I am but a fool.

Some call it madness, but

This is my folly.

- UNKNOWN AGAMEMNON'S FIRST AND LAST JOURNAL ENTRY

CESAS KNEW FEAR.

He knew it like an enemy and he knew it like a friend, because it was a double-edged blade in the same way he didn’t know who wielded the sword. And wasn’t it the source of all that fear? The fact that he didn’t know what he was afraid of? That it wasn’t a who, it was a what, because there was nothing tangible about fear?

He read about philosophers who manifested their fear into form, and when he was younger he tried their ways and methods and books of old, because if his fear was tangible—if he could see, and touch his fear he could defeat it.

When he’d told his Papa, the old Forsaken had just sighed.

“Some problems are not meant to be solved, Cesas,” his Papa said. “I blame it on how your father raised you—he was always a ‘solutions’ type of person.”

The Forsaken had pointed at the horizon.

“The sun will set,” he’d said. “Will you stop it?”

Cesas had frowned, but had said nothing as his Papa continued.

“Some would rather spend the day in the sun, but others have work to do by night.”

The man pointed at himself.

“I will die. Can you stop me?”

“You’re pointing out inevitable things,” said Cesas crossly, irritated at the sudden lecture.

“Yes, I am,” agreed Vitajie Cesare. He spread his hands. “Fear is inevitable. It comes and goes suddenly for others, it haunts people like ghosts for some.” He beckoned for Cesas to come closer. “Come, son. Your hair is coming undone.”

The boy who would lead thousands to his death scowled but obeyed, turning his back and allowing his Papa to untangle his hair.

Cesare plucked the pin out of his son’s head and gracefully spun the strands into an elegant bun, piercing the hairpin through, before speaking again.

“When you are afraid of who you are, or what you might become, that is not fear. That is doubt.” Cesas heard his Papa’s voice, as even as ever, continue. “But when you are afraid of being afraid, that is not fear. It is cowardice.” Cesare turned his son around with his hands, and met his eyes. “You cannot run away from the inevitable, son—it is harsh, but it is true. You must realize that you cannot control the world, before fear drives the world to control you.”

The Vitajie House Head’s pale hair fell in even frames around his face, long snow-white strands curling in braiding patterns and held together with a howling wolf pin at the back.

Cesas knew that his Papa was mocked for being too peaceful, too generous, too this and too that.

He was not war-like enough, fierce enough; he was not passionate enough to be Head, they said.

Even the people on the streets whispered that Clan Ces would fall, the leading clan of House Vitajie replaced.

But they had said that even when Father was still alive, and even after Father had died and left Cesas and his Papa alone.

And so they had mocked and they had spat, but that had never been significant enough to be one of Cesas’ fears.

“I just don’t want to be afraid,” said the eighteen-year-old. “Even if fear’s inevitable. Father said that you should make the world fear you, before you fear the world.”

Papa’s smile grew distant.

“Your father was controlled by fear, as well,” explained the Clan Head, slowly. Cesas’ remaining parent stood up against the sun, light framing his aged face as he reached out a hand. “The world will always control you—by love or by fear, sometimes both. It depends on what path you choose to walk.”

Cesas accepted his Papa’s hand and stood to his feet.

“I don’t want to choose, yet,” the boy decided.

The Clan Head smiled. “And that’s alright.”

Cesas was afraid of life.

But death brought with it a stranger feeling still.

“He’s the only one left,” he heard them hiss to each other. “We have to use him—beggars can’t be choosers.”

He wanted to recoil from the touches they gave his shoulder, the empty words and hollow gifts. “House Vitajie thanks you for your consideration,” he told the Desarta goons that approached him. To his relatives, he spoke flowery words about how his Papa would appreciate the thoughts they held.

Clan Head.

It seemed so small, so intangible of a title that was given to him.

After he fled from the banquet after the ceremony was held, he hid in his bedroom in the Vitajie Estate, closing his eyes and forcing himself to sleep without even bothering to rip off the itchy ceremonial robes that made him who he was now—Clan Head of the Ces, soon-to-be Head of House Vitajie and most likely candidate to be the next Agamemnon.

Vitajie Cesas.

In his dreams, his Father stood on a distant hill. A familiar hill, under a familiar tree, an unfamiliar expression on a familiar mouth.

Desarta Korentin had always been stoic. While his husband was expressive, emotive, smiling, and gentle; the general had always been impassive and silent, contrarily succeeding in giving off an aura of calmly seething rage.

Cesas’ parents had never been volatile—growing up, he’d never witnessed an instant where they’d shouted or screamed when they’d argued.

