Winners are fools, losers the same—true folly the thought of escaping the Game.

The wise are foolish, the foolish claim;

Lo behold the truest fool, one who has but the Gods to blame.

- AQUILA'S MUSINGS, ON THOUGHT

THE REVELATION OF A CHARACTER'S MORAL AMBIGUITY USUALLY COMES IN TORRENTS.

One great wave, one final crescendo, one resounding snap of the mind that ricochets throughout the story as the character finally breaks down. The hero realizes that the world might not be so great after all, and learns a valuable lesson, a moral, that the story propagates.

For me, it’s more of a creeping shroud.

When you’re out in a snowstorm—not that I’ve ever been in a snowstorm before—that chill that lingers on your skin, faint but growing, culminating until that moment your mind decides to notice it with a resounding oh, I’m cold.

Oh, I’m a mass murderer.

Oh, that person I bantered with just a few days ago, I tricked and lied into a poisonous pit.

They’re dead.

I killed them.

There’s no way to go, no option to take without falling on the path of madness, no other choice other than to accept it. Acceptance.

Oh. Alright.

Acceptance, says my Ability. You have to accept it.

But I don’t want to ‘oh, alright’ my way out of this, I argue.

Acceptance, it simply repeats. You have to accept it.

Oh. Alright.

“Oops,” I say aloud.

Cas looks at me, casually. “The game’s not over.”

I grin—a reflex—as I shake my head. “No, it’s not—but I don’t really feel like playing anymore. Should we call it a day?”

I’m not really giving him a choice, am I?

“Sure,” he agrees, surprisingly readily. He does give the pit (and the screams that come out of it, tuned in remarkably familiar voices) a second glance, one strangely carved hollow, as we both head towards our secret camp.

“The island gives me the fucking creeps,” I admit after a while. We’re seated around the rocks—it’s not dark enough for a fire, so the center remains empty—and I look at my hands. They’re supposed to be bloody—everytime I feel a flash of remorse, crimson flecks my palms: that’s the way it is. That’s the way you think it is.

Cas smiles wryly. “It’s supposed to be creepy—no leaves, no insects.” His eyes were hazy, and I tilted my head, studying him.

“Are you alright?” I ask him, more out of courtesy than care.

“Seen worse,” he says back.

I arch a brow. “Done worse?”

He barks a laugh. “Those are two different things.”

He evaded the answer. I shrug. “It looks like we’ll win soon,” I comment airily.

“Only one person Wins,” Poseidon’s Chosen corrects.

I turn to him. “You want to lose?”

“There’s nothing to Win for.”

The statement makes me frown internally, delivered with firm nonchalance, but I let the silence stretch on.

“I’m hungry,” he breaks it.

I thumb at the tents. “Jerky’s in the back.” He knows that.

Something wet dapples my cheek.

Ah.

The awkwardness of the conversation had likely been due to the fact that I was crying.

Oh.

I laugh.

“You mentioned before,” I say, after I’ve wiped all my tears away, “that sometimes we have to be honest with each other, that problems sometimes need to be faced as humans, not business partners.” I turn to him. “Is there a problem? I think there’s a problem.”

He merely raises his eyebrows. “No, there’s not a problem.”

I blink. “I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it—”

“There’s not a problem.” His voice is still calm, but it’s heavy.

I wouldn’t have pressed the issue if my Ability wasn’t ringing alarm bells in my ears, but I shrug. “Right, if you say so,” I say, looking at the sky. “It’s afternoon, already. They should be done by now—or at least realized that we’re not playing anymore. We swore an Oath that we would play by the rules, so we should hunt some monsters if we’re pushing the idea that the murders were just a break.”

Apparently, wide recognition is just what Oaths need—since there’s no rules that we can’t take a break, and no rules barring the murders of other players, our Oath isn’t broken.

At least, you hope so.

Gods, my Ability’s been so fucking irritating lately.

“Vivianna and Jonas—they both have to have some clue,” I say. “Some clue, some idea that this is—” I waved a flippant hand “—what it is. The Cage is a game in a game in the Game—they can’t just topple the board and be done with it.” My Ability’s affecting my words. That’s not a good sign. “They must know it’s too easy,” I continue. “If it were this easy, someone else would’ve done it a hundred years ago—not the specific escape thing that Jonas tried, the entire possibility of escape.”

Cas raises his eyebrows. “Is that an excuse?”

For wanting to Win over escape?

I return the statement with matching incredulity. “If it were an excuse, I wouldn’t be the type to make an excuse for making an excuse.”

