There the conqueror stands, their hands torn and ruined bloody,

There they see their lands, ground dark ash and scarlet muddy.

There the conqueror bends, flower bitter rue on shallow grave,

There they see their boots, tread heavy on crimson wave.

There the conqueror begins, crown of rust in iron’s stead,

There their reign demands a price, of tears shed sanguine red.

There the conqueror is sent, spear broken under standing mast,

For there the conqueror kneels, in wish this step their last—

There their banner is aside cast, cerise path wedding knee bent, for

“Here is my only lament, that it is but I the Gods sent.”

- THE CONQUEROR'S PATH, PLAY OF OLD

banned for being allegedly based on Emperor Angelo the Avenger, thus disgracing the Imperial Name

“What makes up a dream?”

Aeron’s mother had once asked.

Was it a single-minded focus on one vision, one goal?

No, technically, because if you let your dream consume you, there wouldn’t be enough left of you to carry it out.

Was it the reason behind a dream?

Each person always had their reasons—if one’s dream was to see the world burn, then would having a ‘bad’ reason make it not a dream?

No, a dream was a dream.

It could be a flight of fancy, an aspiration plucked from bloodied hands, an obligation to a burning kingdom or a promise to a dying loved one. When there were thoughts of present leading to future, a dream was born. Dreams could die, as well—easily, in a child’s tears; struck down by reality—but anything could be a dream. Anything and everything, everything and nothing—those were the stuff of dreams.

“A dream is a wish made flesh by the mind,” Anastasia had said. “And a wish is the bones of a dream formed by the heart.”

Romantically poetic, like most of his mother’s sayings. Contrarily, she’d favored a pragmatic approach when it came to raising Aeron, hammering the importance of wealth and station into the dealer’s head as soon as he could walk.

But, then again, perhaps it was wise.

Aeron retired from the operation after refusing to spy on the Imperial Family and doing his part escorting Seraphina from Tyche, upon which he was paid a very large amount of the promised payment.

He was rich, which was good; but he was also in the capital of the Empire during war, which was bad.

“Are yer sure yer can’t spare a ferry?” the card dealer asked, scratching his head. “I mean, come on, is it really on me if I want to escape this shit? I’ll pay ye’, I promise.”

The boat-owner shrugged, something resembling sympathy on their face. “You’re an out-of-towner, aren’t ya?” (Aeron had noticed the coarse capital ‘ya’ tended to be the replacement for the Tychean ‘ye’, but still the somewhat familiar accent made the dealer be reminded of home.)

Aeron blinked. “Yeah, came in from Evie—I can’t tell ye’ how important this is, mate.”

The boat-owner sounded genuine. “If I could, I would, man; but I’m taking the boat out with me and my family to the Second Isle to wait out most of the war—the Duke’s changed, ya know. All I’m hoping is that they’re kinder to commoners there.”

Aeron raised his eyebrows. “The Duke’s changed? In this situation?”

The other nodded. “It’s a wonder ya haven’t heard,” they commented. “News travels fast in the Empire. A Servant killed the Duke and the Duchess, and the bastard child—the new one they claimed—got heavily injured, but is the only remaining member of the family aside from the Sixth Princess.”

The boat-owner tilted their head, thoughtfully. “I mean, if I were the Sixth Princess, I wouldn’t trade an Imperial title for becoming a duchess, but who knows. The same thing happened to the Drakos marquessate—only for different reasons, but there’s a lot of political reformation going on. Turbulent times, but most people are staying because, well, if it all goes to shit then the Isles will likely be the last ones to fall.”

Strangely well-informed.

Aeron blinked. “That’s smart of ye.”

They shrugged. “Any one could tell ya the same.” Their expression was full of consideration. “I’ll tell ya what, I’ll give ya a freebie. On the house.” They dug into their pocket and brought out a crumpled piece of paper. “Doesn’t matter whether ya trust me or not, but make sure ya knock on the door and tell them it’s Killian. They’ll help ya find a way out, hear me?”

That was...surprisingly kind.

“Thanks,” said the dealer, gratefully. “No payments?”