And they’d argued, Cesas knew. Cesare and Korentin had disagreed on most things—politics, for one (Korentin, a member of a lower-ranking Clan of Desarta, had been engaged to Cesare when they were young as a political insult; while Cesare took a more tolerant stance towards Desarta, Korentin’s resentment was clear); the weather, for another (Cesas’ Papa enjoyed standing out in the rain without a shield, while Cesas’ Father stood a distance away under a wooden covering with a disapproving frown on his face).

They had never been volatile, but Cesas had never seen his Father smile once.

Right now, he was grinning warmly.

Your father was controlled by fear as well, Cesas’ Papa had told him.

This—

This Korentin looked into his son’s eyes before pointing at below the hill, silently.

Cesas knew he wasn’t real—Father was dead, after all; and this wasn’t the first time he’d appeared in Cesas’ dreams—and so the boy clamped his mouth shut and followed the pointing finger.

There was a wolf and a peacock, grappling at the bottom of the hill—Cesas saw talons digging deep and drawing back bloody, the sight making him flinch after he’d processed it.

“What—what are they fighting for?” whispered the boy.

Everything, said his Father, amused. Nothing.

The voice didn’t sound like his Father, and so Cesas withdrew the label.

This was a stranger.

The stranger pointed a few paces away, at a piece of meat on the ground.

They are fighting for that.

Their eyes crinkled as they saw Cesas’ hesitation.

You can give it to them, you know. The meat.

But everything—the scene—it felt like some sort of test Cesas hadn’t signed up for. There was expectation in the words—the voice itself felt twisted and deceptively light. The boy had been raised to detect the political nuances behind words, but that had been structures of things: reason and logic.

This stranger- couldn't be constrained.

But how did Cesas know that?

The stranger hummed.

The harvest reaps what it sows, they said. Like recognizes like—likewise, like grows like. They turned to Cesas. Fear raises fear. Love raises love. A love of fear raises a fear of love. If the seeds are not there, the plant will not grow, but nature goes on regardless.

The stranger turned to the fight unfolding under the hill.

What is it that one of your kind said? ‘The past is the past, the present is the present, but history always tends to repeat itself.’

They stepped aside, away from the meat, inviting Cesas to take it.

But just because history repeats itself, the stranger said, does not mean that you should ignore it the first time.

The peacock was tearing the wolf apart, but the wolf was in turn destroying the bird. Howls and squawks filled the air, all tinged with pain and fury.

“But both of them need the meat,” muttered Cesas. “They—they’re willing to risk their lives for it, I—”

It is a mistake, chided the other, to think that one would know better than to risk their lives for something they do not need. They shook their head, but there was something in their eyes that made it so full of emotion. Poignant, was the word. It wasn’t sadness, it wasn’t fear, or acceptance—well, it was acceptance, but in a way that made you think twice about what exactly they were accepting.

“You are not human.” Cesas felt the words—a realization—spill from his lips.

That is not the point, Cesas, said the stranger. They turned their eyes towards the meat. Choose. Who are you going to give it to?

“I—”

Choose, or they will die.

“Thesmophoros.” The name came to Cesas unbidden. “Rebirth, fertility. Seeds sown, seeds grown—reaper of plenty, bringer of many...mother of all.”

That is not the point, child, Demeter said again. What will you give?

The meat was raw and scarlet and bloody, and so was the Song that drummed in his ears.

He closed them and his eyes, his gaze ran well beyond ragged and weary; but the scene played against his eyelids and the drums grew louder. With every strike, every blow, blood pooled on ground and the chords hammered away still.

Piercing bits of elongated notes stood out amongst the sharp, blurred background, a desperate dance to escape.

“I—I can’t.”

You run, child. Demeter raised her eyebrows—Cesas’ father’s eyebrows—and looked at Cesas. Even with his eyes closed, he could see the Goddess look at him.

(She wasn’t one she worshipped, but Kronos—)

You cannot run forever, Cesas. And I—it—will not wait forever. Choose.

Cesas felt an encroaching shadow, a serpent curling around his shoulders, as his eyes fluttered open. “I don’t want to. I can’t. I shouldn’t. I—” He watched the Goddess reach for the meat, and suddenly it materialized in his hands. She was Korentin no longer, Demeter now a woman adorned in twin snakes and earth.

It was— a heart. A beating, bleeding heart that pulsed on his palm as if it was alive—twisting veins curled around the grotesque organ as it writhed and squirmed on Cesas’ hands, and the boy let out a scream as he dropped it—

But there it was, again, on his hands.

What will you give?

His surroundings rippled and his feet were pulled forward—

Now, he was but a step away from the peacock and the wolf.

