True politicians never get their hands dirty—they always wear gloves.

- NEPHELE EVIMERIA, DUCHESS OF TYCHE

THE FIRST THING I DID WAS, OF COURSE, ASK FOR PERMISSION FOR MY PLAN TO BE IMPLEMENTED.

Dearest Horatio was quick to apologize, even going as far as to swear an Oath that he was going to follow me to the ends of the Earth—which I assured him was unnecessary—before I said that I would give him a grace period to collect the goods he needed to deliver, to which he readily agreed.

I returned to Delphine and her fluttering fan along with two very well-written proposals: one from Delphine and the Merchant conscription exemptions, which contained the relevant legal loopholes to exploit in order to implement her plan; and Alexandros’ three-pronged Trident Formation (he refused to budge on the name. I relented, after a while).

If I played my cards right, Horatio would be one of the first Merchants that would be alerted of this. If we started mandatory conscription efforts from the get go, sparing those with chronic injuries due to old age, morale that we’d carefully cultivated from our first victory would definitely take a blow.

Merchant sentiment would need to be addressed, sooner or later, otherwise money wouldn’t be made in trade Strongholds.

By offering support to the Empire in exchange for payment and exemption from military service, Merchants would be protecting their families (their heirs, more importantly) and their own monetary interests. Pledging themselves to the Throne by Oath also meant they couldn’t profit off both sides of the war, or play a role in any rebellions further down the line.

As I flipped through the proposal, I noticed further clauses that made me smile.

Delphine was a fox. She’d designated two options for the Merchants—if they paid a certain sum, they could only have a good say in their children’s deployment location. But if they paid (a lot) more and actively helped the Empire, the Empire could forge documents that their heirs had fatal injuries, exempting them from military service.

This—if found out by the general populace—would cause an uproar. A rebellion. Which was exactly why I didn’t tell anyone about the copy of the proposal, burning it immediately after.

The next papers I needed to read were another pleasant surprise.

My smile widened as I flipped through the pages.

Alexandros’ penmanship, although needing work, read eloquently in the clipped sentences that followed his curt style. He’d taken the bones of my idea and given it flesh, making it his own. After I’d tutored him on the basics of military numbers, he’d applied the concept to his plan—a Eurus-Galani joint effort to conquer Bellum; a Notian spear attacking Honos; and a Zephyrean blockade on Azareth during every blow.

Aggressive. Risky.

It was exactly the type of plan that Greta would pull off—with her own flair, of course. I’d likely be given a noble writ, and Alexandros would be offered a military medal for his service; but this was going to be Greta’s. It was her Empire, after all.

The Notian element was problematic, though, I mused—they didn’t have the numbers for it. It was an issue I remedied quickly—my own plan would be very, very compatible with it.

“Your target is Honos,” I’d pointed out to Xandros. “But it doesn’t exactly have to be Notus going on the offensive, does it?”

He’d stared at me, mildly put off. “No,” he’d replied. “But it is the most efficient way, isn’t it, Boss?”

It was night, and I couldn’t see the stars from my position seated on a table in a corner of the room—even if I was angled differently, the curtains were still drawn to prevent any spirals.

Unlike Notus’ sheer silk that allowed streams of moonlight through, my Zephyrean guest room’s heavy damask made the darkness almost oppressive; the atmosphere only tapered by the elaborate candelabras growing out of the walls like plants on concrete trellis. I still could see, of course, but it was different. Not off, just...different.

The row of dominoes were still at the foot of my bed, an obstacle on the rich imported carpet that covered the parlor, one that I’d gracefully danced around while moving about the entire night. It felt off, not ready, a fledgling of a new game that I wasn’t sure I wanted to play.

A stage that I needed to step off but couldn’t, not yet.

Yet. An excuse.

But the world functions on excuses.

To have any semblance of ‘order,’ the world needed to have reasons for conflict. And the reasons were always good, from one person’s point of view, but—

I drummed my fingers on the table.

“Smuggling ballistae into Honos through Imperial Merchants,” I spoke aloud.

Feeble whispers of my craft reacted, threads of my Ability sparking as it Wove, again. Disappointment flooded me as it turned out to be a half-hearted tapestry—it wasn’t the same. My Ability wasn’t the same, I didn’t know what had triggered its spiral into tatters.

