When I crash and burn

—And I will, because I cannot go the way I want to go,

I cannot go that high this soon—

Do not catch me.

Let me burn.

I might hate you for it, but let me fall.

Because it has been but I

That pick up my pieces

And I do not trust others to do the same.

It has been but I

That has built myself

On what I could become

And I do not trust others to do the same.

It has been but I

That reached for the sun

And it will be but I

That will burn.

Do not catch me.

I do not trust you to survive my falls.

—TO MY ICARUS, POEM

SEE, CYRUS DIED TWO TIMES TO THE EMPRESS OF THE ETERNAL EMPIRE.

The first time was when the news came, at breakfast when Arathis was talking about birds, the weather, and the politics behind the development of the Imperial military; and the second time—the last time—was when his ghost appeared at her ear.

Josephine had started off the affair with human bones and Gorgonian necklines and laces.

“The Myth of Medusa told of a stone island that was destroyed in the rise of the Cage before the First Emperor took the throne,” she said. “It was said that the statues of her victims after she was slain were collected for its novelty and given to the First Emperor as a coronation present from the Gods. It exchanged hands and saw eras...before some dipshit Chosen decided to raid the Imperial Treasury and smash everything into pieces.”

She paused.

“Said dipshit Chosen,” she admitted, “was my great-great-something-great grandmother.”

Arathis waved an airy hand. “Ah, are you telling this old story again? Didn’t you do it last last year—”

A harpy wing was unceremoniously shoved into the Forsaken’s mouth, upon which the former courtesan continued.

“The point is, that I have a very personal connection to Gorgonian hemlines. And necklines. And lace,” drawled Josephine.

Greta’s tone was flat. “No, I’m not opening the Imperial Treasury so you can get your dresses made in Arachne’s silk. Or any silk, for that matter.”

Josephine twisted her lips into a pout.

“Why?” the Fourth Princess protested, dodging a narrow harpy gizzard thrown by her brother. “It’s just a tiny bit of silk! I already subjugated the anti-Imperials in the capital—Tartarus, I even used my Ability so I could personally puppet the leader! And what did Ara do? Fetch a noble writ? This is very obviously favoritism. Nepotism, too—”

“We’re related,” reminded her brother.

“Whatever,” brushed off the former Lady Williams. “This is...prejudice!” She stood up abruptly, with an exaggeratedly haughty sniff. “I— I will not stand for this.”

The Empress raised a hand towards the table.

A beat.

“Then sit,” replied Greta.

A silence.

“Oh, come on—”

“That was a joke? Sister made a joke?”

After a moment of mock-incredulous clamor—during which Josephine seemingly dropped the topic—Arathis raised another point with a wave of his finger sandwich. “And, by the way,” he said, biting it, “I did not just ‘fetch a noble writ,’ alright? I repurposed an entire aristocracy—and on very short notice, I might add. I even made it legal and everything without our dearest sister needing to lift even a finger.” He raised his eyebrows. “What did you do, quell a rebellion?”

He leaned towards Greta, exaggeratedly enunciating the word: “amateur.”

The three syllables, of course, deserved a rebuttal, which consisted of: “Repurposing an entire aristocracy? Isn’t that just a fancy way of saying bullying the law until it spits out a loophole? It’s not even stealing candy from a baby—the baby can’t even talk.”

The affront was countered after a dramatic gasp.

“Do you even know how hard it is to restructure the Second Isle’s dominion? The Imperial announcement isn’t even out yet! With the Drakos’ factories up and running, and Fourth Aunt and Uncle quibbling over how much of the weapons go into the stockpile—well, I practically did away with the entire Armistice!” Arathis crowed that last sentence in triumph, eating another sandwich, as Josephine raised her eyebrows.

“Really?” Josie questioned. “Well, with the project with Timmy that Sister just gave me—”

Just as Greta was about to watch Arathis call her a traitor, the breakfast room’s doors opened and a messenger stumbled in.

