You are who you choose to be.

- PAGE OF OLD IMPERIAL STORYBOOK, INEVITA LIBRARY

UNSURPRISINGLY, the discussion between me and the Consul began with little fanfare.

It was just Cecilia and I in the small room scattered with kaleidoscopic light, sitting on the floor on opposite sides of a squat cushion that functioned as a table. Would it make history? Likely not.

But these things rarely did.

“I want you to help the Republic win the war,” the Consul said.

It was a condition I’d rejected, but evidently the Consul was persistent.

I sighed. “Say I take you up on your offer,” I proposed. “What do you think little old me could do? I’m the Third-in-line to the Throne—the only way I could declare an official ceasefire is if Greta, Josephine, and Arathis died; and that’s not something I’m willing to do—or can do, for that matter.” I paused. “If you ignore the official route, and you just want me to be a figurehead to a Republica morale boost, that’s something I can’t do. I cannot,” I emphasized again, “stand against the Throne.”

Or am willing, for that matter.

But Cecilia didn’t need to know that.

“Oath,” she finally said, realization settling on her face.

A smile twisted my lips. “Oath,” I agreed.

She also didn’t need to know that it was Greta I owed my sworn loyalty to, and not the Empire.

A silence.

“You mentioned an active role,” Cecilia began, slowly. “What active role have you occupied in this war so far?”

“I’d think your intelligence reports would’ve included the answer to your question,” I idly remarked. “But if the real question here is, Have I directly acted against the Republic in any way shape or form, to the point of no return, if I answer in good faith, the answer would be yes. You can’t redeem me to the public if all information about me were to be leaked—and I’m sure word’s already spread. Even if you blamed it on my former supervisors, you can’t spin me as this magical double-agent panacea. I can’t be your public savior.”

(And I was also unwilling, but then again, she didn’t need to know that—if even she did, everything I said was rational.)

“Humor me regardless,” responded the Consul. “What have you done?”

It was a question full of condemnation, but Tartarus if I wasn’t ready to face it.

“I helped in the Battle of Beginning and Ends—that’s the one in Notus, by the way, where Marianus was captured.” I let my lips twitch. “I was the one who turned him. It took only a couple of days, if not less—but Anaxeres was the one who used Gaius—Marianus—in that way. I’m not saying it to shift blame, because maybe I would’ve done it too—used Claudia and Marianus—but not in that way, I wouldn’t have wanted him to—”

I sounded hysterical. Why was I—

I took a deep breath in, withdrawing my Ability from the Consul and forcing it in my voice.

“—kill himself,” Cecilia supplied. “But you led him to.”

I dug my nails into my palm.

“Yes,” I answered, evenly. “It seems I did.”

The Consul’s gaze was steady, even though I would’ve expected her to be angry, hateful—like Julian, she should’ve showed some sort of emotion—

She’s like you.

“Do you regret it?” asked the Consul.

The question sunk into my skin, permeating my bones and weighing them down.

“Does it matter?” I returned, quietly smiling back.

A silence.

“It does,” Cecilia replied. “Everything you say, everything you do—it matters.” Her face was all angles, like you could put a ruler to her features and her features would win. She’d been the one who set fire to the Library of Alexandria, the one who’d helped with the Eastern Fires. “If you can’t live with yourself, who can?”

I leaned forward, multicolored light spilling under my hands as I brought them together.

“If I do regret it, but I would do it all over again if I had the choice, does that make me a bad person?”

Would you do it all over again? my Ability asked me.

There was no sure answer, but I had survived. I was still breathing, even now—whichever corner I found myself in, I was still alive. And that counted for something, because if I was still alive—if I had a road ahead of me, regardless of the choices in front of me—that meant everything.

The Consul shrugged. “Doesn’t necessarily make you a ‘bad person.’ The term’s subjective. It just makes you a coward,” she said.

The word made my fingers clench.

“For not following the path I wouldn’t regret?” I questioned, not letting derision seep into my tone, even though I was certain—for some reason—that the Consul would hear it. “If a person,” I continued, “never had the choice to follow that path, would you call them a coward?”

Cecilia’s eyebrows were raised.

“You made bad choices,” she responded, simply. “That’s why you’re here.”

“If you had the choices that I did,” I countered, all the fire from before gone with the wind, “every choice you would make—every road you could take—would be bad ones to you.” The only good choices were the ones where you survived.

There was no other option.

Cecilia squinted at me. “There’s no use following this point,” the Consul conceded. “You’re too far gone.”

And that made me angry, for some reason.

But I let it pass.

