Here, too, I saw a nation of lost souls,

far more than were above: they strained their chests

against enormous weights, and with mad howls

rolled them at one another. Then in haste

they rolled them back, one party shouting out:

"Why do you hoard?" and the other: "Why do you waste?"

WE HAVE ALL BEEN told from a young age that the world is not so black and white.

That what is light does not illuminate all, and what is shadow does not consume all. That there is no ‘good’ and there is no ‘bad’, that there are two sides to every story, and for that we blind our children to the world.

There is victory, and there is defeat.

And people must know the difference.

The Victors reign. They may not reign well, and they may not reign for their people, but still they reign. The Defeated, if they do not end up dead or worse, are left to fend for themselves at the bottom of the pit with the tigers, and in that situation the world is not kind.

The tigers are not, either.

But why do the Defeated stand? Why do they long for victory, reach for any and every hand to pave a path inlaid in gold to the Victors and tell them their way is wrong and theirs is right?

As they say, the road to Tartarus is paved with good intentions.

But why do the defeated long to join the winners in their own personal hells?

The answer is, of course, ‘victory.’

Even if the throne is on fire, as they say, it is still a throne. You would think a person who once sat on said throne and bore the weight of said crown would never sit on it again, but you would be wrong.

Power corrupts people. It rests worlds on kings’ shoulders and expects them to hold up the sky while doing it.

Yet we are no Atlases, and there is no Hercules.

Why?

Why is the world like this? Why is it so broken and ravaged? Why is every struggle, every war so unnecessary, every conflict started over things so trivial?

It is a question to ask the Gods—but they will not answer, for they thrive in the Sky we hold up.

The world is not black and white. It is grey, but even in grey there is dark and there is light.

‘What happens if I sit on the throne?’

‘What happens if I rise higher?’

‘What happens if I grow above the system?’

You never play past the Game, because that’s what the Game is for. Playing. Rising. Ascending.

Crowning.

I will not do better than the previous ruler, or the next.

I will do far worse.

The question, of course, lies in 'to whom.'

- UNKNOWN VICTOR, UNKNOWN TIME

I gazed at the ceiling.

Like most things, it was a trap. A betrayal of a nonexistent trust. This meant I would forever be indebted to my sister, politically or otherwise. This was forming my name adjacent to hers in the annals of history, solidifying my position in the Empire as her treasured vassal and possible successor—the writ itself was a bond, another chain I had to put on myself willingly.

This was the consequences of my Oath.

It brought me a step closer to the Throne, yes, but—

This was also a form of trust.

She likely knew I was the Harbinger. Arathis, Josephine—yes, they knew. They were the ones who’d told me Greta wanted to destroy the Queen’s Cage—what Cyrus’ position was, I didn’t know, but there was that feeling in the back of my head making its presence known. The feeling that I had just been unmasked as a fool.

Every step I had taken, it had been as Greta’s piece.

These chains were for the Harbinger. Not Seraphina.

Those were my first thoughts—so surprisingly optimistic, trusting.

They were the only ones who could understand, after all, and that meant in turn I understood them. I—Seraphina—was the Harbinger. You couldn’t cut a person’s fate out of them—you couldn’t cut the villain out of a villain, the Harbinger out of a Harbinger. You couldn’t cut the story out of the person.

She—Greta—was the Empress.

And I couldn’t cut that out of her.

I had signed up to be her piece, and I would march across the board as she let me.

I was close to Ascending.

But the Board was wide.

“Grand Duchess Seraphina Inevita Queenscage.”

A new grand duchy that would oversee both the Marksman duchy and the military marquessates, asserting Imperial control over technological progress and weapons distribution.

But what was my story?

A story of life and death.

Of freedom and servitude.

Most of all—one of redemption.

I closed my eyes as I thought about my next plan.

I just needed to keep moving.

Marianus was home.

He was home, everyone suspected him to be a spy, and they were right.

How did he not sustain any wounds?

(He did—he showed them the bandaged wounds from the explosion, and explained to them that the Imperials didn’t rely on torture.)

How did he escape?

(He managed to gain the pity of a Guard, who he knocked out while escaping in the night.)

What happened to the rest of his forces?

(They were dead. All of them. Their skulls had already been sent to the capital, so he wasn’t sure why they were asking.)

He knew their suspicions from the way they said his title, primus pilus: even with those he knew well, there was that slight hesitancy before the first syllable—that doubt, that wavering confidence in his authority—that made Marianus grow tired of receiving visitors.