The Empress raised her eyebrows at the Guards at the windows, and Deimos—who had been beside them like a lurking vulture the entire time—stepped forward and bowed.

“A messenger has arrived from Bellum, Your Imperial Majesty.” The old attendant frowned. “Although I do not know why they were allowed in…”

Something pricked at the back of Greta’s neck.

Years had honed that instinct, and so the Dionysus’ Chosen held up a hand, stopping Deimos from probing further.

“Speak,” said Greta.

The messenger, dressed in the regalia of an Imperial staff, gasped for breath. Evidently they’d been a rush.

They kneeled, before they followed Greta’s command.

“N-news from Bellum, Your Imperial Majesty.” Their voice was shaky as they clasped their hands in deference. “Third— Third Prince Cyrus is—he’s dead.”

Then there was the second time.

“You just handed over all the secrets?” Alina’s voice rose. “What were you thinking, Timaios?”

“Well,” said the Marquis, “I was thinking about how I was going to be able to man an operation that would support me—and the marquessate—outside from weapons. You know the new grand duchy—even if the existence of it hasn’t been announced to the public yet—is to keep the Empress’ chokehold on weapons production. Instead of being stupid, like my father, and starting a rebellion, I decided to move.” His green eyes bore deep. “I’m not one to just teeter on the precipice, Duchess.”

Alina’s face contorted. “What exactly are you—”

“Don’t play dumb,” retorted the Dragon King. “I’ve heard of Prince Arathis’ play to get you on Princess Seraphina’s side. What he’s doing at first glance may just be trying to divide the Imperials, but he’s also reining you in, Duchess. He told you to wait out Greta’s reign, didn’t he? And cultivate Seraphina to be a successor that’s partial to Evlogia? He told you to heel, and you listened.”

Timaios shrugged.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with cowering,” he admitted. “But you can’t either-or this.”

The Duchess’ lips curved into a sneer. “Speak for yourself, boy. You can’t just rally all the military marquessates to become self-named information brokers like you’re planning to do. You’re going to drive Drakos into the ground, Timaios. Surrendering all control over weapons to the Imperial Family? That’s a coward’s move, and I’ve been with the Imperial Family longer than you have.”

The other raised his eyebrows. “You should keep your eyes on your own cards instead of watching what others are putting down,” Timaios warned. “This is a matter of the Armistice. Just because Doxa can’t pick a side doesn’t mean Drakos has to refrain—besides, instead of trying to get me to not air the nobles’ dirty laundry, shouldn’t you be taking care of your own city? You know, the one that’s suffering because of the severed trade?”

“You are a noble.” Alina ignored the taunt. “This is a mistake. Are you going to put all of the aristocracy in danger, just to win a war?”

“The current aristocracy,” corrected Timaios. He leaned back in his chair. “You’ve seen years and years of this with the Nightbidden—how everyone’s grown complacent. All those lies, all those dirty deeds—all the secrets of the nobles, I’ve seen. I’ve kept secrets that would destroy names. I’ve seen faces that could collapse clans. This aristocracy—these people—have brutalized and tortured, stepping on the people they’ve vowed to serve, and that is not right.”

The Duchess snorted. “Do you really think that the next will be better than the last?” asked Alina, derisively. “Might makes right. Does it matter, what is good and what is bad, as long as we survive?” She pointed at Timaios, gesturing widely. “This—this plan? It’s not necessary. You’re driving the knife near the heart—no, you’re handing the knife to Imperials to cut out what is good and what is bad. And you of all people should know—”

“To never trust Imperials?” argued the Marquis. “I beg to differ. I always trust Imperials—at least, to do what it takes to survive.” He stood up. “And if what this Empire takes to survive is to cut out the rot in its aristocracy, then I’ll gladly hand over the knife—because, well, if they don’t take it—”

Green eyes glimmered.

“Who will?” he asked.

