Acta non verba*

- REPUBLICA PROVERB

*Translation: deeds, not words.

IT WAS STRANGE, to be sitting in your room while your country was being besieged. Especially when you had a plan, but it was really pouring water over one corner while setting fire to another patch of someone else’s carpet (which was still a plan, I might add).

Especially with a Duchess looking at you across from the table you were seated at.

“You kept my present,” she noted, smiling while nodding towards the dominos circling my carpet.

“I threatened to fire people if they knocked them over,” I said with a laugh. “But yes, I kept it, Your Grace.”

Delphine smiled as if she knew something I didn’t.

Myths humanize those in power.

The people? They see those on the throne making mistakes, and think themselves capable of doing better—the throne, the crown, the Game itself is an invitation. Hierarchies are meant to be toppled, dynasties meant to be ended, kingdoms to be lost and found.

Yes, the Duchess knew something.

“Well, although I would love to have one, I’m sure you didn’t invite me for a pleasant chat,” she said, fluttering the fan below her eyes. “Business is as business does, after all. So, what do you have on the table, dear?”

“Azareth,” I replied, smiling. I plucked a sweet off the bowl, popping in my mouth as the Duchess’ lips curled.

“I thought we were waiting to make a move to get approval first, to use that as a shield in the case of failure and potential backlash,” said Delphine with a laugh, eyeing the bowl (she was right, I had been planning to use plausible deniability as a shield). “But my, my, do you seem eager. Tell me—what is it, you hear?”

Hear. Not see.

The Song was drawn to my attention again. Discordant notes floated in a realm I could only hear, chords meshing together into crescendos and diminuendos playing at wrong—or right—intervals, but I ignored it. Did she know? About my new Ability? Did she? Did she? What if— I laughed off the paranoia.

“I hear the tune of common sense, Your Grace,” I said lightly. “I can’t help but feel a sense of foreboding, these days. How does the adage go? ‘Strike before the snake can’? If we suffer another loss—it doesn’t even have to be at Eurus—we’ll lose the momentum that we’ve earned, Your Grace. I trust my gut—well, that’s incorrect, technically: I trust the fact that what has happened once, can happen again.”

We needed to strike.

No. That was incorrect.

We needed to Win.

Delphine brushed the sugar off her lips.

“You are right on that, of course,” she mused with a giggle. “What has happened once, can happen again.” The Duchess raised her head. “But that is what drives fools’ errands, is it not? Only a fool can become a king, but the king cannot be a fool.” She tapped the side of her head. “You trade in a jester’s hat for a crown, a lute for a scepter—a court for a kingdom, a cage for a Cage; because fools see their own kind become emperors and think, ‘What has been done once, can be done a-gain.’”

She enunciated the words like she was reciting a Play, but I couldn’t place the lines.

I hummed. “You said there was no right, nor wrong way to play.” That allies, opponents, victors, and losers do not matter, I recalled.

“I never said they were wrong,” Delphine chided. “I just called them fools.” She plucked another candy out of the bowl. “After all,” she added, “a broken clock may be right twice a day, but a folly can scream louder than time itself.” She smiled again, as if that was a prophecy for the Gods—as if she knew all the secrets to the Universe and I couldn’t pay the price to hear them.

“But Azareth,” I redirected, casually.

“But Azareth,” she agreed, and there was silence.

“We should have a reliable method of communication, so I know where to send my reports,” I prompted.

Delphine blinked. “Pigeons?” she asked, chewing on the sweet.

“They might get shot down,” I reminded. “The Republicas are on high alert, and, knowing them, they’ve likely put out some kind of reward for citizens notifying them of any suspicious activity, including birds with war messages tied to their feet. They’re almost as paranoid as we are.” I could actually take the chance to mess with them a bit, if I wanted.

But the whole point of the operation was to keep it on the metaphorical down low, which meant that I couldn’t attach food recipes on fake birds and send them to confuse the Armies.

“We have spies in Azareth,” said Delphine. “Anaxeres’ spiders. They were already placed there before the war, which means they’re a bit harder to reach, but—” the Duchess shrugged, as her eyes glinted “—I’m sure you can make use of them. You can send me a couple initial reports that I’ll pass to Her Majesty, but likely her approval will come first. While you make your rounds, I’ll consult with the Merchants to mobilize the ships as soon as possible. ‘Weaken, and then strike,’ they say.”

