O chorós tou thanátou den eínai ómorfos.

The dance of death is not beautiful.

STRANGLING WAS NEVER A GOOD WAY TO GO. That was his first thought.

Cyrus Halgrove was standing in darkness, uncomprehending what happened. Then it - everything - all merged into a second thought:

Arathis needed to Revive him, his Ability said.

But if he needed to Revive himself, he was dead, wasn’t he?

Cyrus was dead.

The pain around his neck was real, sharp and dulling at the same time. Unsurprisingly, his first thought wasn’t about Cedric. It was about his family’s faces. Both his families, from the sun-worn faces of the Notian bandits, grinning with bawdy jokes and bawdier laughs; to the strange smiles of five people, cavalier and unique in their own ways.

He was dead.

And then a laugh managed to rip his way out his throat, more a snort than a real sound, and then his lungs tore themselves to pieces as he wheezed on the ground. There was iron bubbling in his throat, bitter and sour and sweet, as the entire situation somehow became a piece that forced itself into Cyrus’ puzzle of comprehension.

His Ability was there, and it was telling him he was dead, and he believed it.

That was when the tears came, out of nowhere and intermingling with relief and regret and despair—but most of all, the anger. It came in flashes like his Lightning, but it was muted, dull; and the sheer burden of its formerly vivid hue had fallen off his shoulders.

But then everything stopped.

And the Chosen looked up.

A God’s face stared up at him.

Zeus’ face, carved in the marble of the sky, peered out from a hole in the darkness. And, after meeting Cyrus’ eyes, the King of the Sky ripped the reality apart as he managed to stand, forming a throne out of the abyss as Lightning curved around his body. The fabric itself crackled, humming with power as it trickled around the God’s arm and twisted into a weapon in his hand, elongating into a shard like a piece of the heavens.

A sentence formed on Cyrus’ tongue, and something Burned.

“I was so close.”

The boy’s hands were shaking.

“I was so close— how dare you take that from me?”

Cyrus leapt towards the Lightning King, rage etched on his features, but the God was calmly still. Zeus looked his Chosen in the eye.

There was a silence, one that sang a defeaning song, and as the God spoke, he spoke with power.

If I gave you one more chance at life, said the God of the Sky, calmly, what would you do differently?

The shard crackled in his hand and spread around Cyrus' shoulders, scorching under his skin and burning but not, a cool-warm Fire that settled in his withering chest as he felt the heat of the God on his hands. It wasn't the heat of a human; it was the heat of a fire. A monster, but not. Everything he wanted to be, and nothing he was.

The fingers of the man, knotted in the God’s lapels, faltered. Pride battled desperation in Cyrus' eyes.

“Time.” A whisper wrangled its way out of the man’s mouth. “I just need more time. Please.”

Blue eyes flashed.

“Give me one more chance. One more time. I— I beg of you, please. I can’t see their faces again, without avenging them—” Cyrus' voice didn’t break, but it halted; his hands slowly untangled themselves from the God. The man’s face had been carved inside out with some sort of despair but not sorrow, an injury more gouge than crack—a wound that could not be sewn nor pieced back together.

“I can’t face them,” the prince said, firmly but gingerly, pausing for lengths between the words. “Not when I’ve died like this. Not when I was so close to—”

Redemption.

That single word resounded in the air, a statement but not a question.

You want to be a hero.

Very well.

Let’s try again.

The surroundings shifted.

Zeus was nowhere to be seen, Cyrus now in the middle of a bloodied plain. He recognized the ruins he was standing in, bits and pieces of a familiar palatial manor as bodies were at his feet. Flame ate away at the edges of smouldering columns, and immediately his eyes recognized the faces below him, his cousins and siblings and relatives with slack eyes and mouths.

Their arms were burnt and charred, the Halgrove estate in a similar state, and the man could do nothing but recoil as he saw the woman a few paces in front of him.

His mother.