My hand curled into a fist as I slammed it against the table, cackling as pain shot up the offending appendages.

“Smuggling ballistae into Honos through Imperial Merchants,” I repeated, again.

This time, I Thought.

My threads pulled at a vision.

Vivid shades of crimson flame dappling a city of color, the acrid smell of sulfur clawing at throat and eye—screams of terror, widening eyes of panic, whispered last words; pure, mindless destruction ravaging the streets, fire consuming all. Scorching, searing, burning heat and hate, and love, simmering embers of loyalty to the fatherland and sacrifice. Humans paying the dues of their kings, the tip of shifting scales and balances.

All under the Anothen sky.

This is change, whispered my Ability. The debt that needs to be paid for revolution.

Revolution.

No, some voice in the back of my head said. Another.

I Thought again.

“Smuggling ballistae into Honos through Imperial Merchants,” I said a third time, only—

Columns, alight. Burning flags and papers. A familiar purple cape, scorched—

“No,” I said. “Another—” I cut myself off. “Distributing the sins of the Senate publicly.”

Papers, flashes of ruined lives and corpses at the bottom of a pile—outrage and hate and fire, again, pitchforks raised. A Republic’s own people turning against it, a branch of festering rot spreading through the entire tree. Flame, again—scarlet and amber, eating away at violet—

No. A younger, familiar voice. Another.

I closed my eyes, hands balled into fists again.

“Xandros’ plan,” I Thought aloud.

Coin lost to sea and hungry mouths, ships circling around docks and a city—outrage, deprivation, famine, shrivelled stomachs. A child, soaked in blood and barely bone, clutching a corpse—

Another.

Red, staining—

Another.

Burning violet—

Another.

Flame, scorching—

It is futile.

I smashed my hand on the table, again. They were bloodied instead of bruised, this time—scarlet leaked on the wood. “Who are you to tell me what is or is not futile?” I asked, that smile still plastered on my face. I ignored the I am you that came as a response. “Another.”

It is futile, my Ability insisted again. You will bring change, it is—

Another familiar voice, this time from a more recent past.

“‘Enough’ and ‘not enough’ are simply three words; and ‘futile’ simply one.”

Another—

“Never change, Sera.”

The same—

“I want to change this Empire.”

Those emotions, again—

My Ability’s voice was gentler. Change is not a penance you have to pay to those that came before you. Revolution is not a debt you owe the world—

I chuckled, but couldn’t summon false mirth this time.

“I will pay it all the same,” I whispered, crimson streaking my hands. “I will become powerful.”

I shut my eyes tighter, as the silence stretched longer. “I said, another.”

That night, I dreamed of fire and revolution.

Across the continent, Marcellus Romanus looked at the coin in his fingers.

He was growing old, bones cracking where they hadn’t before, aches gnawing at his legs and back—age was a slight thing, a creeping feeling that was far scarier than any monster the Consul had fought against.

The Hero blood that ran in his veins was fading, the scorching heat of formerly searing fire dwindling to a strangely warm tingle—and Marcellus couldn’t do anything about it.

“Julian’s a nice kid,” mused Valerius, from beside him.

Marcellus shook his head. “He’s soft, unsteady—more like his mother.”

Claudia...the woman was a shadow of the formidable foe she’d once been, Marcellus knew. The woman that’d loved fiercely but gently, an idealist who’d defend the Republic until her last breath—it was his fault, he would admit, that she’d fractured until now. He’d never loved her, not in the way he loved Valerius, not in the way he could love, but it’d been a waste.

The First Consul’s fingers closed over the coin.

“I said nice in terms of personality,” corrected Valerius, “not in terms of ability. He’s not bad on that front, either, but I see what you mean.”

The two rulers of the Republic Roma were seated in front of a war map, the room’s walls plastered with even more of the lot—figurines symbolizing various cohorts scattered strategically across the table.

Valerius reached over and moved a cluster to the east, to which Marcellus tilted his head.

“He’s unstable. Julian, I mean,” the First Consul said. “He was never given a solid foundation to build his ‘self’ around, so no matter how many people tell him to prioritize the Republic’s honor, the fact doesn’t change that he’s made up of other people’s ideals. He has no idea what honor actually means to him.”