Arathis strolled in the gardens and watched the sunlight stream through the leaves with a satisfied smile on his face. After finding a satisfactory marble bench, the Fifth Prince shuffled his legs on the seat and sprawled himself on it, pale gold spilling over his skin as he closed his eyes and enjoyed the atmosphere. The scent of the tree was bitter and filled his nostrils like a pleasant cud, leaves fluttering and brushing against his cheeks in the wind.

But inside, he felt the same way he’d always had.

Hollow.

Empty.

But that sense of fear—fleeting, as it was—was the only thing that exhilarated him these days.

Death was, after all, death.

A person who could Revive people, being scared of death.

How ironic it was.

Arathis sighed, but opened his eyes to footsteps and curled his lips into a smile.

“Well, well, look who’s here,” remarked the Forsaken. “Long time no see...Aunt Alina.”

“Arathis,” acknowledged the Duchess. A hint of—something—was in her eyes. Something exploitable, rattling. Alina nodded at the bench. “How’s the view from down there?”

The Prince shrugged. “Same old, same old.” It was his favorite spot, after all. But Arathis didn’t move or make space for the Duchess, which made Alina secure another marble bench just a step away.

“You want Greta’s reign to continue,” said Nikephoros’ Hound, flatly. “You deceived me. Why?”

The bored expression that was on the Chosen’s face shifted into a faint smile, as he closed his eyes again. “I didn’t deceive you, dear Aunt. You just assumed that I was going to use Youngest Sister to seize hold of the end of Oldest Sister’s reign.” He stretched his back on the bench, halfheartedly shrugging after. “It wasn’t your fault that you assumed wrong.” The Forsaken smiled, letting silence occupy a beat. “But it wasn’t mine, either.”

There was no rage in the Duchess’ expression.

“Then what do you want?” she said with a sigh, breaking off her stare (his eyes were still closed, but he could tell). “Besides pitting your siblings against each other?”

A leaf broke off from the tree and fluttered its way to rest on the Forsaken’s eyes. “We were never against each other in the first place,” remarked Arathis. “And that’s what you all will never understand.” He opened his eyes. “Because you all will never understand us.”

“So you care about them?” she laughed. “You all certainly have strange ways of showing it.” Her chuckle was dry but her eyes were flickering with surprising melancholy, likely in remembrance of her old (dead) friend.

“Sera will snap,” provided Arathis, seemingly out of the blue. “I’m just nudging things so that when she does, she’ll stop Greta’s journey right where we need it to.” He dangled a finger in the air and swiped it across, drawing a line. “Right before the point of no return, but right after Greta’s done what she wanted to do—so that our oldest sister doesn’t cross the line and carry the Empire with it.”

He opened his eyes, finally, the movement hurtling the leaf towards the ground.

“But I won’t stop the operation that Timmy and Josie are cooking up, Aunt. I’m actually helping you, really—so that Greta doesn’t carve out too much of this Empire.”

“You want Seraphina to go past the line,” said Alina.

Arathis shrugged. “Greta can’t go too far too soon,” was all the Prince said. “But the point still stands: this isn’t me against Greta, or Sera against Greta, for that matter.” He looked upwards, at the Sky.

“I'm playing the long game, dearest Aunt,” said the Chosen, lips curling into a smile. “And I will win against Olympus.”

Who said he needed the favor of the Gods?

Julian was angry.

The praetor stood at the Senate as he always did, but instead of the high, arching ceilings that came with the Curia’s meeting room, the opalescent ceiling tiles of the Romanus Estate roofed his head. The Curia—the one that had been standing for he didn’t know how many years—had fallen into ruin, and now was little but a reminder that he should’ve known better: he should’ve done better.

He had known Marianus had turned, but had—like a fool—thought that it was just information that he’d leaked, that he could just interrogate his friend and change the data and it’d be all alright. Of course, the praetor had known that there had to be some repercussion for the actions he’d done, and so after the hours he spent cleaning up after the Curia incident he’d asked Cecilia to take care of it, but—

“Marianus is dead, Julian.”

