And so, we witnessed the might of the Anothen sky and fled,

For the eternal sun had already won.

As my legs took me from the light, in my head

Echoed the words, you reap what you sow. Spun

The seeds of honor and glory, the reaper's sleep the only vine grown,

All is lost in the final sun,

For we have not been blessed by the sky's own.

- ULTIMUM SOLEM, A POEM WRITTEN BY A SOLDIER THAT SURVIVED ANGELO THE AVENGER'S CONQUERING OF NOTUS

NEVER IN HIS LIFE HAD MARIANUS GAIUS CASSIA EVER THOUGHT he’d ever be a traitor to his kind. A traitor to his blood, perhaps, but never a deserter—never a turncoat. He managed a dry chuckle now as he looked at the war plans on his desk.

He’d heard the possible movement of troops to Bellum, of course—it had been a decision made by the higher-ups, and he’d agreed with the possible allocation of the Fourth and Fifth Cohorts to the Mountain City. The plan was basically a shift change—Cecilia’s First and Second Cohorts would switch out with some of the Romulus border forces to aid the Union frontier effort, in the case of the Army’s morale faltering.

This…

Two praetors heading up the Snakelands for a campaign, together? It wasn’t just overkill, it was against protocol—of course, any protocol could be overridden by enough votes by the Senate, but that wasn’t the point.

If Julian went missing in action, Marianus would be the one to take his place as the primus pilus of the Army. Marianus was currently missing in action, and the Second Cohort’s leader was dead.

The First and Second Cohort had been positioned by the border before the Consuls had gone to the Empire, and Julian had been sent to Honos immediately for war preparations after they’d returned. Marianus hadn’t seen hide or hair of his—friend?—even when the orders had been sent, but orders were orders.

Armed with all the battalion plans the Republic had to offer, Marianus had followed protocol. The Bellum move hadn’t been protocol.

It was forbidden for two praetors to go on a campaign together.

Marianus ran a hand through his hair.

He’d informed the Imperials of the laws, of course—but he’d understated it, a bit. Just in case.

When had his resolve wavered? When had he felt like he was being involved in a tug-of-war with two nations?

The answer didn’t matter, he thought, as he heard faint singing. “The battle of ends and beginnings,” a familiar voice murmured, “where the Gods collect their winnings…” Anaxeres entered his tent, followed by the Ducal Lord.

“Sera sent over a letter,” said the Duke first, briskly. “Seems like we’re branching out in the weapons smuggling department.”

Petra made themselves comfortable on Marianus’ bed. “What he means is, ‘do you know any good, secret paths to Honos’?”

“Honos?” repeated the former centurion. “That—would be difficult, and I’m not even lying so I can milk more benefits out of both of you.” Marianus ran another hand through his hair. “Like I told you, they’re breaching protocol right now, so I can’t know for sure what defences they’ve put up since I don’t know which orders they’re following. I was transferred from Gloria to our border outpost without stopping there, too, so I can't help you there.”

Petra blinked lazily at the former centurion.

“You grew up there, didn’t you? The Cassia fief’s on the outskirts of Honos, right?”

“I mean, they do call my kind ‘capital boys,’” said Marianus, “but it’s not like I had a particularly interesting youth.”

Good paths…

He did have one way in.

Flowers…

Aunt Claudia.

But it would require him to betray his only friend. That...was troubling.

Anaxeres was still singing quietly. “The Empire Eternal, for we do not live—for this land, we live—for our pride…” the Duke looked up after humming the last note, tilting his head. Those unnerving eyes, even with the friendly glint in them, made Marianus uneasy.

“You have a plan, don’t you?” asked the Duke, smiling genially. “I can only imagine how much turmoil you’re facing—I understand if you’re reluctant to share, truly.”

Petra merely raised their eyebrows. “Stop trying to guilt-trip him,” they said. They turned to Marianus. “To you, we might be dirty, backstabbing Imperials; but we have a better sense of honor than any of your higher-ups in the Republic who don’t even earn their decisions.”

“The Imperial honor,” Anaxeres chipped in. “That self-serving honor.”

Petra casually kicked the Duke in the shin as they leaned forward. “It’s up to you whether or not you think this is a good cause, but if you’re going to defect, you can’t think in terms of all-in or not. You need to have something to even sit at the table—and staying at it is another matter.”

Marianus clenched his fists.

He saw red—but not that anger-inducing haze.

The red of an apple accepted.

