking of work,” I continued, “do you know where my brother’s been deployed? I mean, my brother Cyrus, of course.”

Anaxeres frowned, a bit. “I didn’t hear the specifics,” he said with a shrug. “I was thrown out of the war council the same time you were.”

Petra was the one who provided the information— “Eurus, I heard.” They looked at me. “Since you come from Inevita, you probably have some people there—Inevita, Drakos, and Williams are all scurrying to produce the new batch of explosives to ‘help the war effort.’ The Empress gave them permission to add some of it to their personal stockpile, but everyone knows they just want to profit off the new weapons—maybe even sell them to the Republicas, if they’re ballsy enough.”

They sipped their tea as I arched an eyebrow.

“I doubt my family would take the risk—at least, without a capable scapegoat—Drakos’ trigger finger seems itchy enough, though,” I remarked. Scapegoat. I would need to write Lazarus, then—knowing the Duke and Duchess, they would likely push my half-brother into the role. The Marquis Williams I didn’t have to worry about—their income came directly from the throne’s technologies and blueprints. But Drakos…

Damianos Drakos was a sleazy man, certainly the type to try and profit off both sides of the war. Perhaps I’d write to Timmy, along the way, to speed up the inheritance process — if I didn’t, Greta certainly would if she thought it posed a threat.

Anaxeres shrugged. “I’m sure Her Imperial Majesty’ll get someone on that, soon enough,” said the Duke of Tyche, examining his fingernails. “She’s a very big-picture person— what do you call it?”

“Visionary,” I supplied.

“Right, visionary,” Naxy agreed.

Petra grunted. “Delphie’s schemes interest me the most, at this point,” they said. “All that succession inheritance business can go to Tartarus and fuck itself there—what I’d do, to get my hands on that report.” Their eyes narrowed, ever-so-slightly. “But I suppose business plans need to be given the Imperial stamp of approval—even if we all do need money, these days.”

“Money,” I agreed with a sigh. It almost made me miss Macedon (except for the embezzling bit, of course. Mercy had strongarmed him into swearing an Oath of Fealty, so I supposed I didn’t need to miss him).

A surprisingly comfortable silence came between us, as if we hadn’t just been in a battle a few hours ago—as if Petra’s burn scars weren’t covered in bloody bandages, as if both them and Naxy hadn’t ordered the launching of a ballistae that had killed eight hundred men.

The tea cooled, in my hands, as if recovering from an unspoken toast.

At last, I stood up. “I’ll check on the spy training,” I said to no one in particular, before leaving the war room in Petra’s manor.

______________________________________________________________________________

Marianus looked surprisingly spry, for a man who’d pretended to be dead only a few hours ago—and I said man, because there was little of youthful boy left in that surrendered face. Still, he was barking orders while chained to a chair, lips spilling words that spilled in turn with not spite, but command.

The spies under his watching eye didn’t flinch — they were trained spies of the Empire, after all; and I liked to think that Naxy was far more unsettling than Marianus — but there was wordless resentment in their eyes.

“Where are you from?” Marianus questioned a bowed spy in Republica, frowning. “You did not perform a legionary’s salute, to a legionary.”

“I-I am from Notus, Sir—”

The former primus pilus shook his head. “Wrong!” As if he were teaching a class full of incompetent children, he looked around the ‘classroom’ that was the torture chamber. “You do not call legionaries ‘sir.’ If you play your cards right, you will stumble upon only uniformed legionnaires, by which you will be able to determine their rank by the flags and medals on their chest — if you’re opting for a regular soldier, you do not use courtesy. If you’re opting for a slightly-higher ranked centurion, you use the courtesy of their titles — different titles for those with different levels of seniority.

“Try again. Pretend I am in my primus pilus regalia.” Marianus looked at the spy.

The spy cleared their throat. “I am from Notus….primus pilus?”

“Again, without hesitation—” he apparently noticed me, meeting my gaze.

I wiggled my fingers in greeting. “Gaius.”

“Seraphina,” he returned, simply. He turned to the spies, who were watching surprisingly unmaliciously. “Go practice the legionary salute with a partner,” he told them. “I’ll get back to you in a moment.”

“You’re adapting surprisingly fast,” I remarked.

Marianus shrugged. “To survive, you adapt.” A pause. “Some of your leader’s men—the general, your Ducal Lord—already questioned me about what I know of Mariu—Julian’s plans.”

I tilted his head. “To call him Marius, you two must’ve been close,” I commented.

“We were not brothers,” contradicted Marianus. “We were comrades. He was my leader, and he did not care about my bastardly origins—friends, I suppose.” The fiery defiance he had shown before was gone, dissipating surprisingly fast after he’d taken my deal, which I supposed I should be grateful for.

He met my eyes, after a while. “Why are you here?” he asked.

“To visit,” I answered. “I might need to go elsewhere, after all’s said and done.”