He wouldn’t turn again.

He couldn’t turn—whatever capacity of betrayal there was in his character, Petra and Anaxeres had already exploited the Tartarus out of it.

Marianus needed to live with that feeling, he knew—those chains, when he couldn’t even put on his legionary’s uniform without feeling guilty; when he couldn’t even turn to former acquaintances without receiving hesitancy. Petra and Anaxeres treated him well, but without Seraphina’s—strange—way of putting him at ease, he was, well, uneasy.

And then they returned.

Cecilia and Julian and their troops—

Gods, Julian.

He came a day after Marianus’ arrival, wrapped in healing wounds and a grimmer countenance than Marianus had ever seen the praetor wear.

When they were alone, he spoke.

“Gaius,” Julian said.

That was strange.

“Yes?” Marianus turned.

“Someone once told me,” said the praetor, “that we all have heavy words we carry around, and that I had to be careful not to break under my burden.” His lips twitched—whether out of amusement or annoyance at the memory, Marianus didn’t know. “She says that honor is nothing to her,” he continued, “even though it means the world to me. That those who have tasted defeat do anything to win, to not feel that pain again.”

The other’s heart beat faster.

What did—

“We went to a dessert shop before all this,” Julian informed him, smiling lightly now, as if recalling a fond memory. “It was nice. She didn’t have very funny jokes, but she phrased them in a way that made you want to listen and laugh.”

Julian— had a lover?

When—

The praetor leaned forward. “You might’ve met her, actually.” His eyes were back on Marianus again, as if pinning his guilt there. “She always smiles like she’s inside on a joke you aren’t? Laughs like she knows something you don’t? Talks like you would always be there to listen?” The last words were whispered, as if it were a secret: “Blue eyes?”

Blue—

The recognition on Marianus’ face must’ve been evident, because Julian’s face hollowed itself out in seconds, growing older and younger both at once.

“You turned, didn’t you, Gaius?” said Marianus’ friend and superior, more statement than question.

The moment Julian’s hazel eyes met Marianus’ own, the centurion knew he was done for.

“How did you know?” asked Marianus, tiredly.

The light seeped through the curtains of the bedroom in the Cassia Estate, and Julian’s face was twisted a strange way—but not out of anger, Marianus knew.

“She’s good with people,” the praetor said absently. “Better at letting them choose their own paths to her.”

Julian turned to his friend and smiled, an unusual amusement on his face.

“My path may be longer than yours, but I will walk it all the same.”

Marianus didn’t tell him about the plans.

Everyone liked to argue about the sin of arrogance.

It seemed to be philosophers’ favorite pastimes, deciding what in the world was good and what wasn’t. That was how you got things done, Cyrus supposed, deciding what was rot and what was not, to find what to purge and what to keep—who to kill and who to save.

When something was too much and when it was not enough.

Cyrus wouldn’t say that it was flawed, the same way he couldn’t say it was perfect—but was it really sin, to think yourself just a bit higher, a bit more Victorious, just a bit (for lack of a word) better than the average person?

There was a line drawn in the sand when pride became arrogance, virtue became vice, and self-concern became selfishness.

And that line always had to do with others.

When you would disregard both other people and the world around you for a singleminded goal—morals. Ethics. People. When you didn’t have a line you wouldn’t cross, that was ‘sin.’

Cyrus found that sinners were really quite interesting people.

“Prince,” said the Galani leader, roughly, “we will go.”

Bellum rose in the distance, the mountains behind Cyrus and the city in front of him.

He had not stepped even a toe in the Republic ever since the exile, but coming to his birthplace felt wrong in all the right ways. Like he didn’t belong. Like he hated the ground he walked on, but that felt rather dramatic.

This was not the place he needed to stain.

“We will go,” Cyrus agreed.

Perhaps the Third Prince saw something of himself in the praetor, but he’d always had an eye for stories that all of his family members shared. He knew people—he knew how they worked, because he knew their stories.

Julian would be back.

As Cyrus clutched his spear tighter, he walked in front of the Republica Fort smiling.

They destroyed his name, but not his pride.

Never his pride.

The sky turned grey with an incoming storm as the soldiers on the walls took notice, and the army behind him—made up of both Galani and Cadmi—raised their swords in anticipation.

And Cyrus delivered.

“Keravnós prínkipas!” they roared as the heavens split apart.