The other made a humming noise. “Wish I had that problem with Cecilia.”

“Better headstrong than spineless, Evander,” chided Marcellus, eyes focused on the cluster Valerius had just moved. “East—if we decide on striking from there, we’ll have to move some of Cecilia’s forces that we sent as aid to Julian, back. The Army of Romulus is already tipsy.”

The move that stank of the Empire, but without Greta’s elegant foresight—malevolent, crudely refined, but effective. It didn’t have that Arathis’ slight touch—or any proof of external nudging, really.

Marcellus had recognized the dagger as a personal jab towards Julian—the one named Seraphina, the Harbinger Greta had mentioned she’d keep in check, had managed to unsettle the Consul’s son.

Again, Julian was soft.

The King of the Battlefield...

“We have no choice, Amadeus,” Valerius replied.

Marcellus shook his head, smiling wryly. “We always have a choice, Evander.”

Both of the Consuls had known war was inevitable—Marcellus’ dealings with Greta, although scandalous, had been cleaned up with Alberta Cassia’s execution. Politics was like that—always cleaning a bloody slate, only for it to get dirty all over again a few moves later.

Valerius sighed. “We have to attack first, Amadeus, or else—”

Marcellus held up a hand. “I never disputed that, Evander. The east is the best way.”

The Second Consul smiled, wryly. “But it’s not your way, is it?”

“But does it matter? What way is mine and which is yours, as long as we all know where we’re going?” The coin glinted in the Fox’s hand as he spun it in his palm, letting it slide between his fingers like a slippery fish before Marcellus enclosed it yet again in a fist.

Valerius closed his eyes as he sighed. “Being vague does you no good, Amadeus.”

But Marcellus’ friend—perhaps even lover, if they shared a mind and not a bed—understood.

Only he, Valerius Evander Romus, could ever see what Marcellus saw.

Greta was correct—the Republic’s system needed to be fixed.

But it couldn’t be solved with conquest.

The First Consul opened his hand and plucked the coin off it with his other, placing it against the war map’s surface as he twisted. The denarius spun for a long while before skittering across the table and skidding to a halt in front of the figurine Valerius had moved. It had landed round, shiny, and perfect—lasciate ogne speranza, it spoke.

“Yes,” murmured Marcellus Romanus, smiling, “it does not matter.”

War without death was idealistic, I knew—but still I calculated the route with the least losses and most benefits; which was, unsurprisingly, aiming only for the building in which the Senate held their meetings.

“It has to be coordinated,” I said, “and it has to have flair. To offset the patriotic anger of the ‘Pubs, we first have to tip morale. I already included the possibility of distributing the Senate’s ‘atrocities’ but that makes it obvious. It’s crude. Anyone can see it and label it, ‘Imperial propaganda.’”

“Which is why,” Delphine prompted.

“Which is why,” I agreed, “there’s another option.”

I had Mercy distribute the papers to the Duchess and Alexandros, the only other people in the room. They were a copy of what I’d given Julian, and what Timaios had given me.

Delphine tilted her head as she perused it. “You want to spill the Empire’s secrets and the Republic’s secrets at the same time,” she noted lightly, with an airy giggle. “And let the people choose?”

I smiled in return. “We leak ours, first—and we control what gets leaked, a better alternative than the Republic using our dirty secrets against us later on. We pass it off as the Republic’s agents trying to lower morale, and they’ll succeed—for a while. But if the secrets are mild, and we leak the Republic’s worst in retaliation…”

“You’re trying to create a public illusion of fairness,” observed Xandros, curiously. “That’s smart, Boss.”

A lopsided, dreamy smile appeared on Delphine’s face. “But risky,” she said. “You plan to use this as an opening to strike with your...Trident Formation, yes?”

“Correct,” I replied. “After we refine everything, and pass it along to Sis for approval—”

“You want my opinion on it.” The Zephyrean Cardinal’s voice was curious. “You want me to fix any holes that I see.”

I inclined my head, still smiling. “That is correct, Your Excellency.”