He’d looked up from his position, tired and sunken by the window, and met the Praetor Romus’ eyes.

“What?”

“He hung himself last night, using his restraints—I don’t know how he managed to, but—”

And now, he was all alone.

Arguably, it was all Seraphina’s fault.

If Seraphina had never tried to recruit Marianus, if she hadn’t gotten into Marianus’ head, if she wasn’t so Tartarus-bent on gaining and winning and—

But Julian still couldn’t take off the damn ring.

Because he’d made a promise, and that promise was the only thing left. If he had anyone to hate, anyone at all that the world justified him to hunt to the ends of the world until there was no horizon left, it would be her—she’d ruined everything he’d had but, damn him, he still was bound to her and her hollow Oath.

And so the boy was alone again, back in the darkness playing soldiers—just where he’d started.

Valerius was dead. His death had been confirmed, and Marcellus—Julian’s father, that monster of a man—had an unrecoverable injury to his spine from when the Consul had tried to protect his companion, and so Marcellus was bound to a chair for the rest of the man’s life. Even in the face of death, the Consul had been right: Cecilia was a candidate for the Consulship of Romus, and Julian was now in this Godsforsaken excuse for a Senate hall for the next step to recovery.

“I nominate Praetor Julian Marius Romanus as Acting Consul of the Republic Roma.”

There’d been bickering, sure, but that line had condemned Julian to a fate worse than death: bureaucracy.

Of course, he would’ve joked about it and meant the joke before, but he wasn’t in the mood for any jokes at the moment.

As the patricians who’d survived chose to extend their dirtied hands towards the one who would glove them—him—he couldn’t even speak a word of protest.

He felt as empty as the rest of them.

And that made him angrier than ever.

As the two Acting Consuls, the two former praetors were huddled over a table and discussed the future of a nation.

“Go get some sleep, you dumbass.”

“No—”

“You spent hours taking care of the explosion. I can handle the patrician family successions and do some of the appointments while you catch some sleep.” Cecilia’s voice held no sign of strain, but then again she was alleged to be made up of the same metal as Heroes were forged in. Of course, Hero blood did diminish only some fatigue, and it was worrying that Cecilia would be in charge of all administrative duties for a length of time—

“I—” Julian began.

“Don’t make me argue.” This was snapped, and as Julian’s eyes met hers he found no concern. Just dead eyes that had learned not to feel, but to do.

There was a silence, where the temporary Consul searched for something that he didn’t find before he leaned back.

“Fine,” he relented.

Julian closed his eyes, and thought.

Lessons flashed in his head, lessons taught by his father and that glinting star.

“The problem,” he spoke aloud, still resting his eyes, “with hereditary succession is that some people argue that the right to govern shouldn’t be handed over to people on a silver platter. That a person should not be allowed to rule unless they have been ruled, because you cannot govern the people unless you are a part of the people. Not the higher echelons of said people, either.”

He shrugged. “Some argue in favor of a meritocracy, that people should be judged based on their merit, but can there really be such a thing? An all-encompassing standard that judges who can ascend and who cannot? A force that can judge every single person of a country, and can tell which have truly ‘earned’ their position?”

The Republic said that if you served, you would rule.

But was that really the case?

“That’s why I find the Empire interesting, either way,” the boy murmured. “True ‘Chosen of the Gods,’ battling it out to see who’s the last one standing. Others would call it barbaric, and maybe it is; but consider the fact that, for once, it’s not merit or hard work that gets you through—it’s the pure willingness to survive.”

Cecilia hummed.

“Stop philosophizing and go to sleep,” she said back with a sigh.

How can we win against those who have Won?

Julian acquiesced and drifted off to sleep before an answer materialized in his head, one he wasn’t sure he liked:

You don’t.

Titus Summanus had, in fact, survived. That was a fact Cecilia noted with a frown, but it was still one that could be contained: Julian had dirt on him, one that had been turned over to the Senate for further address before the war had started. Then the matter had been eclipsed with more important things, but bribery, blackmail, and some political maneuvering could keep the Patrician Summanus in check, and in turn Summanus.