“And you’re not sure of my loyalty to leave me alone,” guessed the former centurion. “Well, it’s reasonable.” Marianus yawned. “I might come with you, if I decide to,” he said after a while. “Or not.”

I shrugged. “It all depends on you—I’m sure that you’ll be allowed leeway, now that you’ve ‘contributed.’” The word made my expression sour without my Ability to shroud my face, just a bit, but the other noticed.

“Contributions.” He snorted. “They just mean how much I’m willing to fork over.”

“You’ve already forked over what you’re willing to,” I said. “It wouldn’t be fair for us to push—your situation depends on what you wish it to be, now. You are free—at least, as free as I can make you.”

Marianus’ eyes pointedly strayed to the chains around him, before he relented. “I suppose,” said the former centurion, amused. “A contraction, being free in chains.”

I inclined my head, before I asked him: “Are you satisfied?”

The centurion blinked back. “You fulfilled your end, I fulfilled mine,” he readily answered. “This is not a deal made for satisfaction — unless you’re asking me about my current situation; in which I’ll have to answer frankly that no, I’m really not.” Marianus stretched — or at least tried to. A silence. “Blame is a burden I do not want to shoulder,” the man quoted, “vengeance a leash, a debt owed to the beholder. Should I lust after, the hollow maiden that is closure? If regardless of her love, the embers of desire’s hearth will continue to smoulder?”

That was an answer, I thought, that was composed of a question.

“End is a first love, beginning anew the second,” I finished. “If you hear again second chances beckon, you know you have learned life’s final lesson.” I hadn’t taken him for the poetry type, but— people could be anything.

Marianus merely tilted his head. We gazed at each other—not romantically, of course, I would never cheat on my Mari—before the centurion broke his stare.

“We are done,” he said, simply.

In this case, he was probably meaning the more simple ‘done’ than the complicated ‘done’- words were messy creatures.

“For now,” I merely answered, smiling.

Diruo | Pull to Ruin

dismantle, break to pieces, pull apart

A Few Hours After the Battle of Ends

The Palace, Aionios

Josephine Queenscage knew that Greta was up to something. Well, technically, Greta was always up to something, and Josie knew that ‘something’ usually involved either politics, people, or both. Of course, as always, the second she was out of solitary confinement—well, the second she sneaked out of solitary confinement—Josie made it her duty to find out what her sister was doing.

She had just needed to Seduce the Guard.

Josie knew Greta knew that both she and Ara could easily escape — they weren’t incompetent, of course; some would even call them the opposite. If Greta really wanted to keep them in, she would’ve thought of a more secure measure than just humans — after all, they were such fragile creatures.

No one stopped her on the way to the throne room — more accurately, no one wanted to stop her. All the Servants pretended like they saw nothing, a feat that reminded Josie what a valuable task it had been, to win over the staff (by win over, she meant she’d bribed or threatened most of them into submission).

Josephine skipped into the room that housed the Chryselephantine Throne, easily (Ara was busy).

“Sister!” she called. “Are you planning to destroy the Queen’s Cage?” The throne was empty, of course; but the Fourth Princess was sure the sound would reach the adjoining Imperial Bedroom behind the Throne. And, sure enough, Greta Queenscage —holding a peacock feather quill in her hand; likely in the process of writing one of her letters—emerged from the expanse soon enough.

“Could you please keep it down, Josie?” Greta sounded irritated, as if she was half-asleep, but her act was betrayed by her Imperial robes, the fabric hanging around her surprisingly lithe frame.

Josie tilted her head. “But you are, aren’t you?”

“Even if I am, you don’t have to announce it to the entire Empire— Gods—” Greta closed her eyes for a while, before opening them. “What do you want?” the newly-crowned Empress asked tiredly, strolling over to the throne and lounging on it while speaking.

Ah, Josie’s conclusion was correct—Greta didn’t ask useless questions like, ‘You were supposed to be in solitary confinement,’ not unless it was for show.

“Military technology,” said the Fourth Princess, smiling. “Bayonets, gunpowder bombs, guns — you’re shifting the Empire’s reliance on Chosen for their military, to modern technology.” Josephine blinked. “When I heard that you gave your orders to the military marquessates—” she’d bribed a Servant to whisper what they’d heard “—I thought to myself, ‘What is Greta thinking?’ But Ara said it was the wrong question.”

Aphrodite’s Chosen looked up at her sister.

“He said,” Josephine continued, “to ask myself, ‘What is Greta planning?’” She tilted her head. “You’re a visionary, sister. You see the big picture, the whole dream, the entire future—the whole, and maybe even the parts, too.”

By — if Josephine put it simplistically — using the Chosen less and modern weapons technology more, Greta would revolutionize warfare by subtracting the Gods’ power from the equation; paving a way to the future without Chosen (which would get rid of the Empire’s convoluted succession ceremony, which was, based on Greta’s character, the logical endgame).