I blinked. “I’ll try not to drag it out, but reporting on the situation and weakening the Romus Army’s influence on the city are two different things, Your Grace,” I replied, tilting my head. A slight protest. How would Delphine react—

The Duchess laughed.

“I understand that you’re already in the chains of another,” she said, “but, right now, you’re under my supervision. And, as your supervisor, I ask of you to weaken the Romus Army’s political influence on the city and send me a report on your progress in two days.”

Two days.

They’re ordering the blockade—in two days? (Would that mess up the timing of the entire operation?)

I ask of you. Not order.

I needed to get it done in two days. She’d planned this, likely, from the time she’d set up the dominoes—I was just another brick, another piece.

But oh, well. If she was capable, I wasn’t against being used.

I picked up a candy, as close to an admission of defeat as I could get. “I would need citizenship certificates and a false identity,” I replied, biting into the somewhat-sticky candy (it was stickier than I remembered—an elegant pink toffee, with grape tones).

“They’ll be prepared for,” said the Duchess with another laugh, fluttering her fan. “Even though Anaxeres’ web might be stretched a bit thin, his threads won’t break.” Not a promise, a statement. “He has Petra, too,” Delphine added. “Both of them will handle the operation well, my dear. Don’t worry, you’ll get all your pieces before sundown.” On her lips flitted a warm smile, and I smiled back.

It hung thin.

“Can I know?” I nodded towards the dominoes on the floor, a couple paces to my right. “What domino I am?”

A beat.

“In Galbraith—did you know, that we call it Galbraith because that’s what the eastern Rhianites were first called when they first established contact with the western part of the continent? Very intriguing—there is a Belief.” Delphine smiled. “Their oracles tell of an apocalypse, where their Gods will be slain and the world will be split open. A time where ‘brothers will fight and kill each other…no man shall have mercy on another.’” I very vaguely recognized the reference, and she continued.

“They say three roosters will crow, a hound will break free, and all the ancient evils will walk the world once more. But do you know which evil slays the greatest magician of their Gods?” The Duchess leaned closer. “A wolf. It swallows the sun, according to one of their poems.”

A wolf.

I raised my eyebrows. “A wolf,” I said.

“A wolf,” she repeated, smiling. “A horse is used in races, but a wolf is not. It can be chained, but never tamed.” The Cardinal fanned herself, sugary fingertips clutching the hilt of the instrument. “You are a wolf, my dear. Many will try to chain you, including your lord—whether by word or by deed, you will see the bindings all the same—but you are a wolf. Do not mistake yourself for what you are not.”

A wolf. It was a high opinion of me. A tall order.

There was a reason behind it I couldn’t ascertain.

“Why me then, Your Grace?” I asked wryly.

Delphine pressed a finger to her lips, and smiled before tutting.

“Didn't I say? Telling you would be cheating, dear herald.”

Elexis could see her duchy’s history burning. Smoke stung her eyes and clouded her throat, but she couldn’t afford to waver. “Keep the rhythm!” she boomed. “Heave!”

Multiple cough-ridden “ho!”s filled the air, and she was reminded of the Snakelands fire that had happened only days ago. There were too many casualties, too many deaths and losses, too much ‘irreparable’ and not enough ‘fixable.’ These fires—she of all people knew that they would cause damage, damage that would last for centuries.

The Library of Alexandria was aflame once again, crimson adorning the majestic structure like a grotesque necklace. The scene was monstrous, smoke ornamenting the sky forming shapes of evening giants, ashes and fire turning the sunset from majestic to bleak.

The sun bled its way across the horizon, until it was midnight and the bones of Eurusan Legacy were revealed.

And they were not pretty.

“The embers will burn,” warned the Eurusan man beside her. He was old, wizened—just like Elexis herself. They had both aged, in the years they’d married, but the Duchess wasn’t sure which of them bore the scar well.

“When have they not?” the warrior queen asked, not moving her eyes off the sight outside her window.

There would be Tartarus to pay, she knew that—this fire would shred her people’s morale. The renowned Library of Alexandria—which, thankfully, had been closed at the time it’d been burned—lay in ashes and scorched earth, and with it an academic century. What was left of the Fire paled in comparison to the Borean Athenaeum, yes, but the Library itself had been still one of the Empire’s prized institutions on the matter of Before.