Even if this was a dream, even if this wasn’t real, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity. The leather-faced woman in front of him, with Cyrus’ dark hair and proud features, merely smiled as the former prince darted closer, summoning Lightning from the sky.

Heat soared in his veins, even though he knew he was dead, and for once—

As the man reached for his mother’s throat, he felt a singing pain within that familiar Lightning, terror amidst the spark—

—As he crumbled to ashes.

Abyss swallowed his vision, and immediately Zeus’ face was found again.

“Again,” pleaded the man.

The God’s features merged into the void, until the void was no more and he was back in the scene again.

He felt the crackling inside his veins, electrifying and exhilarating, as he once again saw his family at his mercy. The sky thundered as he was ready to command the Lightning to rain down— and immediately was struck down by a knife. The blade from seemingly nowhere pierced skin, and Cyrus fell. Zeus didn’t call him back until he was bleeding out on the ground amidst the bodies of those he needed to kill.

“Again,” demanded the man.

He was resurrected, and he was killed—the second the spark of life faltered from Hortensia’s eyes, his own hands faltered as some unknown force kept him from finishing the deed.

“Again,” screamed the man.

He was—

—so close.

Zeus’ face was as it had been, at the beginning: impassive, but somehow conveying a sense of pity, as if a tower staring down at a crumbling brick. The God’s proud features, arranged in a statuesque way that spoke silently of eons seen, remained unflinching.

I killed my father, said the God, as he did his father before him. I saw the death of ages, of we who claimed vengeance, and those who cried absolution. I saw the rise of man, with their broken souls, and those who could not pick up the pieces. I am the Father of the Sky, the Ruler of the Above—I have flooded the world, and I know what you do not.

The Lightning King looked at his Chosen.

Revenge will not be your salvation.

Cyrus’ face contorted.

“But it is,” the Chosen whispered. “I— saved a life, and I— was exiled. They killed my friends, burned my home—I couldn’t be soft anymore. I couldn’t afford to—they needed to pay. Repent.” I needed to repent, was what he didn’t say.

He saved a life, and for that he was exiled.

He begged his father, and he was turned away.

He was welcomed, and then they were burned.

He wanted freedom, but then he was Caged.

Revenge was— “It’s the only thing left,” said the man. His eyes weren’t teary, but they were softer than ever, vulnerable twin blues. “It’s the only thing left, for a person like me.” His voice cracked. “Please. Again.”

No more, said the God. It has ended.

A beat, as the man wept and the God was silent.

The world does not owe you a beautiful death, said Zeus, after a while. Nor does it owe you a beautiful life.

“Then is it foolish?” rasped the prince. “To hope for redemption? A happily ever after, an end to— this?” The last word was spoken bitterly, brokenly.

No, said the Lightning King. But salvation will not come.

“I thought I would at least achieve something,” said the man. “I fell from the sky without even seeing the sun.”

You fell from the sky because you were too close to the sun, corrected Zeus. But it does not matter. It was not that your anger was not enough—it was that you were not enough. Your life was not enough—your Victory was not enough. You made yourself your Victory, and because of that, it was not enough.

Each word hit already broken chords.

“One last time?” questioned the Lightning Prince, already knowing the answer.

No. No more, said the Lightning King.

The heat of the Republic, raining sky and blood.

The towers of Boreas, the scorn of his father.

The gold of the Cage, sheer will and scorched bodies.

The dryness of Notus, the sweat of his first family.

The depths of the capital, the smiles of his last.

“No more,” echoed Cyrus Queenscage.

The Chosen smiled as he crumbled to ashes.

The murderer was sentenced to the gallows, as two Galani men walked across the city and conversed.

“I don’t know, man,” whispered the first, turning a corner. “It seems so surreal that we were there. Like, we saw the guy die.”

The second harrumphed. “Don’t forget that it was because of them that our home burned,” he hissed under his breath. “You don’t get to forgive them just because one of them’s dead.”