“You’re going to get rid of the Cage for good,” repeated Josephine. “Investing precious resources — especially in a war — towards the military marquessates as well as the Marksman duchy, it’s a risk, but it’s a step. You’re interested in Zephyr’s financial plan, too—” she eavesdropped on a conversation “—which also might mean a step towards nautical trade. You’re refurbishing the Empire’s image while trying to conquer the Republic, and you have plans, sister. Big ones.”

The Fourth Princess continued, evenly, “How else would you excuse Second Brother’s deployment to Eurus? The Library of Alexandria and Eurus’ Order of Sciences? If you look carefully, all the evidence is there, sister.”

A beat.

The Empress raised an eyebrow. “So?” Greta Queenscage asked.

“So,” responded Josephine, simply, “you have big plans, sister. And I’m bored.”

Another beat, as Greta— smiled.

“Well, then I’ll have to give you something to do, don’t I?” said the Ninety-Fifth Victor.

Icio | Strike

hit, smite, strike a bargain

A Few Hours Before the Battle of Ends

Cadmus, Eurus

When he was young, Cyrus Queenscage looked up to people — what child didn’t, really? Hortensia hadn’t told him stories — neither had anyone, really — so Cyrus’ childhood hobby had been to play make-believe by himself, instead. That expensive watch sitting on the cabinet became a hero on the edge of a cliff, and sticks became spears and leaves became capes.

Elexis Cadmus’ tale was well-known to the Empire — Cyrus had conversed with her on more than one occasion, in the years he’d been prince. She’d come off as strong — a true warrior, who paved her own path despite her heritage, not like those worm-bellied politicians who cared only about themselves.

The image had crumbled, slowly, throughout the carriage ride to Eurus, when Cyrus had truly realized the Cardinal Duchess’ age. Her withered fingers, the wrinkles that pulled at her face that no amount of elixir could fix — everything, all but hinted that the Stronghold of the East was overdue for a change in leadership.

Cyrus knew Leon.

Everybody knew Leon.

Leon Cadmus, Elexis’ son and only remaining child after Elexis had married off both of her daughters — allegedly, for being too manipulative a threat to Elexis’ regime. He was around Cyrus’ age and was as simple as an Imperial could be — many called him an idiotic brute, which was perhaps why they got along so well.

If Cyrus had people he classified as friends, they would be Roxane and Leon—well, Roxane was more of a vassal, but no matter.

The Order of Sciences—the sciences in question, of course, being Natural, Man-made, and Divine.

Cyrus leaned back.

Theology, the largest Divine Science, was more a subject made out of formality and empty boasts, than actual Belief—very rare, were actual extremists. Those that were usually completed their theology degree, slunk their way to the capital and started an anti-Imp organization, or committed a treasonous act that warranted execution. Under the category of Divine Science were, of course, other sciences; like theodicy—controversial, of course—and philosophy, for some reason.

Biology, the largest Natural Science, was usually only taken upon in the search of a Physician certificate, a mix of both the sciences of the body, and how to heal said body. The current most important Science to Cyrus, currently, was the Man-made Science, what the Libraries called engineering.

What he’d said before was all common knowledge in the vaguest terms — to be an Analyst, you needed a variety of certificates from your Science of expertise to classify as a true ‘Analyst.’ Literary and political sciences — which were classified into the Divine category — were the most common fields for Analysts, Cyrus had been told.

The Third Prince shifted.

“It is strange,” Greta had said, “for an Analyst to specialize in a Man-made Science—which was why Anasastia Andino was so unusual. It is even stranger for an Analyst like her to make it this far, being a pioneer in the field of weapons. What is not strange, is that she was overwritten in the annals of history.”

“So?” Cyrus had asked, irritated. “What do you want me to do?”

“Recover, and recruit, in the simplest terms,” Greta had explained. “Recover Anastasia’s — complete — findings. Recruit those who can expand our knowledge.”

Cyrus had snorted. “You just want explosions that can blow up more stuff, don’t you?” He hadn’t asked why Greta hadn’t just utilized his Lightning — it was, after all, uncontrollable, a gift from Zeus, the Lightning King.

Greta had just smiled, wryly. “Perhaps,” she had returned.

Greta had managed to bait Cyrus to her side by promising the Branch Halgrove to him - it was a chain, he knew, but his vengeance needed it.

They had taken his everything.

He would make sure they were reduced to nothing.

Even if it meant he had to give his soul to the devils Below.

De verbo gloriae | Word of Honor

A Few Hours During the Battle of Ends

Written Letter, Set to Be Delivered, on Greta's Desk

Seraphina—

Report to Zephyr tomorrow.

Judge if nautical trade can be implemented.

Duchess Hyacinth shall be your supervisor.

—Greta