The faint notes of a Duke softly singing—“We live for the tide—that inevitably turns for us; we live to declare that, from thus”—echoed in the silence, before the Duke of Tyche cut himself off. “Do you have what it takes to stay at the table, Marianus?” asked Anaxeres, still placid.

Marianus had spent the past days conversing with them, and they hadn’t seemed like horrible people—but that was the thing with villains, weren’t they? The saga of a gambler who exploited his people; or a tale of a bastard child who conquered their birthright crowned in blood—once you started seeing the person, not the thing, they became human.

Redeemable people.

But they didn’t want redemption, did they?

A villain’s honor.

The tartness of fruit tainted Marianus’ tongue again.

“Julian,” began the former centurion, before hesitating and speaking again, “has a mother. She likes flowers—rhododendrons, especially.” Aunt Claudia. He felt like a traitor. “It’s well-known,” Marianus drew out the words, “that the Consul never visits her, even though Julian built her an estate. Consul Marcellus doesn’t like her gardening, but he doesn’t actively stop it, either.”

A pause.

The gambler and the halfling waited.

“She should be in her manor in the capital, right now—it’s protocol.” The words were sandpaper in Marianus’ throat. “But, if I return, or we deceive her into receiving packages for her garden, we should have a way in Honos. She has the least political attachments because both her husband and father are distant from her, and everyone thinks she’s too ditzy to be useful—the better way is if I return, I think. Her letters might be watched.”

Anaxeres hummed.

“Are you going to turn on us, then, when you get back to the capital?”

He could lie, right now, Marianus thought, but something told him that it would be a bad idea.

“No,” the former centurion replied, finally. “Alea iacta est—I...have gone past the point of no return.”

Seraphina had promised him freedom.

Marianus had never felt more trapped.

It was hard to believe Julian had been bested. Yet, the truth lay in the corpses of his soldiers.

He’d called for a retreat, of course—but the Fire and Lightning that had rained down reminded him of a piece of history he’d once heard. The lines of a Poem whispered by his mother had echoed in his ears: and so, we witnessed the might of the Anothen sky and fled, for the eternal sun had already won.

The Chosen that he had exchanged words with just days ago had turned into a monster. His arms had been wreathed in blue Fire, dapples of violet crescendoing the electricity crackling in his hands as the sky had ripped upon at his command. The look on his face as flame danced in his surroundings was as if the spear in his hand could move Earth and Heaven.

Julian had fought.

He managed to wound Cyrus quite deeply, but the fact remained that the Chosen was unlike any Minotaur he had fought before. As Fire enveloped his comrades, he called for Cecilia to lead the troops away—but most of them had been caught, including Julian.

Only Cecilia and some of her people had made it out.

And the boy-praetor himself?

He had collapsed in the battle, violet cape scorched and electrocuted more than once, and for that he chuckled now.

“I haven’t been this injured since the Minotaur,” Julian admitted out loud, to the Chosen in front of him.

Cyrus snorted. “You finally decided to dispense with the honorable facade?” he asked, not a hair out of place on his head. He looked the trademark Republica soldier—the Prince had the trademark tanned skin and dark hair (let loose in neat curls around his bronze face), complete with the sharp nose and sharper jawline. Bandages were wrapped around his chest, however—something grim filled Julian’s chest, at that.

“It’s not a facade,” replied the praetor.

The former Halgrove scion shrugged. “You’re right,” he conceded. “At least facades are shallow.” A strange smile appeared on his face. “Being raised in the Republic digs deep inside you—there’s no amount of acting that can get rid of that.”

Julian dipped his head in half-agreement before he looked at his surroundings. He’d woken up in a lavish parlor decorated in an Imperial fashion—the most likely option was Eurus, the Golden Fortress of the East, that he’d been taken to.

At least he hadn’t been chained.

He wasn’t sure if that was an honor, or a testament to the fact that Cyrus could strike him down easily.

“What happened to my subordinates?” asked the Romanus scion.

The Prince seemed to react to that, a frown touching his neat eyebrows. “I wanted to give them a choice,” he said. “Elexis—Her Grace—said that it would be more practical if we left no survivors. Said it would raise overall diplomatic relations.” He spoke as if he saw the reasoning behind it, but thought there had to be something better.

Julian felt that feeling in his chest again, before he worded his question.

“Do you believe that what you’re doing is good?”

Cyrus studied him, at that. A silence persisted, as the Prince frowned. “Worthy,” he settled on the word. “Not good—but does it really have to be wholly good, for it to be a worthy cause?” Zeus’ Chosen leaned backward. “Every country, every nation, every Empire poisons themselves from the inside out, yet people still fight. Even if it destroys them, even if it destroys the world around them, they fight. Because the cost of a cause should not diminish its value.”