“You— you didn’t ask who I would give it to,” Cesas muttered, in thought, before something—

—propelled his hands to drop the heart on the ground, in the middle of the fight, ready for both of the animals to take.

A horror struck him, filling his hands to the point where they shook, as the creatures roared and brutalized each other again—this time with a desperate ferocity—and limbs were ripped and torn and snapped as the beasts charged. It was mangled and gnarled and forced Cesas to close his eyes again—

Dread and fear and guilt and anger filled the boy, all coming in waves so great and malformed he didn’t know he could feel that way, and—

—this was a nightmare.

No, Cesas. Demeter sounded strange, a hybrid of exhaustion and mourning and nothing in between, as she spoke. This is your choice, Harbinger.

And then all faded to black, and the fool woke up from his nightmare with but one thought:

It was a coward’s choice.

He woke up and he ran.

He ran from the Guards on the excuse of a walk, following a random path with a maid, whom he hit over the head; he ran through the city (the country’s only city, really, the only place in the nation that wasn’t devoured by craggy land) of Tartarus, where the Forsaken thrived.

Cesas ran through the streets with his luxurious clothes, shielding against lecherous looks with half-hearted glares and fumbling hands. Perhaps, the Clan Head thought to himself, it was unsurprising that he found himself cornered in an alley at night with a bunch of thugs—likely Tartarian mercenaries—leering at him.

“Looks like those clothes’ll fetch a pretty coin on the Market,” said one of them in common Tartari, smiling maliciously as she pointed at Cesas’ robes (she pronounced the syllables crookedly, like the common people did; a dead giveaway that they weren’t nobles specifically targeting him).

Cesas remained silent, his eyes darting for an escape route as his heart pounded in fear.

A new fear, from the one that had driven him from his home—a fear of something tangible. That was new.

He was afraid of the people in front of him, and—

He could do something about it.

Yes.

He wasn’t going to be afraid anymore.

Two— hours? (Minutes? Excruciating seconds?)—had passed since Cesas had run, midnight turning into minutes-before-dawn, and everything felt—not like a blur, but as if he’d just awoken, grasping at slivers of a dream he’d forgotten.

But it was real. He could do something.

As he stepped forward to speak, he was interrupted by a hurtling knife.

The blade pierced through the mercenary's neck, preventing her from speaking, as multiple knives sang through the air after barely a beat. All of the mercenaries sank to their knees—and for a second Cesas was horrified at himself for thinking the motions elegant—and someone gracefully dropped from one of the ragged buildings, in front of the Clan Head.

It was— a girl.

One in grimy rags with surprisingly clean pale hair that stuck out in fragments all over the place from under her dark hood. She was the one who’d thrown the knives, Cesas realized.

A strange silence occupied the alley before the girl cocked an eyebrow.

“What? No ‘thank you’ from the high-and-mighty noble lad?”

She spoke in a surprising aristocratic drawl, rough and refined both at once.

Cesas blinked. “Thank you. Sorry, I don’t really know the etiquette for this kind of situation.” His eyes flickered to the girl’s boots, currently stained red from the growing pool of blood on the alley stones.

“Usually,” the girl said, “this is the part where you kneel and beg for your life. Or beg for me to accept servitude, whichever option works.”

The Clan Head bit his lip. That would be slightly inconvenient if people saw them. “Is payment in some other form alright? Coin? Or a noble title? I—”

The girl raised her hands in surrender. “Hey, don’t promise me things you can’t deliver. Coin’s alright. If you have any.” She eyed the robes on him. “I mean, it seems like you could deliver. Possibly. My memory’s rusty on regalia, but that is the Silver Stripe, right?” She pointed at the border at the bottom of Cesas’ robes. “You’re a Clan Head?”

Cesas blinked again. “No,” he lied. “These— these are my father’s robes. He gave them to me to wear, as an initiation ceremony. I had to wear them for a week—no taking them off, either.” The lie spun itself larger. “I’m here,” he added, “because I got lost. I really am sorry for inconveniencing you.”

“Lost?” The girl sounded skeptical, but moved on. “If you’re really serious about the noble title thing, I’m all up for it.” She jutted out a hand. “Adalicia. Desarta Adalicia.”

A pang of confusion must’ve sparked in Cesas’ eyes, because the girl—Adalicia—snorted. “Not of Clan Ada, Kronos no. I was exiled from Clan Adal—I mean, technically we were of Clan Adal, but yeah.”

A subfamily Clan.

A circle within a circle—it made sense that Cesas didn’t know her, since Ada was notorious for its infighting and surprisingly commonplace exilings.

“Ah. Clan Ces,” Cesas offered. “I— I’m also of a subfamily.”