“The deal is struck,” the boat-owner said in response. “I hope ya won’t be quick to distrust this city. Might be prickly on the outside, but place your faith in the fact that character is precious currency here. Kindness is shown, loyalty is earned, and trust is given. All ends in exchanges, friend. Good luck.” They reached out a hand.

Aeron shook it. “The deal is struck,” he echoed. “Good luck, mate.”

The dealer had a strange trust in this person, and Aeron’s mother whispered in her son’s ears: trust your instincts.

He did.

Aeron strolled his way to the address after purchasing a handy knife, and, while holding the blade discreetly in his hand, knocked on the door. He cleared his throat. “‘Ello?”

A peephole was uncovered. Green eyes met Aeron’s steady gaze.

“Who?” the voice demanded.

“Sent by Killian,” replied the dealer. Short, and to the point—Killian’s mini-political analysis meant they were educated, and with that likely meant connections. They hadn’t had the stench of wealth all over them, or any academic badges that were mandatory to wear when an Analyst, and there was a very large chance that all they were was an educated commoner.

But.

The door swung open.

It was a young boy, around nineteen or twenty if Aeron was being generous, but his green eyes burned. “What do you want?”

Aeron could see a hallway behind him, along with a map marked suspiciously thoroughly with strategic points the dealer confirmed with a glance.

Yep.

Anti-Imps.

“A boat,” said Aeron, casually. “Just need a way out here, back to Tyche.”

The boy’s lips twisted. “Fine,” he replied, running one hand through his head while narrowing the gap between the door and the frame. “What’s the code word?”

Aeron shrugged. “Killian sent me, told me ye’ would help me find a way out. Didn’t mention any code word.” The dealer blinked, calmly, as the boy’s eyes narrowed. “Look, if this is too much trouble, I’ll go knock on someone else’s door.”

As the card dealer turned, the boy called. “Wait.”

Aeron looked back to see the green-eyed boy’s hand raised up in exasperation.

“Wait,” the boy repeated, sighing. “You are owed a due by one of our own, and we will pay.” He thrust a hand out, and the dealer accepted it (Gods, the formality was killing him). “Vincent,” the boy introduced himself. “You can call me Vinny.”

“Aeron,” provided the dealer. “Nice te meet ye, Vinny. Sorry for cutting to the chase, but when should I expect me boat, then?”

Vinny blinked. “We’ll make arrangements,” he said, after a beat of consideration. Another beat. “Do you want to come in?”

Aeron barked a laugh. “I’m sorry but I’ll have to decline—that’s a surefire way to get meself shivved.” The dealer tipped an imaginary hat. “I appreciate the honor, though. Have a good day, Vinny. I’ll be ‘round te-morrow to cash the kindness in.” He turned again, before he was held back by another call.

“Prásina Mátia,” Vinny supplied. “You are under the protection of Vincent, Head of the Prásina Mátia. You will be back.”

The door was slammed.

“This Empire needs to burn.”

The impassioned youth clenched his fist.

“My father burned, because he dared to speak out. They see us flies, grains in an hourglass that wait for the inevitable. Temporary. Nonthreatening.” He barked a laugh. “Will we continue to serve emperors that scorn us? Continue to serve aristocrats that fight amongst themselves for power and excuse it with the fact that, ‘when elephants battle, ants perish’? Will we continue, to let them soak our lands bloody with our heartblood while they refuse to bleed even a drop?”

The boy who succeeded a fool’s errand shook his head as he stood in the room.

“For once, they will bleed, and they will bleed for this Empire. They will bleed for us, and we will bleed them dry.”

He raised his fist.

“We are the Prásina Mátia! One of their Imperial number has perished, and the crown has once again brought us into war! I say no longer! What say you!”

The people roared.

“No longer will they trample on us,” bellowed the boy. “No longer will they feast on our corpses! We will rise above, and we will see them burn.”

The people roared, louder.

Vincent ended the gathering with another roar, and so the group disbanded.

A boat.

It was easier to convince the populace to rebel than find a boat in this economy. Or political climate. “Bah,” the boy mumbled underneath his breath, as he tugged a knitted coat over his person.

