There are is only two one choices: to do or to die.

- VANDALIZED REPUBLICA SOLDIER RECRUITMENT POSTER

AFTER THE HUNDREDTH QUEEN'S CAGE

A LOST KNIFE AS A PRESENT

When Xanthe was born, she’d nearly drowned. She’d been barely a child at the time, but even now she could feel that sensation of water filling her throat—and with that faint memory came the hesitation step in deep waters. It was more out of caution than fear, she thought.

A dog that bit you once, could bite again; no matter long or tall the odds.

Just because you win one coin toss, doesn’t mean you’ll win the next.

To believe otherwise was a flaw, a fallacy.

But to believe otherwise was human.

Xanthe was never a good bladesgirl. That was a name for the knifers, the grunt workers under the big crime organizations that lurked in the Lower Quarter. The nobles never cared about their people unless they could exploit them, and Xanthe doubted that the Imperial Family even knew the names of the people of the Underworld—crime ran rampant, but it ran rampant in a way that benefited the aristocracy.

Rule number one of doing illegal things: stay away from politics, her brother had said. Caspian Nameless’ Rules to the Good Life, he called them. By the Good Life, he of course meant the only life two orphans with a concerning amount of debt could take.

If you were a big enough player, you would inevitably be pulled in; but as a grunt worker, it was a policy that would decide life or death.

Rule number two: make more friends than enemies.

If possible, her brother had stressed. Usually, hate wasn’t personal—well, if it wasn’t personal, it wasn’t really hate: just a grudging mutual dislike between parties, he’d said. But when you made a person hate you, and the ‘story’ behind you, that was a dangerous hate. The kind of hate that could get you killed. So it would be better to avoid that. If possible.

Xanthe looked up at the tall wall as she remembered the third one.

Rule number three: never start races you can’t finish.

The girl disagreed with that one.

If you always stuck to the things you were certain you could do, there would be no risk, and no reward of equal measure.

The house in front of her was a small-time merchant’s, one she’d been directed to hit. The group she’d managed to join, a ragtag group of outcasts that had dealings with the bigger-but-not-biggest (insert lewd joke here) bosses (think anti-Imps, the ‘tesans, slightly-above-average Ecstasy dealers).

It was all brick, not gargantuan but not unmemorable either, situated slightly into the Upper Quarter but leaning towards the Western one as well—Xanthe didn’t know much about land, but it was a pretty nice location, she guessed.

Climbing bougainvillea—the kind that looked positively nefarious at night—dangled its way down trellis that leaned on a narrow three-storey building. The thorny vines dripped flowers that clustered and spread on the latticework, scattering the papery petals in the windy night.

One landed on Xanthe’s foot.

It was doable.

That was the second thought—the only thought that mattered. First thoughts were how you were taught to react to things. Second thoughts were your real ones.

It was doable.

Not— What if I fall and break my neck? Die?

The girl took in a breath. It was a shaky one, but still a breath.

The trellis was doable—the height of the building just made it look impossibly bigger.

And, with that, Xanthe reached out a hand. It was immediately pricked by the vines, her bare palm being scratched against as she dove her fingers to hook them in the lattice underneath. The next hand searched and found, and with that she hoisted herself up smoothly.

She was good at climbing.

It was doable.

Thorns scraped against her hands as she shoved her feet in crevices, slowly reaching for the next handhold as she moved her fingers upward, inching her way up the structure as leaves brushed against her face. There was blood after the first few seconds—a minor cut—but that was when her arms started to twinge with exhaustion.

If she was too eager, she might hurtle down—she couldn’t afford rushing.

Besides, it wouldn’t dawn anytime soon.

Time blurred, just for a second, before the window was within her sight. Her hands were aching and tingling with pain, but she reached for the still and perched on it as she slipped the lockpicks out of her mouth.

Xanthe glided the pin inside the lock, fiddling around until it clicked open. Silently, she slid open the windows as she leaned forward into the room.

The girl reached into her pockets and drew out a match—lighting it, the ambiance provided a dim view of an office. It was fancy enough, she supposed.