The Lightning Prince laughed in return.

Who said he couldn’t do diplomacy?

Timaios looked at the decree.

And then he looked at it again.

It was more of a writ than a decree, but it was a paper of power nonetheless.

He was Marquis, now.

“I didn’t think Josephine would be one to be doing grunt work,” Alyssa remarked as she laid her head on his shoulder. “It’s not really grunt work, though,” she mused, after a while. “There’s got to be some political phrasing behind it. With her usurping your throne and whatnot.”

“Not really usurping,” Timaios said after a while, stroking her hair. “Influence is like the moon. It wanes, waxes, peaks...and then wanes again. You don’t have to actively chase it, really. You just wait for your time to turn the tide.” His eyes wandered over the words on the paper. “And then you strike.”

“Pah.” Alyssa turned herself over. “Waiting, waiting, waiting—all I’m doing is waiting for Her Highness to return. It’s been, what, already a couple Dayhepts? I pledged myself to her, and she wrangled an Oath out of Macedon, as well. I don’t know how she does it—or, rather, what she’s doing.”

“But she’s doing it well,” responded the other. “And isn’t it all that matters?”

Greta was positioning Arathis and Josephine as her voices, her messengers. The fact that they were responsible for the assassination attempt on the Consuls had been tightly confined to those that had witnessed it, and the fact that the Republic wasn’t waving the situation like a flag to draw people to their favor was strange.

No one had tried to sway public opinion drastically—but leaving it alone would fester a rot that wouldn’t be easily cut out.

Greta had, with the writ, forwarded a plan that would do that—leaking the Empire’s secrets before the Republic had a chance to, using the chance to cut out the nobles the rumors were spread about…

But Damianos was gone, and so were Theadora and Matthias, the prime suspects for a rebellion. The anti-Imps, as per rumor, had been dealt with deftly by Josephine. There were whispers of a high appointment being made, but those were only speculations. Logical speculations, sure, but speculations still.

The political tide in the capital was turning, and war was no deterrent.

It, in fact, was an accelerant.

“Yes,” Timaios whispered, “that’s really all that matters.”

Alyssa’s eyes looked upwards at him, yet her eyebrows were raised.

“Are you alright, Maios?” Her voice was softer than usual at the question, having lost its shrewd edge.

“Right as rain,” the Marquis lied. “Right as rain.”

He was a pawn, no matter how tall of a throne he built himself.

And that was really all that mattered.

Mercy held the lantern upwards towards the moon. The light was a calm yellow, radiating from the core of the flame and illuminating the street that spread as the ground under her feet. She’d already taken care of the tails, of course, and all she had left was the man who’d ordered them.

Azareth’s streets were strangely narrow, alleys and corners prevalent like a plague. Better for her job, the assassin supposed as her eyes roved over the brick building. The niches were craggy, but it was doable.

Mercy held the lantern by her teeth as she dug her hands in the first crack. The weight was familiar, the balance coming with ease. After finding a foothold, she slowly moved up the walls as she scaled the first floor up to the bedroom window where she settled on its sill.

Inserting her knife in the lock, she managed to open it with a satisfying click. The assassin rolled open the window to darkness.

“Who’s—”

The Grand Duchess’ hound leapt to action with the knife she had been given.

As midnight came, she cleaned off the blood and looked above.

One down.

But there was more to go.

I stepped forward.

I had spent the night travelling, and had nothing but bitter regret that an entire day had been lost to the journey to Azareth. I had voiced my concerns to Xandros the entirety of our trek, and it seemed my poor minion was fed up with my complaints as he’d very eloquently tried to sidetrack me by asking what my favorite fruit was after the first hour.

I’d answered that it was grapes.

Then we’d gotten into a heated debate over the benefits and demerits of both apples and grapes that lasted another good hour before we halted in front of the camp.

It was more of a post than a camp—it’d been surprisingly easy to find where the Cohorts were, as they’d been scheduled to arrive within the day and I’d memorized most of the active military outposts in the country (courtesy of Marianus).

One was stationed outside a town a few miles away from Azareth, and was the obvious choice as a resting area for the Republica legionaries coming back from the border.

It was merry—the town’s lights, from far away, were lit and twinkling; and the post was full of raucous people armed with meat and wine and bawdy jokes.

The soldiers were treated well.