The first shrugged. “I don’t know, man, he was the one who convinced the head to let us march. And he’s gained plenty of respect in my book. I mean, he practically burned everyone to ashes. The strong’s the strong. The weak’s the weak. That’s the way of life, my man. Even if he has a psycho ex.” He shuddered. “Gods, even thinking about that guy gives me the shivers. I’m glad I’m not the one lopping off his head. He kept acting normal and shit—didn’t even give a reason.”

The second scowled. “The guy was the patrician’s son. Shouldn’t resentment be the only reason?”

The other tilted his head. “I don’t know. It seemed like more than that. The Prince loved the guy, it seemed like. You could see it in his eyes—both of them loved each other, past or present tense or whatever. I remember the psycho saying something about how the Prince needed it. Something about the release of death, or something. Weird.”

“He did say something about that,” the second agreed. “And something about stopping the man from going too far and ‘carving himself hollow’?”

“Yeah, hollow was the word. I don’t know, I kind of get where the psycho’s going. Remember what the head used to tell us, about the story and the person?”

The other arched his eyebrow. “You think the dead Imperial couldn’t separate his story from himself?”

The first man looked up. “I think he couldn’t tell where the story ended and he began,” the man said, softly. “You know how my gut is, with these things. I can tell.”

A beat.

The second man’s skepticality was muted, but present. “Yeah, sure, man,” he relented. “Whatever you say. But did you hear about the authority change in Bellum…”

The poisoned and weakened Cohorts of the Romulus Army arrived only a night after we took over the city. It was strange, to see the hope that arrived on the people’s faces—surprisingly bright pieces of dawn—only to be snuffed out when they saw the state of the legionnaires.

Spoiler alert: it was not good.

They hobbled more than they walked, coughed more than they spoke, and even when that wasn’t enough, some of them collapsed on the way in. Sarawolf was potent, I knew, but I assumed it would’ve been a bit more diluted in effect since we’d dumped it in the food and drink. Then again, I also assumed that that diluted effect was the reason why they’d even made it to Azareth.

One of the stronger ones, who’d evidently been lucky, looked at the foreign armor that the guards at the city walls wore; and barked something to the rest of the crowd. A ripple of something resembling incomprehension went through the group, before all of them swayed and I gestured for the Princeblood to open the gates.

The moment of hesitation before they did needed to be remedied, though.

But oh, well. You couldn’t please everyone.

I walked slowly through the open entrance, meeting the group outside the gate. “State your name and business, please.”

The horse-boy wasn’t there, which was good. Or bad, depending on what way you looked at it—he hadn’t followed my advice, likely.

“State your name and business,” countered the legionary. She looked at me suspiciously, as if she knew my face from somewhere. “Who are you? Why are you guarding the city walls?”

Scars mottled her face, reminding me that these guys had been the ones fighting the monsters at the border. I recognized a claw mark.

I tapped the side of my face. “Harpy?” I asked. “Those can be nasty if you’re caught alone and by surprise. Their gizzards, though? Tastes delicious.”

Her face contorted further, and murmurs bubbled up from those behind her.

“You’re an Imperial,” she accused, somewhat uneasily, distantly gesturing for the people to get back. “Why are you here? Who’s your commanding officer?”

“I’m my own commanding officer,” I corrected. “But, before we get to introductions, it seems like you all haven’t been informed of the situation.” I paused for effect. “Azareth has been taken over by forces of the Eternal Empire, and thus, under the rules of war, is currently commandeered as an Imperial Stronghold. Right now, if you don’t give me a good reason for how you can be of use to the Empire—” I shrugged “—I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in.”

Those words took more than a second to sink in, and then there was chaos.

These guys were in no condition to fight back—I had made sure of that.

Would they bend, or would they break?

This was more of an experiment, then. An Analysis, based on a sample of the Republica population.