Delphine hm’ed. “The first step is problematic,” she said. “If you’re relying on just me to corral a noble rebellion, I’m not your noble—unless, of course, you have someone with close ties to the Armistice, who I’m assuming you’re targeting.”

She had caught on.

I was going to leak a majority of the military marquessates’ secrets as a substitute for any state-threatening tidbits—instead of waiting for the military marquessates to rebel, I was going to spark one. That was what my dreams—well, nightmares—had spawned.

“The Marksman Duchy,” I elaborated.

“The Marksman Duchy,” I elaborated. “If my half-brother takes charge of the Armistice after we put down the rebellion, we won’t have any chances of them rising up again—Williams will likely be alright; but if Timaios can succeed the Drakos marquessate, the Armistice will be fully under our control.”

A plan that has a lot of parts.

“But first, you need to get approval,” said Delphine.

“But first, I need to get approval,” I agreed.

Until then, I was going to explore my Ability.

The Dragon King wanted his throne back, but no one was willing to give it to him.

And for that, Timaios Drakos could blame no one but himself and the world.

“Father—” he began, but was interrupted by Damianos’ face contorting into a snarl.

“You can’t persuade me, Timaios—I know your weak-hearted agenda and I won’t stand for it.” The Marquis sneered. “Apparently beating that lesson into your head wasn’t enough—you at least got better as you got older, becoming a socialite. Now, you have nothing. I had to drag you back to the marquessate and make you heir. You’re weak, pathetic, and a disgrace to my Legacy—who are you, to try and change me?”

Timaios didn’t flinch.

“The Empress has far more resources than you can imagine,” the former Dragon King warned. “Going against her now—starting a rebellion—could cost us the entire war, Father. And with that loss, we’ll lose the entire Empire—”

“The Empire doesn’t care,” spat Timaios’ father. “About you, me—it’s a living, breathing, treacherous system; it’s better off being ruled by those Republica fools than continuing in history. I refuse to let it swallow us whole.”

“Father—”

Damianos continued. “You heard, didn’t you? The Empress—Greta—is playing a game with empires, and it’d be better if we profit off it all the while. So what if she says we can’t trade with the ‘Pubs? We need to continue, not the Empire.”

Timaios raised an eyebrow.

“And the Armistice?” he asked.

His father waved a hand, anger dimming. “It’s a sinking ship, at this point. The Marksman Duchy expressed interest in skimming weapons from the Empire and reselling it to the Republic; but they were hesitant to join in a rebellion.” Damianos snorted. “Would’ve called them cowards, but they’re more treacherous snakes than scared dogs.”

Timaios’ room, where the two were conversing, was well-furnished and comfortable. As the former socialite settled in a squat armchair, his mind flashed back to Seraphina—his deal with the Sixth Princess had been more of a gamble than anything else, but the danger of it had thrilled him, reminding him of endeavors and whispers long past.

His power.

Timaios wanted it back.

He could make the rebellion happen. But—

“Your partners,” said Damianos. “What were their names? Tanis, Katherine...and that other one, the new one. That redhead, too.”

Timaios’ fingers dug into his chair. That cold thing crawled up his throat and coated his words, mask on again. “Threatening them won’t do you any good, Father—this rebellion is doomed to fail.”

Timaios’ father studied him—the anger, the sleaziness, the fiery accusation that served as a front faded away from Damianos’ face. “You want to protect them, don’t you?” asked the Marquis, softly. “The ones you love? You had that power, before—but the crown took it away from you.”

Manipulation.

Any regret that flickered inside Timaios’ chest at what he planned to do faded away.

Cold crept up on his skin, as Timaios tightened his fist. “The crown took it away,” he agreed, “but that doesn’t mean I have to immediately agree to help you, Father—maybe I’ll consider it. But that’s all you can make me do.”

The Marquis leaned back, obviously satisfied.

“Fine,” replied Damianos.

The former socialite scowled, before running a practiced hand through his hair.

“I need a drink,” muttered Timaios.

“Pour me one,” called Damianos, as the Dragon King headed to the liquor cabinet installed in the room.

Timaios obeyed, pouring two glasses of wine, before hovering a palm-up hand over the rim of one. His other fingers twisted the gem of a ring, and from the crystal leaked drops of an unidentifiable liquid. Dark mingled with grape red, and after the King was finished with the cup, he handed it to his father.