I saw some of the townspeople voluntarily joining them by their fires, some flirting with the soldiers that had good looks and high ranks, and so I strolled in, apparently trying my luck. Xandros approached a plain-looking village girl who was wringing her hands nervously, and I chatted up a horse-boy who was, true to the name of his occupation, in charge of the Cohorts’ horses.

He, thinking I was a girl from the village, showed me around the Cohorts’ horses (as planned).

While I distracted him with my ever-abundant flow of charm, I poured the poison in the water trays, just like we planned.

The horses would be dead by dawn, and with it the legionaries—if Xandros followed his side of the plan.

The horse-boy would likely put out the order for a village girl with blue eyes if the legionaries survived, and even if some of the smarter ones cried Imperial sabotage, we would be long gone by then and the survivors would be left with no horses and an uneasy village.

That would, one: reduce their number so even if they arrived at Azareth, they would be (optimistically) half their people; and two: well, divide the Cohorts who were already worn out from their service at the monster-overriden border.

Xandros had poison that he would manage to sneak into the stew and the meat, and after he finished the task we’d be off.

If everything went right.

I watched the crowd from the corner of my eye as I laughed at one of the horse-boy’s admittedly funny jokes, meeting Xandros’ eyes when the horse-boy’s back was turned. He was tugging the village girl to the kitchen tent with a surprisingly charming grin, and he paused only to give me a nod.

Right.

“Aren’t ya guys tired, from ya doings at the border?” I asked the horse-boy.

“Tired, we are,” said the other with a grin, “but, ya know, s’all for the country.” He winked obviously jokingly, flexing his nonexistent muscles, which I met with a giggle.

“I feel bad for ya,” I commented. “It musn’t be all fun and games over at Gloria.”

The horse-boy made a face. “Don’t even get me started,” he replied. “I’ve seen monsters this big, if ya can believe it.” He gesticulated widely, conveying a quite large monster—a Harpy, maybe?

I gasped, words hushed. “Ya’ve seen a Minotaur?”

The boy shook his head furiously. “Nah, I’d be dead if I did! Don’t jinx me!” He leaned closer, as if sharing a secret. “Ya know, I’m not Praetor Julian. He’s the King of the Battlefield—a genuine, straight outta Honos, son of Romulus! I’ve seen him fight, I tell ya, and he’s—” the boy shook his head. “Insane. I don’t even know why he got captured.”

Well, of course Mari would have a stellar reputation.

“Really?” I asked. “I’ve only heard stories, but—ya’ve seen him up close?”

“Yep,” replied the horse-boy, proudly. “I’ve even spoken to the girl who tends to his Ralla—that’s his horse, by the way. I managed to get a pet or two in, ya know, for luck.”

I tilted my head. “Isn’t he our age, though?” I questioned. “I mean, I’m not doubting ya, but how does he feel up close?”

This was surprisingly entertaining.

“I mean, this sounds kinda weird, but he feels—” the boy hesitated. “Kinda scary. Not like the small kinda scary when you’re a kid, but the big kinda scary. Like those things you hear in Myths and Tales. By the all the Gods, Jupiter and Saturn scary.” The horse-boy shook his head. “I don’t think ya can get it unless ya see him up close, but he’s also a good kinda scary.”

He smiled.

“Like he’ll beat all the Imperials kinda scary. He’s really handsome, too, in that hero kinda way.”

I agreed on that bit, and was about to speak up again when my Ability prickled and I detected Xandros trying to catch my eye.

It really works only for that? I was tempted to click my tongue in annoyance, but I merely looked at the moon sadly.

“Oh, Gods, it’s past my curfew. Damn.”

The horse-boy looked disappointed. “Aw, that’s too bad.”

I smiled, a bit of genuinity in it. “I really was enjoying the conversation, too.” I patted him on the shoulder affably. “Well, I guess we’ll hopefully see each other soon, huh?”

A bit of the crooked grin crept back onto his face, and he did with a wink.

“Maybe you’ll stay longer next time, eh?”

I winked in return. “Maybe.” If you survive the night. After a pause, I added, “You know, ya probably shouldn’t eat too much tonight, alright? Ya should go to sleep early today. It’s good luck to sleep under the moon before daylight hours.”

Leaving him with a made-up superstition, I slunk out of the camp and reconvened with Xandros.

“Done?” I asked him.

“Done, Boss,” my minion whispered.

There would likely be some casualties among the village, as well—but what had been done had been done.

“Let’s go, then,” I said.

The ships arrived in the morning.