“Even if the cause is selfish?” the praetor spoke.

This was bordering on something personal. In truth, Julian had wanted to let the Prince lead the conversation and spill something the praetor could use as an advantage—but after the embers had cooled, he realized that a new fire had been stoked in him.

What it would burn, the boy wondered.

The Prince didn’t ponder the question.

“Especially if it is selfish,” Cyrus responded. “And especially if the cause holds value to only you.”

A cause.

His people, his Army had perished at the hands of the Prince—and the praetor felt remorse, that he could feel mostly relief overpowering grief.

Julian smiled mirthlessly. “If only it was that easy.”

“It is,” said the Chosen. “People just make it harder for themselves. ‘

A silence.

Pain gnawed at the boy’s bones, but the Minotaur Slayer had long past the point of cowering.

“You cannot use me,” said the young Romanus scion. “My father would sooner replace me than succumb—he will find a way to recover. The people that praised me as the incarnation of Romulus will lament my fall, but they will find another to praise, another to pedestalize. I upheld my duty, and now I have been defeated. I suppose it is that easy, like you said.”

“We spoke,” Cyrus responded. His early thirties hung on him when it hadn’t been visible before. “The Republic has twisted your sense of self, frater.”

Julian laughed. “It is not as if the Empire is any better, levir.”

Electricity sparked the air, and the Lightning Prince was silent.

“I had nothing,” the halfling offered. “I came to the defense of a servant, and I was whipped. Humiliated. The other people of Halgrove—and my mother, who saw me as nothing but a mistake—took the opportunity to exile me, and so I fled across the Empire. I went to Notus, met up with a couple of bandits, joined them. Once I saved enough money, and went to Boreas to see my father, I was shunned.”

Resentment coursed in Cyrus’ voice, but it wasn’t hatred, not yet.

“I came back, to Notus—came back to my family. My real family. Spent a Daycycle or two, before the Halgroves came and killed them all.”

There it was.

The half-Republica closed his eyes, as if remembering. “And they burned—and, how they burned. That was when My Liege Chose me, but I will never forget.” The Chosen flung his eyes open. “You should not, either. I burned your people, your comrades. If you want to destroy me—destroy the Empire—do not let anyone stop you.”

Electric blue eyes seared.

Julian said, simply, “The Empire can bring change to the Republic—change that is desperately needed, levir. I will not be one to stand in their way—my story ends here.”

In the time he had spent with the Imperials, he knew that not one would let the patricians fiddle while the Republic burned. Perhaps they would be behind the fire, but no more would Julian hear their merrymaking amongst the screams—and that would be enough.

He felt the weight of a ring on his left hand, a promise.

“You are right,” the other agreed. “A story ends here.”

Cyrus Queenscage leaned back, gesturing towards the door.

“But ours has only begun.”

I sent the reports of the full Trident Formation to Greta and spent the rest of the day sorting out tasks between me and Delphine. While she took charge of the respective neighboring fiefs belonging to the Zephyrean mercantile families she was in charge of, I was left travelling to the prominent Merchants in the city and threatening them as I saw fit.

Papers were signed and families left uneasy as the Zephyrean sun continued to set and I withdrew into my parlor, my duty of filling the Imperial coffers done for the day (I made them swear Oaths of secrecy lest they die painfully, of course. They were ordered to collect their connections and money, and await further orders.

I, of course, kept the blackmailing to a minimum. Rebellions tended to spawn when you were too aggressive—and if we wanted to start conscription soon, morale was better off high. I wrote a separate treatise on the subject that I sent along with the ‘official’ Trident report—co-submitted by me, Alexandros, and Delphine—and sighed.

Naxy, Petra, and Marianus would likely accomplish the operation by themselves, but I was unsure that Marianus would stay in the position we needed him in. I couldn’t force the issue, but it was likely Naxy would take care of it—even if it wouldn’t be in the fashion I was used to.

Julian…

It wasn’t worry or anything resembling anxiety I’d felt when I’d heard he was a part of the Snakelands campaign—the ring he sent me meant that he would come to our side out of his own will like I’d planned (sooner or later)—but the whole situation was strange.

I slipped the ring off my fingers and twirled it around my knuckles, silent as I felt Xandros and Mercy’s gazes on my back. Two praetors headed east after losing a vital part of an Army.

I was missing something.

But what?

The Consuls weren’t shortsighted—just damaging diplomatic relations and winning one victory temporarily wouldn’t be enough.

I Thought.