“The documents are in the second drawer of the guy’s private office. Climb up, break in, pick the lock, and get out of there.” The woman who usually supervised Xanthe had been uncharacteristically firm. “You’re not our best, but you’re certainly not our worst. This operation’s focus is secrecy. And efficiency. Get in, get out, come back—got that?”

And if she didn’t come back, she’d be left behind. Fed to the crows.

Or the Guard.

The two animals were practically synonymous.

Second drawer.

Xanthe slid her fingers along the side of the wood, fumbling blind, before her fingers shuffled over the metal lock. She pushed the flame near, still scanning the room for possible obstacles, as she plucked at the lock again.

The drawer opened soon enough, and the girl snatched the documents out of them after slipping her lockpicks into her pockets. Skimming them with one hand to make sure they weren’t blank, Xanthe lowered the match to rove her eyes over the paper as—

—the door slammed open.

A man’s face, engraved with age and shock.

The girl bolted. She tossed the lit match towards him, the man catching it on reflex and releasing a cry as it burned his hands, and she bolted. Haphazardly leaping out the window and slamming her hands on random pieces of trellis to break her fall, Xanthe ran.

And ran.

And ran.

A Daycycle Ago

“You’re different, lately.” The woman squinted at the girl. “You’ve gotten faster. Quicker. Like something’s chasing you, but you’re not off your game. Spill.”

The girl shrugged. “There’s nothing, really.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed further, before she leaned back, her floaty voice firm. “Something happened. With someone. Who? Friends? Lovers— no, family.” A pause. “What happened to your brother?”

Xanthe’s fists curled. “Had an argument, one night. He was trying to tell me something, I think. But we fought. Woke up—no note, no nothing.” (Of course, the last bit was a lie, but the alternative was the truth.) She forced her tone to be offhanded, breezy.

The woman’s face didn’t soften, but her eyes did.

“Right. He a runner?”

“No,” Xanthe said, shortly. “Not from this.” Not from me, she didn’t say.

“Hmm. So you say.” The words were light, and it would’ve made the woman seem unconvinced if it didn’t carry a strange type of weight. “Well,” she said, after a while, “I have an operation for you.”

“Don’t you always,” replied the girl, wryly.

The woman snorted.

“Don’t you backtalk me,” she chided. Her eyes were warm, but Xanthe felt a strange kind of coldness. A sharp kind.

Climb.

Xanthe Nameless needed to climb.

She ran through the streets with a screaming merchant on her tail, heart pounding and hands bleeding as her legs sang in pain. The documents were clutched to her chest in an haphazard effort to keep them close, crinkling against her shirt as the girl ran. The streets blurred but Xanthe still kept track of them, twisting and turning and praying her feet didn’t get caught on a cobblestone at the wrong time.

The merchant wasn’t terribly fast, but the operation needed to be stealthy. She blew it, she knew—

She blew it.

She couldn’t do it.

The girl hurried through dark corners, her eyes burning over familiar houses as she ducked under a comforting shadow. Back pressed against the alley, her chest heaved as her lungs scorched in their places near her heart, the fiery plague spreading more from adrenaline than anything else.

Xanthe took a staggering breath through her open mouth, strangling the documents in her embrace as she spoke after a silence.

“R-rule number three.” The words came steadily, broken from fatigue. “N-never start races you can’t finish.”

She needed to finish this. The merchant— was the merchant still there? A logical question. Xanthe peeked out from behind her place. No, there was no angry merchant in sight, even though there were extremely faint cries that meant that could change in a minute or two.

She couldn’t lead them to the front door, so she would need to go through the back.

Right.

The documents.

The dried blood from her thorn-kissed hands had splattered on some corners of the parchment, but it was still readable, although very tattered. It would be a dead giveaway if the merchant searched for someone with papers, so Xanthe tucked it under her shirt.

The back door.

Right.

The meeting place was usually in a bar that was— around the corner from here? She knew where she was. Yes, she knew where she was.