Poseidon’s Chosen breaks the gaze. Huh. That’s a first.

“It’s unsettling,” he says, finally. “You’re still thinking about this as a game.”

Hostility flares, but I stamp it out. “At least I’m trying not to,” I counter, calmly. “I believe that I’ve been trying my best to win this entire Cage—I also believe that I’ve told you this, many, many times before. Again, I’m not sure why this is a problem.”

“It’s not.” Cas sighs. “Problems have solutions, things you can do to change the situation. You can’t just change a person’s way of thinking—” he cuts himself off. “It’s just unsettling in general. I used to not find it unsettling, but right now, I’m conflicted. I feel different.”

I inspect him.

“Are you planning to break off our partnership?” I ask, mildly.

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything—I feel different, and—I don’t know.” He looks at me. “I said that I had things I wanted to do, things I can’t do once I’m dead. Things like changing the Empire—I told you about that, didn’t I?” Didn’t I? He looks hollow, his face and his words and his toothy grin gone, dripping off his face like a mourning veil discarded.

“Yeah,” I say, cautiously.

This is not Caspian Nameless.

“I’m not worthy, I think,” Poseidon’s Chosen says, enunciating the words softly, a whispered prayer. “It’s not I think I can’t, it’s just that I—shouldn’t. I shouldn’t survive this. I—don’t feel. I can’t feel for—” his voice breaks. “The whole concept of sacrifice is that you have to sacrifice something that’s worth something. I sacrificed my morality, didn’t I? I sacrificed feeling something after death—they say morality makes up your self, so technically I sacrificed my self, and I—”

This is not Caspian Nameless.

The dashing rogue is gone.

“I don’t feel different,” Caspian breathes. “I sacrificed myself, and it wasn’t really worth anything. I—to this world, to this Universe, to this sky—am not worth anything. My morality—my self—is not a worthy sacrifice for the Gods, and I am not worthy to change the Empire. I am nothing, even to myself, because my ‘self’ is gone.”

He smiles.

“It’s gone, Sera. I’m gone. I’m not me, because I do not have worth.”

What had I said?

I value you.

“That’s shit,” I reply.

Cas blinks.

“The last sentence? That’s shit,” I continue. “Revolution knows no criteria. You want to be a vigilante hero and wave a sword around while saving the Empire? Go fucking do it. I dare you. But don’t say that you aren’t ‘worthy’—look at this mess.” I gesture wildly around us. Anger, desperation, something more flares up in me. “Look at this utter shithole of a mess we’ve gotten ourselves into. Are you going to say that none of this matters? None of this doesn’t have worth? Who are you, to judge yourself—who are you, to judge the world, Caspian Nameless?”

I stab a finger in his chest, smiling all the while.

“If you say that the world has judged you unworthy, then the world is blind. And you are, too, for thinking that anyone in this shitty plane of existence can mete out any true form of ‘judgement.’ True judgement? It’s a scam. Morality? Self? Good? Bad? Who are you to think that you can judge the world?”

I lean closer.

“Who are you, if unworthy of judgement?”

I laugh.

“Change encompasses all. It doesn’t matter who brings it.” I tilt my head. “And if Fate is written in the stars—if you believe that something, someone, out there is capable of judging you—you can judge them back. If Fate is truly written in the stars, then go up to the sky and erase every single line that prophesies your life. Go do it. I fucking dare you.”

If you are not worthy—then am I?

I release the collar that I don’t even realize I’m holding.

“Get ahold of yourself,” I say. “You forget.”

You forget that you’re supposed to help me Win.

After I dramatically storm off, I stumble upon the two people I’m least looking forward to seeing.

“Hey, Viv!” I wave a hand. “Jonas!”

The former inclines their head in acknowledgement, while the latter just blinks.

“Having fun monster-hunting?” the noble lady asks, unperturbed.

I smile brilliantly. “Got a bit sidetracked,” I admit. “Took a break. Killed Rayan and Arden. Hope it doesn’t mess up the game.”

Vivianna’s smile gets slightly more strained, but Jonas merely waves a hand.

“It’s easy to get lost in the game. It’s the spirit that counts, after all, right?” Hephaestus’ Chosen asks, flippantly. His eyes gleam. “Gambling makes life just a bit more exciting—sometimes too exciting for some people. Easy to get caught up in all the thrill, we understand.”

I laugh, ignoring the hidden context. “You’re such a good sport,” I reply. “Now I almost regret trying to kill you. We would’ve been great friends.” I’m lying, of course.