“Right,” I agreed, although not easily. “Point is, you can’t make me a public martyr.”

“Then what can you offer us?” Cecilia raised her eyebrows. “All you’ve done is shrug off blame. At this point, you should remember that you are our guest. You can’t run away—you willingly came here. And for what? A last-ditch attempt at Julian when you know nothing about him—when all you two have between each other are, what? Two shiny rings? He promised you nothing, and he can’t help you now.”

Choices, choices, choices.

“Whoever said I came here because of him?” I asked amusedly. “If I wanted a crack at him, I would’ve waited at least a couple days to let him stew in peace, even if I wasn’t aware of Marianus. You can’t strike when the iron is hot, or at least, when it comes to our dear Consul Romanus.”

Cecilia hummed. “You’re changing the topic.”

“Never said I wasn’t.”

The other Consul’s eyes gleamed. “I’m running out of patience, Princess. And you’re running out of time.”

I let myself smile. “Really? Am I the one who’s stalling here?” I leaned forward again, studying the former praetor’s gaze. “Or are you?” I stage-whispered, adopting the tone Arathis used when cornering people.

She already had a use for me—multiple uses, in fact.

I’d rejected her first offer, so she was going to strongarm me into her second one.

“Let’s stop dancing around each other,” I continued, exposing my teeth as I smiled. “What do you want—no, what side are you on?”

Cecilia smiled back.

“The Republic’s to the very end, Princess—and you’re right, we should stop wasting time.”

She leaned forward dangerously close, probably in a form of intimidation.

I could probably take the chance to tackle her to the ground, but it wouldn’t work.

I stared back.

“‘Unite the house, and then the country,’” I quoted, before reaching out a hand. “I’m surprised you’re trusting me with the key.”

The Consul pushed my hand back.

Her lips curled.

“‘Who said I was?’” she quoted back at me.

I repressed my grin.

Now we’re talking.

The East was a mess.

Greta could see that fact very, very clearly.

But what if it wasn’t a mess?

Elexis being Seraphina’s maternal grandmother weighed heavily, especially since the current Duke Marksman wasn’t blood-related to Eurus—Seraphina held no affection for the Duchess, Greta knew, but the fact that they were related provided many, many excuses for many, many potential encounters. Not that they would have any other problems, Greta thought. She’d taken care of that.

But still, the Snakelands and Eurus were a problem, especially since the Fires. Greta knew most of Cyrus’ Galani compatriots had relocated to Bellum, but there was still unrest that Greta wasn’t sure Elexis could handle—or, at least, the way Greta wanted it to be handled. The Empire’s hold on the Snakelands would weaken if the Snakeland Fire and the burning of the Library of Alexandria permanently worsened the situation there—even though Cyrus had won over the Galani leader, Cyrus was gone now.

And so was the Empress’ hold on Bellum.

Now that was a thorn in her side.

Greta’s back was aching from the constant hunching over strategy maps. She hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in Daycycles, and her eyes were bleary.

Not that she would ever admit it.

Josephine came in with a whirl of her skirts and a smile, Greta’s younger sister bringing the Empress into a silent embrace.

First, the Empress thought that that it was an assassination attempt.

But then Greta relaxed into it after the first few seconds of hesitation, her arm hesitantly patting Josephine’s back.

This would be a situation where someone would ask what’s wrong.

A lot of things were wrong, Greta thought.

She saw amber eyes everywhere, and now some were blue—

Did she have a soft spot for her family?

If they didn’t become her weakness, she owed it to her father to take care of them. Use them, perhaps—but they needed to stay alive.

Right?

Orion’s voice answered. Right—

Josephine’s body shook as the Fourth Princess cried. She’d always worn that perfume for the past ten years, Greta knew. Whenever Josephine went out, and even sometimes when she didn’t—Cyrus had said in that monotone of his (on multiple occasions) how it would scare off even the most daring of suitors, because it would destroy another one of their senses permanently. Josephine had kicked him in return.

Was she mourning the memories or the people, Greta wondered. But pain was pain.

It isn’t your place to ask, Orion answered back, in that amused tone of his. Are you mourning me or how well I knew you?

The Empress’ fingers dug into her palms.

Begone, ghost.

Would Cyrus become Josephine’s ghost, Greta didn’t know. There hadn’t really been any understanding, as much as Josephine had tried to lure Cyrus into traps that Cyrus sometimes avoided and sometimes managed to get himself tangled up in.

Cyrus.