Cassia was more problematic.

Julian’s primus pilus—Marianus, the one who’d caused the entire mess—had been a bastard but an official one, which meant that he’d been supposed to be in charge of the entire line of tricksters. After Alberta’s execution at the hands of the Empire—of course, there’d been something behind it, some thread connecting the Republic and the Empire because, well, come on.

Cecilia wasn’t stupid. The Cassia line would have nothing to gain from assassinating the Emperor, which meant that someone—likely someone from the Republic—had puppeteered the entire thing. And, of course, Uncle Marcellus was likely involved in it, along with the people of the Empire.

She’d been told that the war had started because two Queenscages had conspired to assassinate Uncle Marcellus, and she doubted the only reason was revenge. Even if it was revenge, unless the Imperials had some hard evidence that Marcellus was behind the Emperor’s assassination, why exactly would they do it in broad daylight? And why had they been only punished by solitary confinement?

The Empire had wanted this war.

Cecilia’s father had told her about the protectorate, but the fact had been hidden to only the Senate. If they had accepted the protectorate, the rest of the Republic wouldn’t stand for it. But if they’d rejected it—like they’d had—and if the war had ground away at people’s morals, people would argue that they had placed pride over survival of the people.

Based on what Valerius had told her, there had been some very generous terms on the table.

The Empire had given them an excuse to tie the cause for the war in a pretty pink bow.

And that was what Cecilia was suspicious of.

Never look a gift horse in a mouth, her ass. If that gift horse was sent by the Empire, she would send half her Army to make sure it wasn’t dangerous.

The temporary Consul clenched her fist.

This variable was something that they could use against the Republic, a weapon. And the attack—although morally horrifying—had shaken the Republic’s capital, its center: of course, Gloria would be the last to fall; but Honos was the headquarters of the entire thing. The victories in the Empire’s east would be null and void if she couldn’t rein in the remaining members of the Senate to pass the military orders she needed them to pass.

And, as of now, said Senate was an absolute fucking mess.

The capital—the situation outside—was also an absolute fucking mess.

Azareth had fallen. Bellum had been taken over. Honos had been shaken.

“I’ll be damned if they don’t strike now,” Cecilia murmured aloud under her breath.

But there was something. The Imperial that had charged Bellum was dead, which created an opening for action. But balancing striking and defending? That was an art, that took years of strategizing and planning. It took a brilliant tactician, and currently the Republic’s best tactician was unconscious and could barely walk; the other best tactician was freshly buried underneath the ground and covered in cheap flowers.

She couldn’t treat this like a battle.

This wasn’t a singular battlefield, where the only aim was to survive and win.

This was a country.

“Why did he have to die?” The former praetor furrowed her brows. Everyone called her impulsive, too emotional to follow orders—but it didn’t change the fact that she still took them.

What was she going to do?

The capital—the situation outside—was also, conveniently, also an absolute fucking mess.

Azareth had fallen. Bellum had been taken over. Honos had been shaken.

“I’ll be damned if they don’t strike now,” Cecilia murmured aloud under her breath.

But there was something. The Imperial that had charged Bellum was dead, which created an opening for action. But balancing striking and defending? That was an art, that took years of strategizing and planning. It took a brilliant tactician, and currently the Republic’s best tactician was unconscious and could barely walk; the other best tactician was freshly buried underneath the ground and covered in cheap flowers.

She couldn’t treat this like a battle.

This wasn’t a singular battlefield, where the only aim was to survive and win.

This was a country.

“Why did he have to die?”

The former praetor furrowed her brows.

Everyone called her impulsive, too emotional to follow orders—but it didn’t change the fact that she still took them.

What was she going to do?

What was I going to do?