The Forgetouched smiles wryly. “‘Great friends are better made than lost,’” Jonas quotes.

“‘And great enemies are better fought than made,’” I finish, before breaking out into a grin. “Iraklidis. You’re a fan?”

He had access to ‘higher education.’ A noble, likely—or someone dangerous. We should’ve offed him when we’d had the chance—who knows how Vivianna would’ve been without his influence.

“More of a hidden supporter,” Jonas replies. “When it comes to the sciences, I’m merely a novice, I’m afraid.”

I laugh again. “I somehow doubt that.” And I’m not even lying, this time.

Vivianna takes the beat to ask, “Where’s your better half, Sera? I hear he’s been a bit...conflictive lately.”

I smile pleasantly, again ignoring the hidden context. “You know, doing this and that. He insists on doing the hard work—killing monsters, and the like. I keep telling him that two heads are better than one, but he never listens.” I pretend to grimace. “But, either way,” I begin, “I’m sure I’m holding you up. Wouldn’t be fair if I did.”

Instead of taking the obvious cue, Jonas instead tilts his head.

“What do you think about this Cage?” he asks with surprising earnesty. “Have you noticed...anything strange?”

I don’t let my smile turn stiff. I pretend to think. “Yes, Rayan brought that up, didn’t he? Enemy lieges, and all that.” I shrug. “Bit careless of me, to not hear him out, but I never was a disciple of the divine sciences. Never got any formal formal education.”

“But you’re a noble,” says Vivianna, with a frown.

I shrug again.

Jonas studies me again. “You’ve noticed,” he says. “That there’s something different about this Cage.”

I widen my smile. “Of course I have. Would be a fool if I hadn’t.”

Vivianna’s frown deepens.

“A fool…” Jonas smiles. “Strange that you say that, really. And what do you think defines a fool?”

A person who can’t see what’s right in front of their face—no.

“A fool would be a person who truly believes that they can Win the Game, I suppose—someone who thinks that they can win fortune’s favor.” True victory does not exist. I tilt my head. “‘Winners are fools, losers the same—true folly the thought of escaping the Game.’”

“‘The wise are foolish, the foolish claim; lo behold the truest fool, one who has but the Gods to blame.’” It’s Vivianna this time, who finishes my quote. She has an unreadable look on her face. “You have quite a broad knowledge of philosophy, Lady Seraphina.”

I beam. “You as well, Lady Vivianna.” I pretend to look at the sky—there is no clock, which I suppose is in itself psychological warfare. “Well, now; I really must be going. My dear Cas must be getting worried. Happy hunting, both of you!” After waving carelessly, I make my way out of the clearing.

And then, finally, my hand leaves my knife.

When I encounter Caspian Nameless again, he is bent over the corpse of a Minotaur with dark hands and an equally monster-blood-stained knife. The Minotaur is lifeless, dark pooling from every fatal crevice the blade has carved into—it’s been reduced to all but tattered flesh lying in almost grotesque slivers; formerly russet hair now lifeless, formerly curling horns dull.

I blink.

The dead monster’s still there, along with my partner and his shaking hands.

I blink again.

Yep. Still there.

I approach slowly, gently—making just enough noise to alert him of my presence, but not enough to irritate or alarm. A wild animal. A rabid dog. The Duke and the Duchess having bad days.

Our camp had been ravaged. I hadn’t heard any noises, any screams that would’ve made me scramble back immediately—it would’ve been a quick ordeal, then, I muse as I carefully lower myself to the ground.

I remain silent.

“We’ll win this round, won’t we?” he finally asks, speaking calmly.

I reach out, but hesitate as my hand settles down on his shoulder.

“We don’t need to,” I begin. “We—”

“But it’s important, isn’t it?” he drawls back lightly, not breaking his gaze from the corpse. “Important to you, important to everything.”

The almost ink-like blood dapples his hands like patches of sunlight through trees, but I return my gaze to the Minotaur—almost bandit-like slashes. Coarse, yet refined. Familiar. Seeing his style on an act that’s nowhere near characteristic is...strange. Did he use a lure? Some kind of—

“You’re still looking at it like it’s a Game,” he says softly, again remaining unmoving. “You’re probably analyzing how I managed to kill it, right now.” A beat. “You don’t really need to. The first jab was a fluke—it seemed distracted. The second blows were just hitting it where it hurts, taking advantage of its situation. And then it died.”

I blink.

“And then it died,” I repeat.