After giving herself one more second to take in full breaths, she walked out from behind the corner. Ragged cobblestones met her thorn-scratched boots as she moved steadily around the corner. It was late at night, when the Lower Quarter “came to life,” and people were on the streets. It wasn’t strange for someone to be chased at this time, but it really depended on how much money the chaser offered for someone to catch her.

Keeping her head down, Xanthe skulked through the crowd and hurried, spying the bar a few paces away.

The squat building neared her with every step, but she circumvented the normal route and walked around, towards the flimsy ragged door that served as Plan B. It was lit by a lone lantern, embedded in the wood and hovering with no sense of direction, but the sixteen-year-old girl knocked on the entrance regardless.

The peephole was opened, and after checking Xanthe’s twisted face, a voice echoed. “Password?”

Her tone was flat. “There’s none. I have the documents, and I lost my tail, but it’s likely they’ll be on the lookout for a while.”

There was a short pause, shorter than usual, before the hinges swung open and Xanthe met the woman’s cold eyes. They were dead, hollow—

“Hello.”

As the girl stepped past the threshold, her head swivelled in the direction of the voice.

Blue eyes stared back at the girl, crinkling in amusement as Xanthe’s hand immediately went to her knife.

“Good evening,” said the girl, stretching out a hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Xanthe didn’t withdraw her hand. “Who are you? What do you want?” she demanded, gaze flickering to the woman, who was still.

“Seraphina,” the stranger introduced herself, “Seraphina Queenscage. And I want…” Her lips curled. “Well, I want everything.” She leaned forward. “And you’re going to help me take it.”

BEFORE THE HUNDREDTH QUEEN'S CAGE

PAST COURAGE AS A GIFT

Shangguan Ming remembered his birthplace a bit fainter than he should’ve. Tianya, home to the Palace of a Thousand Suns, the edge of heaven and the Other End of the World. It was a bustling country, bordering many others, but home to his family, and thus, home to his heart. He remembered standing atop the Rift, watching the clouds drift by as the abyss rolled deep. He remembered the smell of chrysanthemums gifted and embroidered and collected, scallions flayed and folded into flat discs, and, most of all, he remembered his family.

But the scents and sounds of his home were duller than before, more covered by the haze of age, seemingly more a distant tale than a place he longed to go back to.

He had a wanderer’s heart.

His mother always said she should’ve named him Shangguan Feng instead of Shangguan Ming, and even now he still wondered whether she was referring to the fact that he was aimless like the wind, or the fact that she thought he was a crazy idiot.

But his mother was home.

And he— well, he didn’t know where home was.

“Sir,” said the attendant, hesitant, “are you—”

“Yes?” Ming asked, snapping out of his reverie. “I’m alright. Sorry, what were you saying? Where was I?” After years of living in Visava, his Imperi had become refined, he thought. His Republica had marched past passable, and, well, he still struggled with Tartari, so that was that.

“Er, you said something about...chong you bin, sir,” the attendant responded, stumbling over the words.

“Ah, cōng yóubǐng,” Shangguan Ming corrected. “Yes, apparently your inn’s famous for its Tianya cuisine?”

The boy blinked. “Er, yes, sir. I’ll ask the chef to come upstairs, personally, if you’d like him…”

That was a fancy way of saying he didn’t know.

What kind of person didn’t know cōng yóubǐng?

Everyone here, Ming corrected himself. Everyone here.

“Alright.” The wanderer waved the boy off with aimlessly. “Ask the man if he’s free.”

“Yes, sir.”

The boy disappeared, and Shangguan Ming was left alone with his thoughts.

Which was never a good sign.

He just wanted to go home. He was tired. The Xiahous and the Ouyangs had driven him out by beseeching the Emperor to “send the Prince of Yan as a cultural ambassador to learn the art of diplomatic relations” as “the Prince of Yan’s debaucherous behavior had warranted a lesson in discipline and filial piety,” but Ming just wanted to go back home.