“Cheers,” toasted the drakon-vasiliki, as they both drank.

Wine dripped from the former socialite’s lips as choking sounds filled the air.

Timaios Drakos watched his father die with an affable smile on his face.

The rebellion was quenched. Seraphina would be ecstatic.

The Dragon King sipped his wine.

If they wouldn’t give him his throne back, he would just make a new one.

Alexandros was confused. It was a strange feeling.

By the evening light, he looked at his notebook—he’d scrawled everything he knew (he was going to burn it later, of course).

Project Propaganda (in preparation for Project Ballistae):

Controlled secret leaking, control of morale—?

Project Armistice:

Seizing control of the Armistice to prevent rebellion, reasserting Imperial control over weapons production—?

Project Favor (in preparation for Project Ballistae):

IN CONJUNCTION WITH ZEPHYREAN DUCHESS

Winning over mercantile favor and support by implementing under-the-table deals where the Empire would move mercantile heirs out of harm’s way for a price (price being material money / support in illegal smuggling—?

Project Ballistae (part of Project Trident):

Smuggling ballistae & explosives into the Republic’s capital; setting them off in Honos’ Senate building.

Aim: to kill all Senate members.

Project Trident

Three-pronged attack on the Strongholds of the Republic—

He was interrupted by the faint scent of grapes.

“Those are very nice notes,” Seraphina remarked, gracefully smiling as she leaned forward over his shoulder.

Her close proximity would’ve made a person blush if it weren’t for the fact that Alexandros was very, very scared of her.

“Thanks, Boss,” he said, following a cough.

Before he’d recognized Seraphina as the Sixth Princess, she’d merely been a dangerous-looking noble that he’d wanted to have no connection with. But then she’d shown that she could give him what he wanted—change—and all mistrust had...not exactly magically vanished, but faded over time.

It wasn’t trust, but Alexandros realized it was loyalty.

When he’d realized it, he’d refrained from bursting out laughing.

“You might become a general,” said the princess.

He blinked (he’d gotten used to the theatricality of her dramatic pauses).

“Excuse me?” Xandros asked.

Seraphina made a humming noise, as she withdrew. The trio—Alexandros, Mercy, and Seraphina—were lined up against a wall of a building in the Duchess’ manor due to the princess insisting she needed to enjoy the famed Zephyrean breeze.

The Sixth Princess tapped the side of her head. “I know,” she elaborated, “that you might get promoted to a high official rank if we continue with our plans.”

Seeing the future.

“That’s new,” Alexandros observed.

Seraphina looked pleased.

“Yes, it is,” she confirmed, a mischievous smile on her face. The blank expression that she adopted sometimes mixed with her features—sometimes, Xandros wasn’t sure which emotion was foreign and which was familiar.

The former Guard initiate furrowed his brows, as Seraphina explained.

“I can see change,” she said. “Not the future. I can see change, consequences. I Think—” a word that vibrated with mysticality “—and I see. Might not be the same as Weaving, but I think it’s a quaint addition. Got it last night.” The Duke’s daughter turned to Mercy and beamed, as if her explanation made perfect sense.

“Congratulations,” responded Lady Mercy, in that dry-but-not-quite tone she often spoke in (it wasn’t sarcasm, but something similar).

Lady—Alexandros found the courtesy always tacked to the assassin’s name when he thought about her, these days. It was easy to forget Mercy—Xanthe was her real name, if he remembered right—was younger than him.

The ego of the formidable assassin and right hand of the Princess, and a young girl were two separate personas that Alexandros had trouble combining.

In theory, Mercy and Seraphina had only known each other for three Daycycles. Ninety days, around.

But it felt like the assassin would walk through fire for her liege.

As Xandros was about to provide his own two cents, a Zephyrean guard (member of the Princeblood? Yeah, that was the name for it) accompanied by a scuttling servant made their way to the trio.

Seraphina’s face immediately contorted into something unreadable (to which both Alexandros and Mercy clenched their fists, automatically) before she raised her eyebrows.

“Where did the attack happen?” asked the Hundredth Victor, evenly.