He meets my eyes, finally. “And then it died,” he returns. A grin that seems almost inhuman; that familiar, toothy smile is back, and I realize I might not want it back. But I suppose things have already progressed to the point of no return, and I sigh.

“Eight down, two to go,” Caspian says, lightning-blue eyes sparking.

A long silence.

“Eight down, two to go,” I agree.

Never in my life would I have thought that one day, I would’ve woken up with number one on my to-do list ‘lugging a Minotaur to a meeting spot; warning: difficult’ as my task for the day.

The warning speaks for itself.

“What does it even eat for breakfast? Fucking rocks?” mutters Caspian, who has the better half of the bargain and is lugging it by the horns (we drew sticks).

“No, it eats people,” I correct. “The more important question is, how is it still alive after eating humans once every five years—tree, six o’clock.”

“Monster cannibalism, obviously,” replies the other, before he dodges the obstacle. “How else?”

“You mean to say that resurrected undead monsters, the ones that walk from the Underworld to here via a divinely-ordained gap—of which only two exist on the continent—eat each other?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Or they’re immortals.” Cas shrugs, just as he backs up into a tree. “Ow. Gods, I thought you were supposed to tell me if I’m going to bump into something?”

I shrug. “Sorry.”

He reaches one hand behind himself and rubs the injury. “That’s going to leave a huge bruise,” he complains. “Remind me why you get to walk normally, again?”

I shrug again. “I drew the longer stick,” I say. “But seriously? Immortal monsters? That’s all you can think of?”

“No, I told you they could be cannibals, too—and we’re here.”

Jonas waves.

Vivianna raises her eyebrows.

We plop the Minotaur corpse in front of their feet.

“‘Our toil, at long last, is not for naught; the final ware man sought,’” I announce dramatically.

Jonas tilts his head. “Where’s that reference from? A Play?”

“The Blacksmith’s Fall, Act I,” I answer, before grinning. “So? Is the Game done?”

The pile of prey behind them is pretty self-explanatory, but Vivanna nods anyway, turning her head towards the sky. “I see this Oath fulfilled,” she says evenly to no one in particular, before meeting my eyes. “Yes—it is done. I recognize your victory. I have lost this gamble.” Yet her eyes still glint that indescribable sheen, that glitter of madness taking physical form.

“This gamble,” I say. “But not the gamble. You have another dice, and it has not landed.”

Vivianna shakes her head. “It has landed,” she replies. “I know the results, yet—” she barks a laugh “—it’s strangely amusing. However you roll the dice in this Game, it’s futile. The numbers—the faces—they’re all the same, the same results, the same cause.” The viscountess’ daughter smiles. “And there’s no beauty in futility—it takes courage to fail, yes, but it most of all requires foolishness.”

My hand is already reaching for my knife, but I slow it.

“How so?” I ask, tilting my head.

Vivianna shrugs. “Some desire a beautiful death—they long for it, crave it. Most desire a beautiful life—but life is not beautiful. You want to gain power? You lose yourself. You want to gain money? Same scenario. Cause, and effect, but it all goes back to the same root cause.” The gambler’s fingers dance as she says the words.

I do feel kinship with her.

Noble to noble—relationships are strange, like that.

But only those in the Imperial circle see it firsthand—the center, the balance of all that power. The fluctuations, the rises to and falls from grace—when it’s people you know, it hits in a way you don’t expect.

That baron’s daughter you flirted with a Dayhept ago?

Her father got framed for embezzlement and she’s now penniless.

That count’s son, you saw drinking champagne just yesterday?

His mother recently came into a deal with another Duke, and you encounter him more now.

It hits. There’s no other word for it—it might seem preachy, people walking around and saying ‘life isn’t fair’ to everyone that encounters hardship, and it is. It’s preachy. No one can judge whether life is or isn’t fair, because there is no fair. Justice isn’t blind, because there is no justice.

The foolish think they can mete out punishment, but that in itself is a crime.

That is our Empire Eternal.

My desire to change it has long faded as I’d passed the throes of age.

The gambler continues. “In this Game, if you want to win, you lose,” she muses. “If you want to lose, you lose. There is no way out, no escape. Just trying, just wanting to isn’t enough—but ‘enough’ and ‘not enough’ are simply three words, and ‘futility’ merely one.”

“You will die today,” Cas speaks.

The Bloodthorn inclines her head. “I will die today—resisting is futile.”

“Yet,” I supply.