His position in the faction of Yan was already lost to his cousin Qiuyue, and he doubted he would have political power when he returned, but he just wanted to return. To taste his mother’s food again. To get scolded because of his calligraphy again, to make fun of the ministers’ mustaches again.

The Xiahous, being a military faction; and the Ouyangs, being a scholarly faction; had banded together to crush the mercantile Shangguans. Even after they’d suffered a defeat when Ming himself had been bestowed a fief on Western Tianya, they’d still rallied together on the excuse of them not wanting to bring Visavan influence into their country.

Pah.

Even here, their “the Prince of Yan does not have enough military experience to take ahold of a mercantile state” and “we are simply worried that this is too heavy of a burden to place on the Prince of Yan’s shoulders” while attempting to poison him at every turn haunted him.

Shangguan Ming sighed.

He wanted to go home.

So what was stopping him?

Everything.

And nothing.

EVENTS LEADING UP TO THE THOUSAND-MILE WAR OF TIANYA

—Prince of Yan, Shangguan Ming (燕王 上官明), is exiled to Visava

—Prince of Zhou, Xiahou Wei (周王 夏侯韋), marries Princess of Kang, Ouyang Ying (康公主 歐陽瑩)

—Prince of Chu, Huang Zitao ( 楚王 黃子韜), passes title to daughter Huang Shao (黃少)

—Prince of Zhou creates scandal by offering concubinage to Huang Shao, which Chu declines

—Kang pulls back support on Zhou’s military proposal for western expansion

Zhou’s military proposal is rejected by the Imperial Court due to resistance from the Shangguangs and failure to have proper control of the western states (Kang and Yan).

—Xiahou Wei abruptly divorces wife Ouyang Ying

The Prince of Zhou accuses wife Princess of Kang of cheating on him due to out-of-the-blue pregnancy. He demands a paternity test when the baby is born to avenge the insult on Zhou.

—Kang breaks off ties with Zhou

A coalition of western states is offered to Yan by Kang in the form of marriage. Ouyang Xiu (歐陽修) is presented to Princess of Yan Shangguan Qiuyue (上官秋月). A marriage is scheduled.

—Former Prince of Yan, Shangguan Ming, returns from Visava

Political waves are made and his position is almost immmediately recognized by the state of Yan. Speculations are made of the possible factions within Yan, and some dispute the right of Shangguan Ming's succession, which are dispelled after the Emperor's acceptance of his position in Yan.

—Princess of Yan, Shangguan Qiuyue, cecedes title to Shangguan Ming, who takes place in the wedding instead.

The Shangguans and the Ouyangs have a steady alliance.

—Kang-Yan western faction is formed.

The western mercantile states group together politically.

—Zhou reaches for aid from Chu, who declines.

To combat the western coatilition, the Prince of Zhou invites the Princess of Chu to a meeting, whom publicly declines. Huang Shao also humiliates Xiahou Wei and sends a letter to Zhou concering the conduct of those in their faction.

—Start of Zhou-Chu conflict, tensions rise in the East

In the east, militarization occurs; skirmishes happen sooner as Xiahou Wei publicly declares hostilities.

—Chu requests aid from Kang

Simulteanously, Ouyang Ziyi is born to Princess of Kang, Ouyang Ying; and a paternity test is performed. The results are observed by an unknown Zhou official and reported back to the faction. It is publicly announced that Ouyang Ziyi, now successor to the Princess of Kang, is Xiahou Wei's child.

—Kang acts individually from the western faction

Due to Ouyang Ying's personal long-time friendship with Huang Shao, Kang comes to Chu's aid.

—Yan retaliates by disbanding the faction, Shangguan Ming divorces Ouyang Xiu

Tensions arrive in the faction as the scholarly Ouyangs come into the Chu's military. In retaliation, the western states split and Ouyang Xiu is divorced.

—The Thousand Mile war begins

Tianya has long been engaged in trade with Visava. The Western States have been a source of mercantile wealth for Imperial Tianya through Visavan trade, even before the Thousand Mile War. Diplomatic relations, although scarce, have been tumultuous throughout the years; but the western naval routes themselves have yielded a multitude of benefits for our land. Through Yan, we have exported silks and porcelain over water to the Empire; through Kang, we have exchanged knowledge over land.