The rebellion had been a long time coming. Ever since one of the Chosen got offed, and an opening was created when the newly-crowned Empress declared war, uniting the nobility seemed like the most pragmatic option. And it was—but leaving the people unattended was an unwise choice. Of course, Vincent admitted as he opened the door, he’d lost a few to the boost in morale with the so-called ‘Battle of Ends,’ but he still had enough.

The boy stepped out under the moonlight and breathed in to—

“I quite enjoyed that speech.”

Immediately, the boy’s attention whipped to the voice.

It was a golden-eyed woman, of Eurusan blood—she was beautiful, and dressed demurely in a cloak and modest dark robes; but Vincent had the feeling she’d worn far more luxurious silks. She was striking, older than him by ten-some years, and the boy’s eyes narrowed.

“Thank you,” he said, simply. He didn’t make an effort to approach her, and she didn’t edge nearer.

The woman laughed. “Aren’t you going to ask what part intrigued me?”

The lilt to her Imperi was more sing-songy than restricted to any type of category—if he had to place it, it was the voice of a person who was going to sell you something they knew you were going to buy.

Vincent ignored her, but the woman continued.

“‘They will bleed for us, and we will bleed them dry,”’ she quoted, smiling. “‘We will see them burn’ was a close second, though, I have to admit.” She drew closer, reaching out a gloved hand. “Ellie. Nice to meet you, Vincent.”

The boy ignored the hand, but Ellie continued with the offering hand raised.

“People think revolution is the flame,” she said. “The fire in the brazier that, if left unattended to, can burn your home—but still, one that can be easily put out.” She smiled, and it was more a genuine grin than the twist of the lips that the nobility frequently used, which unsettled Vincent. The woman continued, “But revolution is more the torch, isn’t it? Passed down from generation to generation, poem to poem, Play to Play.”

She held up her other hand, clenching a fist around a false object.

“But humans so easily lose control,” Ellie responded, golden eyes gleaming as she casually dropped the ‘torch.’ “And change burns the lands they mean to light.”

Vincent continued ignoring her.

“She means to light your lands, you know,” the woman informed him. “The torch-bearer—at this point, I’m not sure which of them is holding the torch at this point, really.” She sighed. “But the—successor, I suppose you can call her; even though it depends on whether she continues to let our sister bind her to the title—she thinks resistance to be extinguished. She hasn’t learned her lesson, not fully—but such is the way of the tyrant.”

Vinny raised his eyebrows, but didn’t comment.

“But what separates a conqueror and a tyrant?” the boy looked up at the moon and asked. Speaking riddles but not expecting answers. Pah. Very obviously a noble.

Monologues.

His father had always told Vinny to either engage as little as possible, and then indulge them.

“Every emperor is a conqueror,” Ellie answered, “but not every conqueror is an emperor.” The woman peered closer. “Well, now it’s obvious I can’t let you go free. After all, you asked the right questions—I really did hope I didn’t have to use this.”

Her golden eyes spoke louder than words.

“Seduce,” the Princess said.

A strange calm draped itself over the boy’s shoulders, and then there was—a Pull. Dark ebbed at his eyes, as a golden gaze stared at him. The surroundings faded away—who was he? What did he want—no, what did need to do? He remembered he needed to do something, but the desire melted away, replaced by something else.

He— needed to obey the Voice.

“Repeat after me,” the Voice said. “I, Vincent, swear to the Gods…”

The words were pulled out of Vincent’s mouth.

“I, Vincent, swear to the Gods…”

Well, that was a trident point gone, I thought to myself. Although I’d heard good news about Eurus, what with Cyrus’ diplomatic efforts bearing fruit, I doubted the Empire’s plans to utilize the Snakelands to charge Bellum would go smoothly. Julian had been taken into custody, and his subordinates had been burned, but the other praetor and her people had managed to get away.

But there was more to it, I mused internally, and likely the woman called Cecilia was going to be behind it. But Cyrus wasn’t blind, and neither was the Duchess Elexis—if the defeats kept hammering away at the population, the voluntary enlistment rates would plummet, they knew.

I was worried.

Whether about the country or my siblings, I didn’t know. Or care to find out, for that matter.

I stretched.

Azareth.