That was the question that echoed in my head as I crouched in the dark wagon. It was, conveniently, filled with haystacks for the stationed soldiers’ horse-feed, and so my nose was horribly itchy all the way. It was a miracle I hadn’t sneezed my cover away after the Republica guards—who were more thorough and less susceptible (although not immune) to bribes—checked the farmer’s wagon.

There had been raised eyebrows, but I had hired a particularly smooth-tongued farmer that had shrugged, blamed the bureaucracy, and said “I don’t know, man” at the right times.

Xandros and Mercy came in the later wagons, and we met up a distance away from the entrance gates at a corner of a street. I had used powders to make my nose prominent and my eyes bigger—with my now-painted lips and a wig, it was enough to pass people’s suspicions...of course, if I bumped into Julian or someone who knew my face, that would be troublesome, so I faced away from the bustling people still.

“I thought that, with the war, people would be staying inside and avoiding crowded places,” murmured Xandros as he saw the hurrying people on the streets.

“The first attack targeted the Curia and the politicians there,” I replied back. “That was the first cry of urban warfare. Those that can afford to are likely already making preparations to move to Gloria or Bellum—calculating risks, gathering resources, and biding their time. There haven't been Imperial troops actually attacking the city, so they can still hold out for a while until they find a way to survive.”

I looked up at the sky.

“They say the eye of the storm is the safest place to be in,” I said in a low voice. “It’s true—if you know where the storm’s going.” I nodded towards the people. “You see the people going out? They’re mostly middle-class civilians. It’s inconvenient for them to move their businesses so quickly—they need to make a living, after all. Some of them probably know a friend who knows a friend who has connections in the government.”

Honos was a surprisingly familiar city, constructed in that Republica style but still forming a similar landscape to Imperial Strongholds, high walls reaching high—but not high enough to grasp the sun that eluded their turrets and guardsmen. Roofs decorated with sparse frescoes glinted under the sun, pillars grunting to support the lanterns that twisted them into streetlights. Pathways folded into squares where fountains erupted into pleasant geysers, dry concrete and shimmering coins.

Tasteful.

Distant.

Starkly beautiful.

“They’re probing out the situation,” spoke up Mercy. “But we don’t know what the situation is, my lady.”

I considered it. “It’s true. A lot could’ve changed in the one day we’ve been gone.” The horses had been going at breakneck speed, and I did want a good night’s sleep. But could I really afford it.

“Oh,” I said as an afterthought, “what have you done with the sarawolf victims?”

“Stashed them in a warehouse on the outskirts,” informed Xandros, grimly. “I’ve already instructed them to take their doses and I’ve written out their treatment plans like you asked me to, Boss, but they’re not going to be any help here.”

Yes, they wouldn’t.

“How long can we leave them alone for?” I asked.

“A Dayhept at longest, provided they listen to instructions, Boss.”

And they would.

I paused, frowning my brows in thought.

“The first thing to do,” I began after a while, “would be to find out what happened to Marianus. Now, everyone’s on edge—I can’t approach them like I did back in Zephyr, so our best bet would be to get in contact with Anaxeres’ spiders, the one who pulled off the explosion. Then we try to get settled in while we wait for further orders.”

Mercy and Xandros nodded.

No one asked ‘how exactly are we going to do that, Seraphina?’, which I appreciated, as I took a while to draw out the thought.

“As much as I’d like to approach my Mari right now, it would be, one: a terrible mistake that would likely get us arrested, and, two: the wrong time.” I let my sigh fill the pause. “That leaves the other connection to Honos being Marianus, who I can predict more than I can Julian. If you do chance upon an informant, finding that out—and establishing a point of contact—would be integral. I’m sure Naxy has something designated already, but don’t trust him and his people too much. We’re all technically on Greta’s side, but my interests are my own. But don’t place that above the operation. Play nice.”

Two nods.

“As for how to contact Naxy…” I’d already thought about that on the carriage. “I already have an absolutely brilliant idea.”

Assuming his spies hadn’t all been caught behind the attack already…

I grinned.

“We have an embassy to raid.”