Adalicia raised her eyebrows. “So— yes or no noble title?”

“I can get you your seat back, maybe,” the other responded. “But, er, could you protect me for the night? From, you know, unsavory people? Just for the night?”

Adalicia’s eyebrows climbed. “I guess. For a service fee, I might.”

“Done,” Cesas said. He was tired, and he wanted to sleep— no, he couldn’t sleep. “Talk to me,” he said after a while, turning his back to her as he climbed atop a box at the end of the alley.

“Is that an order?” the girl with the knife asked, sitting on the crate next to him.

“I don’t know.” His patience was wearing thin, and the Song was playing loudly. “Anything. The world’s problems. I— I can’t sleep.”

And so the girl told him.

He listened.

He listened to stories of exiles and nobles and friends and foes, stories that leeched the dark away from the day; stories that Cesas couldn’t get enough of. Injustice, fear, dependence, freedom—the country’s facets, through and through; told from a surprisingly sharp, although biased, mind.

“Predators get stronger when they eat stronger prey. The concept of a ‘system’—a place full of strong prey, and stronger predators—means that the environment has to flourish before the animals do.”

The girl gestured towards the expanse of ruin that was the Union.

“Is this a flourishing environment, lad?”

No.

The dream flashed before his eyes, the peacock and the wolf, both great beasts—and the snake around his neck, a constricting serpent that could be thrown into the fight—

Had that been the right choice?

To throw himself in the fray?

Change.

If he didn’t like the choices that were given to him, wouldn’t he try to change them? The path of being a puppet to the older politicians, his aunts and uncles and relatives-in-law, would need to disappear—he refused to walk on it.

Choose, or they will die.

You have the power.

The Goddess’ words echoed in Cesas’ head—

“The harvest reaps what it sows,” he repeated, distantly. “Like recognizes—and grows—like. Fear raises fear. Love raises love. A love of fear raises a fear of love. If the seeds are not there, the plant will not grow. Fear is the only motivation that can tear a people apart—likewise, it is the only effective call to action.”

“But who is the farmer?” questioned Adalicia, smiling. “If they need to grow fear?”

“A coward,” Cesas answered. “Because they know fear best of all.”

Cesas fulfilled his promise and Adalicia became his aide for the next ten years. Ten long years they were, years of arduous undertakings in the field that was politics, dodging pitfalls and digging them—until that one day.

That one day.

He had a nightmare the day before, so he probably should’ve expected it.

The sentences that were repeated in his ear came in synchrony with the revelations of the day, rain pattering down from the sky as he went insane.

To put it simply, you are a living prelude of the Song.

“Ada.” Cesas ripped past the crowd at the ceremony stained in rain, not caring if he looked desperate, but he couldn’t see the people leaning away from him in fear. “Ada, tell me it isn’t true.” The woman he loved was crying as they put the Clytemnestra diadem on her head, but those mourning eyes were overshadowed by the crown’s gems glinting against the sunlight.

“Tell me!” he roared, the serpent coiled around his neck squeezing tighter.

The Desartas around her smiled smugly, and one spoke.

“Bow to your Clytemnestra, House Head Vitajie Cesas of Ces, Clan Head.”

Betrayer.

Everything you’ve heard, everything the Song has told you, it is just the opening. There will come more notes, with more of you, but the Song will never change.

—And what is the song?

This Song?

He turned to his people for solace and raised them, to conquer the Glorydark that had forced them into weakness. He called not for blood but for change, for vengeance always came at the cost of one’s future.

Cesas cared not for what others deemed folly, because there would be no more ambitions inlaid upon the Tartarian Thrones.

If a fool had to take the crown to destroy the thrones, then he would gladly take on the mantle.

The people listened. And they spoke.

They spoke of future and past and present, yet even then Cesas had the fear.

This time, it was a fear of losing his people.

Losing himself.

Losing his Dream.

This Song was always one of redemption.

They charged into the Dark Forest, Cesas and his people in pursuit of change, and the monsters roared back.

The Glorydark—it was an abyss. An abyss of ever-glaring dark, a gap between the fabrics of reality teeming with monsters and men alike on that day. Blood stained the ground as the corpses’ numbers grew higher, and more and more monsters rose.

The roar of a Minotaur sealed their fate.

It was a horn that did him in, with all the surety of the reaper’s kiss.

Redemption that never comes.

Cesas the Coward died with only one spectator.

As the Song quieted, fading in his ears and onto the next, the boy who killed thousands heard one word.

And the word was said with no derision, no insult, and no affection; yet Cesas could hear a deep regret that tasted old and bitter on his dying tongue.

Fool, the Goddess said.

It filled him with fear.

Because the Song never ends.