Nothing.

That only validated the conclusion I’d made that I could only see changes that I was the cause of, and that unsettled me. I doubted the fact that I was the only one capable of a scheme that would see Honos burn—I wasn’t even the one carrying it out, now that my first draft wasn’t logically possible.

Even though Greta had passed any actions I would take in Zephyr, something as daring as Xandros’ proposal would need to go by her before being carried out. I’d sent her the bare bones in her letter, but it was a far different beast fleshed out—I’d seen it in action (in Thought).

I would be a fool to trust my Ability after it had deceived me, but deceived wasn’t the right word for it.

My conclusions from before had followed a different logic, played a different game than the one Greta had won.

I had been fooled before, and even though I hadn’t loved the feeling, my Ability had taken a different form from before. It felt like a separate person, a separate voice that had its own agenda of pushing me into a mould that I wasn’t sure I fit. But it was only showing me visualizations of possibilities I had already known existed.

Right?

Shut up, I told it, shoving it into a corner of my brain.

(I now could distinguish its voice from the thoughts in my head, which was good. I also could control it better, which was also good.)

“Should I ask them to send up dinner?” voiced Mercy.

I inclined my head. “Just bring all our meals up—and Xandros’ too.” I looked at him inquisitively. “Are you eating dinner with us? It’ll be a long night.” I still needed to write a detailed report on the Merchants I encountered, along with names, promises, and numbers—I wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight (not that I did any other day, but it was the principle of it).

Accounting.

I internally grimaced.

I needed to go another round and collect payments tomorrow—after everything was finalized, we would be done corralling the Merchants and their assets, and we could implement the blockade from Zephyr right after we received the report.

“Dinner?” Xandros blinked. “We’re—all eating together?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“I don’t have any boots to lick right now, so why not,” I responded, giving a nod to Xanthe. She nodded back, sliding away to the kitchen, leaving Xandros and I alone. It was then that I heard the—

Ticking.

Ticking of a beat—or a rhythm? It was a human sound, like nails tapping against metal or glass.

I let it prolong until it could be nothing accidental.

“Do you hear that?” I asked my minion.

Alexandros looked around as if searching for the noise, only to shake his head. “No, Boss.”

Huh.

The Song persisted—it quieted, fading to the background as I forgot about it but growing louder when I focused on it—throughout the night.

Lazarus Marksman could see the tactical benefits of Imperial control over the Armistice. As far as he knew, the feudal system operated on irontight Oaths, and had since even before the Angelian reforms. But those irontight Oaths were specifically engineered to not include swearing off betrayal or rebellion, in the case that a ruler really did need overthrowing—at least, until the next Victor came along.

The technology of guns had been a new addition to the ever-growing arsenal of modern weapons. Of course, Lazarus knew that there had to be efficient facilities to house, transport, and produce said weapons, and with that came the military marquessates.

The Armistice.

Seraphina had once idly explained to him once that it was a Republica word. With all the passion of someone discussing the weather, she’d picked the roots apart with the skill of a linguist and remarked it as witty.

“Williams and Drakos are the arms, and the signatories are Inevita and the rest of the Empire,” she’d said wryly. “Clever.”

The Marksmen were a military duchy, Lazarus knew—now, after being forced to recite its history at random intervals by Matthias and Theadora to play the part of the golden boy, he knew very well the depths of its position.

If the Empire wanted to bring the Armistice to heel, they would need Inevita to hand the leash over.

There was the distance of Lake Ichor between the Second Isle and the northeastern fiefs of the marquessates, but the latter were the former’s vassals. Any large operations would need signing off by Matthias himself, and for that Lazarus understood how important it was that he play his part.

His father and stepmother knew how important the position was to him, and Lazarus knew they knew, which meant the Duke and Duchess liked to dangle it in front of the former Guard’s face like a bone.

He’d fit in quite well, of course—he’d reconnected with his old friends, managed to spin a rumor that he would never abandon those looking for a favor, and took those he could.

But he’d always been like that.

“Take it.”

He didn’t know how exactly he’d gotten himself into this situation.

Matthias’ eyes were cold as he handed the long snake of a whip to his bastard son.

The Servant was cowering—Lazarus didn’t know what their name was, but he didn’t need to.

This…

How?

Instinctively, the former Guard recoiled, and Matthias snorted.

“Soft-hearted, aren’t you? Like your mother.”

Now that—

Lazarus heard Theadora laugh. Laugh. “Don’t tease the poor dear,” she said. “I’m his mother.” Her voice was warm like it’d always been, but brimming with warning.