I watched the legionary’s face contort, her fists being balled at her sides as her eyes roved around the soldiers behind me. Do or die, fight or flee. Deliberating — two choices — attachment — bravery — taught honor — future.

“I—can be of use to the Empire,” she gritted out after a long silence. Mutters spread across the masses she was leading, grizzled soldiers murmuring in indignation, but a sharp turn was all the woman needed to quiet them. Of course they harbored at least some resentment—they’d been fighting for who knows how long, only for a clap on the back and a rest for a Dayhept or two.

But it wasn’t enough.

They were poisoned and weakened, and couldn’t fight back even if I told them I was the one who’d poisoned them. Even if they healed—which were a waste of unacquired time and resources—what would they be of use for? A new addition to the Princeblood? A parade of ghastly faces to incur the wrath of the people?

“What to do,” I mused aloud. My eyes roved past the deteriorating bodies—if I asked Delphine what to do now, it would be weakness, wouldn’t it? “I won’t heal you,” I decided after a while. “But I’ll let you in. On the condition that you’ll swear by your Gods not to hurt those of and pledged to the Empire.”

That gave them pause, eliciting a growl from the woman.

“You’re pushing us too far, little girl,” she hissed. (That was the point, either way.) “We can talk to your superior, and negotiate terms.”

I shrugged. “It looks to me that you don’t have time to negotiate terms,” I pointed out. “Your lot are dying. You can either go to another, Republic-owned city—whether you make it or not, well, it’s really none of my concern—or accept these terms that I’ve offered right here and right now, it’s your choice.” It wasn’t really a choice, but oh, well.

I strang my Ability, ventured a bit into Thought, and smiled.

I’d need to contain the effects of this.

“Do you have the ability?” forced out the woman. “To protect us?” Her fists were tightening, as silence hung on the faces of the people I’d poisoned.

“I do,” I acquiesced. “On that, I am perhaps certain.”

Bend, or break.

Heads, or tails.

The coin spun, and it sat.

The crowd broke into halves, and while one side lined up to go in—considerably fewer than the other—the other stayed behind, full of determined resignation. Mercy, who I knew had come behind me while I sorted it, didn’t speak until I did.

“Send the gravediggers,” I said.

I had made my choice, and they had made theirs.

And there was no one to judge us both for it.

See, guilty people always liked to do things to alleviate their guilt.

“I should’ve died.”

“I should’ve lived.”

“I should’ve done better.”

Oftentimes, that came in the form of doing little random things, like petting a stray dog, warning someone of a slaughter ahead of time, or deciding to let a little kid go after you burned their parents alive. There was always guilt, whether subconscious or not; pauses of hesitation of the person behind the story, reminders of what you’d been and what you’d become.

It started with bits and pieces. Tiny visions of what could’ve been, scattered through a person’s life, and when you found them, they were so painfully nostalgic that you ended up searching for them. And when you searched for them, they ended up being more painful than nostalgic, and a future of a past long gone ended up overwhelming your present.

It was a self-destructive process: guilty people also thought they deserved the guilt.

So they would find those pieces, again and again; wallowing and clinging to their self-supposed sins; drowning in their guilt while managing to find pieces of island amidst the sea.

And they would end up jumping off again, because they thought they didn’t deserve to be saved, but wanted to be saved regardless.

It was a strange thing, guilt—a feeling I hadn’t felt in its entirety, not yet.

I was on that island, that cliff where the Cage fell apart to reveal gold and glittering sea, and I knew I would die from the jump.

But the sun was tantalizing.

It was somewhat out of guilt, I knew, that I was giving out free food to the dregs of Azareth.

But it was also somewhat out of Thought

“I’m not accepting your dirty Imperia food,” spat one boy.

“We literally stole it from your farmers,” said Xandros. “And you’re a waste of poison.” He shot a glance back at me, conveying an exasperated really? through his eyes. I shrugged, smiling, and the boy took the distraction to bat the bread out of Xandros’ hand, and the piece from the wagon fell to the ground. In response, the boy jutted out a daring chin, and Xandros raised a fist in response before I clicked my tongue and he lowered it.