However little knowledge we have of the Empire and the other countries that make up our neighboring continent, we cannot act abruptly. Many merchants from our Tianya have ceased trade with the continent since the war, and many have suffered. With our turbulent relations with the Gailbraith, and our escalating situation with the Central-Western Principalities, the Western States’ influence has waned. With the currently enforced taxes, we struggle to keep our own people fed while serving our Tianya.

Without fertile land, trees cannot grow. The groves in the west of our Tianya are rapidly wilting, and thus we cannot provide shade in others’ time of need, or properly serve our oots.

This loyal subject humbly beseeches Your Imperial Majesty to reconsider the raising of taxes.

—MONTHLY REPORT FROM THE WESTERN STATES, WRITTEN BY SHANGGUANG YUN, CURRENT PRINCE OF YAN (ON VISAVAN WAR)

AFTER THE HUNDREDTH QUEEN'S CAGE

(PRESENT)

A CROWN AS A FUTURE

The High King knew that he had problems. Who didn’t? Especially when ruling over a large portion of a large continent, it would be surprising if there wasn’t any resistance. Especially since he’d tested the waters by sending out the bandits to intercept Imperial platin in the north and cause conflict, and deliberately held back peacekeeper interference, he’d been surprised that all they had done was withdraw.

No resistance—not a single spy.

Of course, that was operating on the assumption that someone had caught on to the fact that there had been deliberate influence, but, like his children like to say: come on. He wasn’t overestimating the Imperials—no one overestimated the Imperials.

If he overestimated an Imperial, the High King would, at the very most, end up looking like a fool. If he underestimated an Imperial, on the other hand, he’d end up dead in a ditch at the very least.

That was the tenement of Rhianite-Imperial diplomacy: even though the Empire constantly underestimated the continent, Rhiannon never once underestimated the Empire. Both sides had never conflicted—much—in the High King’s lifetime, as, one: the Empire was usually too caught up in their own turmoil most of the time; and, two: the Empire thought that the Rhianites were too peace-loving to warrant the effort to conquer them.

At least, that was the gist of it.

If his mother could hear his thoughts right now, he would be scolded, he thought. “Geoffrey, you’re focusing too much on a single continental entity again,” she would say. “Stop being so single-minded and look at the big picture. You’re seeing this as a puzzle, and you’re spending way too long on one piece. The Empire doesn’t make up the entirety of Visava.”

It would, soon, by the looks of how the war was progressing, Geoffrey thought.

The Republic was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and even if it was too brittle to bend and too strong to break.

The Boreas debacle had been to test the waters—if they’d sent out spies against Rhiannon after, the High King would’ve involved the peacekeepers in the platin bandit operation to push against them.

The Platin Bandit, of course, had been more roguish than he’d liked, but the fact remained that the Imperials not only remained unmoved after the Prince’s death, but had withdrawn—his then conclusion had been that the current Empress had needed time to stabilize her throne, and thus hadn’t wanted to move too fast too soon; but, obviously, that hadn’t been the case.

It was probably a threat.

Or something.

Ekaterina was awfully fond of playing practical jokes, too, but the current war on Visava likely had warranted this. While she and the rest of the Tsardom wanted to stay as neutral as she could—awfully easy for her to say, since she didn’t share a border with them—Geoffrey was still on the edge of making a decision. If the Empire won, and if they proceeded to take over the rest of Visava, conflict with the other continents was inevitable.

Even though Visava was a small continent in comparison to Rhiannon (and the Gailbraith area that was just, well, there), it was still arguably larger than the Principalities. Even if Tianya wanted to involve themselves in the mess because of their western states, an ocean divided them still, so the bigger entities were still Gailbraith, Rhiannon, and the Principalities themselves.

Geoffrey sighed, before smiling.

“What is a knife if not a weapon?” the High King whispered under his breath.

But he would wait.

The blade bade its time.