“Yet,” she agrees, spreading her fingers. Peacocks rise from nothingness, orichalcum beaks glinting under the sun—Jonas, who’s remained silent until now, gestures again; machinery whirring as his golems are built anew. The orb that hangs in the sky, threads of light spinning a tapestry of gold, shines over the two Chosen left.

The viscountess’ daughter’s eyes glint again, and this time she is her own person.

She has taken off her mask of mimicry, and it’s a beautiful change.

Vivianna Bloodthorn’s smile grows wider than I’ve ever seen it. “Yet,” she says for the third time, “‘futility’ is merely one word, is it not?”

And then they charge.

The golems are irritating. That’s the only thought in my mind as I slide between them, ducking beneath their arms while I aim for the cores and the twisted metal around it. Sometimes my knife manages to wriggle its way and strike gold—or, well, orichalcum—and the golems are disabled. Other times, I’m not so lucky and I get propelled back into a tree, my back slamming against bark.

Those times aren’t quite as fun.

Jonas’ golems are a new batch, more refined than the ones before and much more of a hindrance. You don’t really get to appreciate the design upgrades of your enemy’s minions when said enemy is trying to kill you, so I can’t really comment on what exactly makes them so different.

But they’re different.

I realize the peacocks would be equally irritating if not for Cas chopping their heads off at every turn.

Seeing annoying birds decapitated are surprisingly fun on occasion.

“New look?” I call, as I dive my blade into a golem. It falls down, very unluckily crushing my pinky toe in the process, and I gracefully refrain from wincing. As I slowly but surely make my way across the clearing, Jonas answers.

“Why, does it fit your fancy, My Lady?”

Dashing forward, I slip under the line of golems he’s gathered around him, clambering beneath their legs and tackling him. “Not really,” I say, pressing a blade against his neck. “Always found the engineering sciences tacky.”

Jonas’ grin widens as I feel a golem’s arm reach for me. I’m forced to roll off, but I pull the Chosen backwards—or, at least try to.

He manages to wriggle out, the weasel.

I charge at him again, my footwork calmly practiced in the definitely-not-ideal space given to me, as I launch a dagger at his throat. He doesn’t dodge it, instead using a golem as a shield while advancing another—like a game of frustratingly quick, mechanical Crown; except I’m the one being cornered.

The dagger lands itself in where the golem’s face would be.

I don’t have time to mutter a curse as I leap out of another golem’s way, tactically deciding to retrieve my dagger (it takes a few tugs while I throw another knife at the Forgetouched, but I manage to succeed).

Not giving Jonas time to line up a damn golem wall again, I aim at his hand with my newly-recovered blade. As it sings through the air and I run (strategically retreat) from another golem, a hiss signals that it strikes true.

Hephaestus’ Chosen doesn’t cradle his injured hand, merely glancing at it instead—but that glance is all I need. I launch another knife, exploiting the moment—it strikes true, again, and it embeds itself in Jonas’ eye.

This time, Jonas makes a noise of pain, immediately—reflexively—covering a hand over the injury and the knife. I rush forward, using the momentum to try and fold the Forgetouched into a tackle, the golems momentarily rendered useless as Jonas’ concentration breaks.

Pulling out the knife from the Chosen’s hand, I slip it into his stomach—now he howls, but I repeat the process with the blade in his eye, diving it into his heart.

A scream echoes from behind mine—Caspian.

But I can’t look.

I don’t need to spear Jonas again, but still the Chosen meets my eyes.

“You finally succeeded in killing me, eh?” he asks, hoarsely.

He laughs, and then whispers.

“Ignore what Bloodthorn said, Seraphina—futility is beautiful. Struggle is glorious, but not in the way—you’d—expect—” He wheezes, body convulsing, but that smile stays on his face. “Do you know what your name means? Seraphina— ‘burning one.’ There’s others. ‘Ardent,’ ‘fiery-winged,’ ‘purifying light.’”

Jonas smiles.

“You’re probably thinking— ‘it was that easy to get rid of such a headache, eh?’” He coughs, but the delicate Forgetouched doesn’t falter. “Remember this—to live is to enjoy the Game. Not win it, or lose it, or escape it—no matter if it’s futile, no matter if—it’s—glorious.” He hacks out another cough, and his voice is slipping.

“To live is to enjoy living. To win the Game is to enjoy it.” Jonas meets my eyes. “My name is Jonas. The dove, the oppressor, the destroyer. Remember what I told you, Seraphina—” his lips curl, as his final word echoes its way into my chest, tearing “—Queenscage.”

And then he is dead.

And, finally, I run to my partner.