They were in the cellar. No one was around.

It would be alright.

The former Guard felt his hand stretch out to receive the whip. As the bastard son stepped forward, he raised the handle—

And whirled backward, slamming it down on the Duke. Matthias received the blow with surprising ease, laughing as blood streamed down his face. “Always knew you weren’t like your sister,” the Duke Marksman said, wiping the crimson off before revealing a blade. “She at least took it quietly, you know. We weren’t even the ones who had to—”

Lazarus unsheathed his knife and fell on Matthias before the Duke could move. As the blade went through his father’s chest, the former Guard felt another sink into his stomach and another in his back.

Theadora.

“Halfling,” she hissed into his ear.

He was Lazarus Nameless.

The Guard smashed his head back into his stepmother’s nose. Gods, it felt so satisfying to hear that smash and scream. Two knives embedded in him, Lazarus moved on the two people he hated most in the world.

The day ended in blood before the bastard of Inevita screamed over the body of a dead Servant.

“Help! Someone help! A Servant killed my parents!”

Greta looked at the northwest and northeast of her Empire in turn and saw the rot in its depths. Of course, it’d be festering for a long time, and the Empress doubted that she would be the one to purge it all, yet it remained still.

She gathered her northeastern pieces in a cluster, to which she heard Nikephoros’ voice come in a gentle rebuke.

Too many chains.

“Are you really going that far?” An echoing sentiment dripped from the lips of the Empress’ brother, a figure with familiar amber eyes leaning on a pillar in the empty bedroom. “You’re making her depend on you—all to keep a Harbinger under control, you’re manipulating your sister.”

“She’s not my sister,” Greta murmured.

And she wasn’t. Technically.

“She is. She’s family.” His gaze was as brittle as ever, but it softened. “We’re family. All of us.”

A wry smile appeared on her face. “I’m alive. You’re dead.” Twenty years of hiding her ‘commoner bluntness’ were peeled back in the face of rue, and so the Empress turned her gaze back to the war map. “Since you’re here, you might as well tell me what you think. Not personally, Rion—practically.”

The hallucination of the dead archer approached.

“I suppose the bit you were talking about makes sense,” Orion mused. “I still think you shouldn’t put too many leashes on her. You’ve already nudged her into swearing an Oath, and she indirectly owes you for her current political opportunities—she knows you’re grooming her into your successor. You shouldn’t let your paranoia turn into overkill.”

It was what was left of her conscience speaking to her, concise logic laced in his words.

“Overkill,” Greta mused. She shook her head, just a bit. “Better too much than not enough, Rion—that’s what Father always said.”

Orion’s mien was dry—her memory had sculpted him in a flawless visage that was a step shy of reality. Younger than he’d been, before his death; features moving easier to smile and frown, like he’d been before the years had passed.

The Empress looked at the cluster she’d formed. “It will be a chain, yes, but a necessary one. All people need to be bound, Rion—you never understood that.”

“Understood the necessity of treating people like puppets?” asked the archer, dryly.

“Necessity,” she corrected. “You never understood the necessity of it all.”

The map stretched far, inks dark and light, drawn neatly and beautifully. The cluttered surface was made the label by Crownpieces, scattered in nowhere and everywhere in particular—the figures gathered creases in the otherwise-pristine surface, and so Greta blinked.

Orion spoke, breaking the otherwise-serene silence. “You cannot defend against the Fox and the Wolf while keeping together your throne, Greta. Arathis is only stirring up trouble because he does, in his own way, want to help.”

Stop.

He wants to stop me.

Too little too late.

“Do not argue with me from beyond the grave, brother,” said the Empress, giving an uncharacteristically flippant wave. “I do not care to converse with ghosts.”

A beat.

“But I am not a ghost, sister. I am you.”

There it was.

“The worst part of me,” said Greta Queenscage. “And for that, you do not define my best.”

Her Dream faded from her vision.

Valerius knew that Cecilia would follow his orders. She always did, even though her pride insisted she haggle on all of them at home. Marcellus had predicted that the two would be captured, but had needed there to be only one left.

Greta would not fall for the Republic’s weakened state.

But if she deliberated for too long, she would lose morale and the already-turbulent respect of her people.

That meant she needed to move, and soon.

The Wolf smiled.

Conquest was not the way.

And for that the Empress would learn a lesson.

The sun rose, and with it came a lesson.

I’m the only Chosen who wants to live, I had said.

Now, I barked a harsh laugh, quietly breaking the silent night.

“No—I’m the only one who doesn’t know how to live.”