I would have to take care of that point myself—that was the duty entrusted to me, while partnering with Delphine. The next step would be to scout out Azareth, I supposed—we could make use of the Merchants’ ships easily, now that we’d bound them by Oath. The scamming-mercantile plan could be passed to Doxa as well, which Delphine promised she’d take care of.

The Republicas would be vigilant, expecting retaliation on the spy front—I didn’t doubt that Anaxeres and Petra would use Marianus to find a way in, but…

Was scouting out Azareth really a good idea?

Having a figurative ‘inside man’ would make coming up with a solid plan easier, even though coordinating with Delphine would be difficult, it was better for me to do it myself. Get a feel for the lay of the land in the Harbor City, before we boxed it in.

I didn’t occupy a high enough position that would allow me to trust my subordinates with the task—even though I did think they were up for it—since I was technically the ‘subordinate’ in question. I was the Sixth of a long line—or the Fifth, technically—and was inexperienced compared to the ducal heads.

It was a strange position.

“You know those sugared candies?” I asked, suddenly.

Mercy blinked, and, without missing a beat, replied. “The tiny pink ones?”

“Yeah, the tiny pink ones.” I mimed the shapes of tiny squares (I’d rather liked them when I’d first entered the palace).

Xandros hummed. “Should I go buy them for you, Boss?”

“That’d be great, my dear,” I said, before he left and I turned to my assassin, patting the seat next to me.

She sat, and I spoke.

“You know, I realize you haven’t been doing any assassin-y things. You know, killing people and the like.” I leaned back. “I’m planning to go to Azareth to prepare for the blockade. After Delphine’s finished coordinating with Greta for the siege plans, all we need to do is carry them out while Sister and the Consuls do their tug-of-war in the east.”

“And you want me to assassinate people there?” Mercy asked, after a beat of consideration.

“If there’s resistance after the siege, yes,” I agreed. “But the siege itself is dependent on whether the situation in Bellum gets better, and if the weapons get in Honos successfully. It’s better if we move soon, though.” Delphine had agreed on that.

After another beat, the assassin spoke up. “Is there anything I need to hide from Xandros?”

I blinked.

“It’s a strange problem,” I said. “It’s not that he isn’t loyal, it’s just…” I drummed my fingers on the table. “The conditions of his loyalty haven’t been spoken aloud. It might not seem like it, but I prefer for people to accept my offer voluntarily instead of strongarming them into Oaths. It leaves more trust between me and them, more room to move, instead of forcing them into invisible chains and restricting their potential.”

Like the ones I had put myself in.

“Like Macedon and Alyssa,” responded Mercy.

I gave a nod. “In other words, he’s not like you, my mercy.” I sighed, before wryly grinning. “I’d like to think your loyalty is unconditional, of course. But, under this sky, nothing’s wholly unconditional, is it?”

A silence that I let occupy the room.

“Is that what you see in me, Your Highness?” the assassin’s tone was dry. “Potential?”

In the stories, she’d be the protagonist—an orphan girl who had a person teach her amazing skills, the girl fighting her way to a noble title; if that person hadn’t been me and the teachings had been something more morally valuable than knives and poison. She was only a year younger than me, so technically she’d be my little sister if we were family.

She was a person to me.

She was.

But I still needed to use her as a tool.

“Potential?” I asked, repeating the word and rolling it around in my mouth. Images of the dead bodies in the Battle of Ends flashed before my eyes. So much wasted potential. “I suppose,” I said, closing my eyes. “But sometimes words can’t cover all the things humans can be.”

My mouth twisted, and Xanthe didn’t reply, merely watching me quietly.

A long silence, before Xandros came back with the treats and distributed the candy.

It was sweet.

Marcellus wasn’t tired.

At all.

He’d had the Senate up his ass for the entire period he’d held the position of Consul, and this was more than old hat—it was practically a reflex, a part of him. Smiling, laughing, and making false promises—Valerius had always been better at that branch of diplomacy, but Marcellus was no dilettante (well, the Consul wasn’t sure anyone could afford to be a dilettante, in politics).

Valerius had already delivered the instructions, the pieces had been set up, and all the Consul needed to do was wait for them to fall.