It had stood the test of tyrants and kings, but had bent its knee to a particularly wily general.

It was a Eurusan monument, practically—it symbolized the resilience of learning and innovation, and it had fallen.

That was just the beginning of the mess, Elexis knew.

The first fire, the Snakelands one, had permanently damaged Eurusan-Galani relations. The galanos and Eurusan warriors had nearly come to blows, before Cyrus had captured the Cohorts and a praetor. That had forged a tentative balance, which the Chosen had wrecked by letting the praetor escape. And he had done it deliberately, which was the reason Elexis had sent him to repair what he had broken.

It was a mess, and she needed a few seconds of silence. A minute of peace with her husband, who she loved, a minute of not paying attention to her burning Legacy.

She couldn’t afford to.

“I will go,” the Duchess Cadmus said, brushing her hand over her partner’s.

A sad look passed across her husband’s eyes. “Yes, you will go,” he agreed.

The Duchess left.

“In this world,” the exiled prince said, “it is do, or die. Do, or be done to. Kill, or be killed.”

A laugh. “Is this an excuse, Prince?” asked the Galani leader, voice low even though there were only the two in the tent. “Because of your incapability, and that proditos that calls herself Duchess, our victory has been lost. Our only bargaining chip? Lost.” She bent forward. “Our home has been razed to the ground, our people burnt into ashes, and we have been forced to seek aid from the people who have exiled us for decades.”

Exile.

Cyrus shook his head. “It is not an excuse,” he said. “It is an apology.” He bent his knee, and his head. “I am sorry.” It was not a matter of pride, he knew—a cost shouldn’t diminish a cause’s value, but that didn’t mean it should be ignored. Collect, and then act.

He would fix it.

“I am sorry,” said the Third Prince, kneeling. “Truly.”

It had been a necessary price, but still one that had cost others.

Olysseus had taught him, after all—a rogue’s honor, had said the man, is still an honor. What of the Republic’s fantasy of duty?

A hand fell on Cyrus’ shoulder.

“Maybe you are, child of lightning,” said the leader, softer, “but you cannot make the past repent. The dead sing no praises.”

That was what they always said, didn’t they? Revenge for the dead meant nothing, they always told him.

The Lightning Prince raised his head. “But their children do,” Cyrus Queenscage said.

He needed to repent.

“It’s done!” chirped Arathis. The Forsaken waved the papers. “I didn’t destroy anything when I was out, too. See, I can listen to instructions, Josie.”

Josephine tutted. “Well, I made a puppet out of the anti-Imperials while you were gone, Ara. Sister told me I did supremely well.”

“Pah. She was obviously lying.” Arathis leaped on the chair next to his sister. “I just created a grand duchy. Well, technically, I helped find loopholes for Oldest Sister to make the writ, but I was definitely more productive.”

The other rolled her eyes. “She could’ve done it herself, you know. She just wanted you out of the way. Not that that’ll stop your plans.” Josephine sighed. “Out with it. You tampered with it, didn’t you?”

The Fifth Prince blinked. “Why would I?” he asked, innocently.

“You really want me to spell it out for you?” the Fourth Princess raised an eyebrow. She snatched an apple from the bowl next to her, making a face after she tasted it. “Ew. I thought people actually ate the fruits in the throne room. Tastes warm and mushy inside.” Still, she bit into it again, remarking with her mouth full: “You were against her making Sera Grand Duchess of Inevita, and I of all people should know that you poison every pie you don’t like. Like I said, out with it.”

“Sabotage,” Arathis corrected. “Poison is supremely overrated. Sabotage is a more interesting word.” He shrugged, propping his chin up with a hand casually. “Besides, I wasn’t obvious. I’m helping Oldest Sister and Youngest Sister.” The statement was met with an amusedly skeptical eyebrow, to which Arathis raised his hands.

“I mean it,” the Forsaken said. “Greta, especially. Right now, Sera isn’t in any condition to be her linchpin. Orion used to keep Her Greatness stable—well, stable enough—but he’s gone now, and she refuses to let me raise him from the dead. Greta’s training Sera to be her successor, but that’s not a role that keeps her from going off the metaphorical rails.”

He leaned closer.