The boy sneered, before his expression flickered as the orphan bent to snatch the bread off the ground and bit into it.

“Waste of perfectly good food,” said Xandros, mouth full. “I guess we’ll move on to the next one, then.” He turned, and his expression faltered. “Wait, sorry, Boss, do you want some?” He shoved forward the bitten bread, and after I leaned forward and bit off a piece, I gestured for the Princeblood wagons behind us to move on.

On the next house, I sent out a legionary to ask the questions and give out the bread instead, making sure that they didn’t seem even a tiny bit Imperial-sent, to check in with household food stores as a whole and jot down a couple numbers for routine administration. It would take a while canvassing, but I was with the main unit, so technically I was the one “in charge” in charge.

It took a good chunk of the evening before we moved on to the harbors and took inventory.

“We haven’t taken over taken over the city, Boss,” protested Xandros. “Like, there hasn’t even been any resistance. Don’t we have to, you know, crush any resistance to fully conquer the city?”

“That depends on your version of ‘conquer,’” I chided. “We just need to keep this city, not take it.” The Princeblood ships were lined up in a neat row, bobbing on now-tainted sunset waters, and I spotted barely any Republica sailors. The soldiers under my “command” had been ordered to check the state of all the ships in the current harbors, and I was still debating over whether or not to seize the goods inside them.

If we did, we could mark them up and resell them to the merchants, and use the leftover money to haggle a discount out of them and re-buy the goods that we wanted…

It was a headache.

“Besides,” I said, “we already ‘took over’ the harbors of the city. The rest’ll come along with it.” Hopefully.

Based on the numbers, the war had taken a toll on the Harbor City. Most of the lower-class families were under the employment of the merchants; and even the latter were struggling to pay their own bills, especially since their main source of income—trade—was cut off. Azareth was largely into fishing, trading, and farming—with the outskirts around the walls dedicated to its granaries, and the war taxes funneling revenue to weapons, etc., etc., the numbers were on the decline.

“Numbers,” I muttered under my breath with a sigh, leaning back against the crate I was brooding on.

Xandros raised an eyebrow. “Not a math person?”

“Gods, no.”

Mercy was off communicating with Delphine and her people, serving as an in-between and a proxy while I went around and ordered people to do things. And I was left with my other minion, who I was cultivating as a potential alternative for Julian, which meant that my left hand and my right hand were forming.

Did I feel bad, seeing Xandros as a replacement?

The guy who’d said no more than once to me even when he knew I was a noble, just to keep his hands clean?

A henchperson who’d been nothing but loyal?

People were people. Roles were roles. Humans were unique, with their emotions, strengths, weaknesses, and areas of potential; and both Xandros and Julian had that compatibility of being my right hand, the tactics to my strategies.

I looked out at the sea, and then at the boy.

He didn’t look awkward, anymore—evidently our first day in Azareth had loosened his tongue.

I enjoyed the silence before that thought drifted to the surface.

Dionysus’ visit had...shaken me.

I was a Harbinger of Slaughter, a messenger—a prelude to death in the Visavan continent, so technically all this war—all this death—had been heralded by my existence. Even if it wasn’t me, it would be someone else. But the fact wasn’t comforting, doing nothing to lessen the—dread?—that hung on my shoulders. Greta had known. Delphine had known. I was a little pawn in a big game, and I had already made the decision that I wouldn’t stay that way.

My current situation?

It wasn’t enough. And maybe it would never be enough.

I would wait out Greta’s reign and start my own, breaking off my chains, and I would be Empress like everyone wanted me to. Like I wanted me to.

What did I want? I didn’t know.

I looked at the horizon, at the sun sinking into the rosy waters and painting the sky its bloody hue.

But I would find out.