As the music of the ballroom faded into the background, Marcellus sipped his wine on his ceremonial seat at the head of the room. It tasted like it always did, metallic and sour-sweet, sliding down the former general’s throat like the years of bitter celebration it usually came with.

His oldest friend looked at Marcellus from across the expanse, crowded by patricians and wine glasses. Silver was gnawing his close-cropped hair, age grasping at Valerius’ face, but as the other Consul smiled, Marcellus could see that youthful soldier who’d promised that he’d buy Marcellus a drink if the then-centurion managed to shoot three bullseyes in a row.

The familiarity in Valerius’ grin, genuine despite the years of political rivalry they’d forged through, caused the aging wolf to lift his cup to his Evander’s, in a slight toast.

And Marcellus drank.

Yes, their east would burn.

Cecilia led her men under the cover of night—after all had been done and burnt, she’d led them to a designated camp (as instructed) and healed their injuries (as best she could). The Eurusan healers had been surprisingly obstinate, but there’d been enough of the obedient ones to get them patched up well and good.

At least, well and good enough for the plan.

She’d sent her centurions—the ones that she’d deliberately kept alive—to run the threads around the area and place the explosive in the designated area, and now all she had to do was wait for them to return. All she’d had to do was wait for them to return, the praetor thought, as she opened the door to one abnormally sheepish-looking centurion, and one injured praetor.

“Why the fuck are you here?” she asked, brusquely.

Julian shrugged. “They let me go,” he said, evenly.

After shooting a glare at the centurion, Cecilia let her subordinate in before facing Julian. “Code.”

“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate,” said the boy, without missing a beat.

“What color was your first horse’s mane?”

“White.”

“Say something.”

Julian’s lips didn’t even twitch. “Something.”

Following orders to the letter, in a way that annoyed people specifically? Cecilia knew the boy well.

“Smartass,” she grumbled, before she hedged open the door and the praetor entered.

All the injured officers stood up to snap a salute, but Cecilia gave a flippant wave while Julian snapped an ‘at ease’ one back.

“Like I said, why the fuck are you here?” asked Cecilia, in a low voice. “And in the middle of our operation?”

Julian raised his eyebrows, an uncharacteristically sarcastic expression on his stoic face. “That centurion got in trouble,” he said. “Nearly got recognized. As I was trying to find a way back home, I recognized his face and helped him out. Figured out your plan from the thread.” He nodded towards the spindle of the newly-invented ‘coil.’

Cecilia gritted her teeth. “I gave them specific instructions—you know what? Never mind.” The woman shook her head. “You’re in no shape to be helping out,” said the praetor, shortly. “Stay behind. Your men are dead, and you’re injured. You’re sidelined, Praetor of Romulus.”

The boy bared his teeth like the child he was, before he shook his head. “You don't have the authority to override me,” he said, tiredly, “but I’ll follow your orders just this once. Go ahead and pillage the Empire’s libraries.” Julian stood up, only to dig his nails deeper in his fists—the soldier’s version of a wince.

“There should be some tied-up healers in the back,” sighed Cecilia, pointing. “We’re in an Eurusan guard’s house. Don’t trash the place.”

The boy grunted in response, turning to head to the gestured area, before he stopped. “Was it Uncle’s orders?” he asked, quietly.

That...Perhaps someone kinder would’ve been gentler, but the other praetor merely shook her head. “Nah. Your father’s.”

Julian’s face turned, ashes and soot streaking the young boy’s face, and all the praetor's expression shifted to was mere bemusement. "They didn’t even give back Ralla," he offered as a seemingly unrelated explanation, mumbling his way to the abducted healers as if that had been the crowning glory of the entire incident.

Cecilia inspected her colleague, but remained silent.

She had other bones to pick.

“Did you know that one of the Empire’s libraries had a fire a while back? The Library of Alexandria, they called it. In the east.”

Cecilia’s father had met her eyes.

“When it was destroyed, it took several priceless texts with it. When I was younger, I read that the entire country had been shaken, stricken with panic. It had not occurred to them—the Imperials, that prize Eternity so much—that their history could burn.”

The praetor sighed, now.

As she gave the command for the next wave of centurions to head out, she had but one thought in mind:

The Empire would burn tonight.