“Can you really not see it? Greta’s fatal flaw. We all have one—pride, lust, all those vices that drive us here—but hers is greed. Going overboard, doing anything to keep her Dream alive; including trying to chain a Harbinger—who’s already Oathsworn to her, too—to her reign.”

“And?” Josie asked. “What fun do you get out of this?” Her usual mischief was gone, genuine curiosity replacing it.

“She’s breaking the code,” said the Fourth Prince. “We Victors are family. You don’t try to tame family—at least, that’s her and Orion’s code, passed down from Father himself.” Arathis leaned back, crossing his arms as he closed his eyes. He sighed lazily before speaking again.

“Greta will cross a line—that line—eventually; and, before she does, she needs someone racing with her. Someone that’ll keep her in check, push her the way she needs to go. Push the Empire the way it needs to go. You don’t raise a successor by chaining it with things like ‘duty’ and ‘obligation’—no, you raise a successor by letting it make its own choices.”

“Give them just enough rope to hang themselves,” sighed Josephine.

Oathbreaker, they called him.

The Hanged Killer smiled. “And give them the release of death,” he finished.

News of Eurus reached me just as I was given the secret identity of a bagel merchant named Cato Nola, a carriage, and a lecture (it had been a crash course on how not to die on enemy territory, with the very unrelated tidbit about how they’d changed my last name to mean ‘bell’ in Republica because it sounded better).

This was...not good.

Had Delphine expected it? Was that why she was—?

Thoughts swarmed in my head before Xandros put a tentative hand on my shoulder. “Are you alright, Boss?”

I whipped my head around. I hadn’t sensed it. Was ‘Read’ faltering? Was—

“Just thinking,” I evaded. I couldn’t afford to falter, not yet.

I had already tested out Thought when I’d had the plan:

I go to Azareth.

Foot stepping on sea-stone, under swathes of fabric. The scent of seawater and rough Republica whispers about fish and the war.

I collect information on Azareth.

Squinted eyes. Hesitation. Distaste.

I—

My recollection was interrupted by the driver clearing his throat.

Following his not-so-obvious cue, I boarded the carriage with Mercy beside me and Alexandros across from me, watching the sky.

“So,” Xandros began, with a cough. “Er, why are we going to Azareth, again? Orders from above? Or?”

“We needed to move before they did,” I said, shortly. “They moved. We haven’t, and we’re in a bad position—the east is in a very, very big pile of shit.”

“Aw. That sucks,” he said. He looked genuinely sad. “What happened?”

“The Snakelands fire happened, and the soldiers that escaped managed to burn the Library of Alexandria,” I explained.

Which brought me to the point.

Loyalty.

It was a strange word, but the people that were travelling with me needed to have at least some modicum of it towards me, and with it a similar definition to mine. I had seen Alexandros' future as a general, and Mercy as a high-ranking noble, in flashes of a future where I'd climbed the ranks.

Ever since Thought had came to me, and I'd heard the Song, there had been that ever-present feeling of foreboding inside my chest.

Not the calm before the storm, because the situation barely constituted as calm.

A crescendo in the symphony before the chorus, I supposed. But what would the chorus entail?

Herald, the Duchess had called me.

I had a suspicion that the word meant more than its sound.

But-

Loyalty.

Yes, they were my minions. And for that, I owed them my thoughts.

“In this world,” I said after a while, “it is do, or die.”

Victory or defeat. Two outcomes of the Game.

(It was never that black and white, but no matter the shade they came in two colors.)

The music took a sharp dive, clashing strings plucked and a menagerie of bells being rung all at once. Compared to before, when the Song had been all string and drum, it now took the form of a revellazo, clear bell and ornate string-key.

The dawn of a vision.

“Is this world,” I asked them, meeting their eyes, “really worth your death?” It was a rhetorical question, and one that I let hang in the air.

Imperials were notorious for dying only for themselves.

And I was of the Empire, born and raised.

Was I willing to die for the world could be? An unsteady future?

No, I really wasn’t.

Was I willing to die for anything, really? Power? Wealth? Fame?

Not really.

There was nothing in this Empire I would die for, and I would do absolutely nothing to change that.

They deserved to know that I had no wish to be a martyr.

"But you want to change it, don't you?" Mercy asked, after a pause. "The Empire?"

"Of course I do," I said with a grin. "After all, I want to rule it."