He’d been the most foolish of them all, but in his way the wisest. He’d been patient, excruciatingly so, to the point where Greta’d had to test his taste for revenge. If he’d survived the Cage, he should’ve achieved revenge in half of the time he’d been in the Palace. Was it hesitation? Fear? The hate he’d held had been unmistakeable, but who was it he hated?

The Cagekeepers’ record of Cyrus had been—

Strange.

The Cyrus in the Cage had been braver, younger—the type of person who’d single-mindedly focus on revenge. A person who had less steel and more brute strength, a person who plowed through the right places at the right times, a muddle of strategy, tactics: a leader, which was why Greta, after watching the Cage’s record, had decided to send him to Eurus at first.

Even as Josephine cried in Greta’s arms, all the Empress could do was think about what they had lost.

What was family, after all?

People who loved each other? Supported each other? Were there for each other to lean on? A group of people who had the same interests and goals?

Was blood and title really all there was to it?

They were never really against each other in the first place, were they? The Cage, the Gods were what had caused them—and the Empire—to plummet into the pit of ruin. But the Gods weren’t what had taken Cyrus and Orion away, the Gods weren’t why the six people that had gathered so far in the Palace were twisted beyond their will to survive.

Greta would make this the last Cage, the last time.

She would wrest the Anothen Sky from the Gods and make it her own.

Julian stood to attention at the Senate.

“First of all, fuck you,” a patrician. “And—”

“Fuck me? I doubt you’ve ever been fucked in your life, have you? I mean, I’ll do it for the experience, but there’s a line outside, and it’s longer than my—”

“Order to the Senate!” Julian slammed his fist down with uncharacteristic force and it broke wood, the sound ricocheting through the ballroom that is currently moonlighted as the political nexus of a continental power. The ceilings were slopes, mosaics of the Founding Wolves, and, not for the first time, Julian wondered what the fuck he was doing here.

This was just the first time with expletives.

The patricians turned and looked—not wide-eyed, because this wasn’t the first podium destroyed in today’s proceedings—at the Consul, before one of them raised their voice.

“Your Consulship, I am concerned that this meeting won’t be productive—”

Obviously-

“—without Consul Romus’ presence. As Your Consulship may well know, the Senate cannot be held without the presence of both elected Consuls.”

Titus, that slimy little piece of—

“Patrician Summanus, I am aware of this fact, as is the rest of the Senate. However, as regulations state, in extended circumstances—such as when one Consul is overseeing important situations crucial to the survival of the Republic—the Senate may continue to be in session,” said Julian with an internal sigh, waiting for—

“Which important situation is Consul Romus overseeing that is more crucial to the survival of the Republic than our current agenda?” called out another patrician.

A familiar face.

“Patrician Hadrianus, please observe proper Senate etiquette.” Julian was curt. The old man he’d saved because Hadrianus was an ally to Romanus—but, evidently, Julian’s maternal grandfather was deliberately using incorrect timing. “To address Patrician Hadrianus’ point,” the former praetor continued, “the Republic is currently in possession of a prisoner, as is written in the emergency agendas that were passed out a few minutes ago.”

The emergency agendas that no one bothered to read because they were insulting each other’s circumstances of birth, he didn’t say.

Now that raised a clamor.

“A prisoner? Who?” yelled out one of the four patricians alive.

“Patrician Tiberius, please observe proper Senate etiquette,” the Consul said. “But yes, we will all go over the situation after Consul Romus observes proper regulation by the laws of House Roma and the Senate, and transfers the prisoner—who is the Sixth Princess of the Empire, for the consideration of the Senate—accordingly.” Someone opened their mouth, but Julian cut them off with a raised hand.

“Currently,” the former praetor continued, “the first and foremost topic on the agenda is to one, mitigate the damage caused by the explosion in the Curia; and two, observe the election of the twelve empty patrician seats that are needed to come to a full vote, as considered by the laws of House Roma and the Senate. We will address these topics as per order of importance, as written in the agenda.”

Unsurprisingly, they didn’t shut up.

“Request for an override to the Consul,” said Hadrianus, voice raspy from smoke inhalation but confident, the old man’s eyes clear even with his injuries.

“Denied due to the inability of a full vote to be cast,” returned Julian.

The boy stood at the broken podium and shuffled his papers.

"If there are no other requests," he felt himself say, his voice tight, "the Senate will continue its session. The first point of order, as mentioned previously, is the mitigation of the damage caused by the explosion in the Curia…"

The monsters at the Union-Republic border. That was what I was eyeing.

It was less of a shiny piece of bait and more of the only rope being thrown to me that wasn’t poisonous—I’d dug this hole, even though I was still questioning why I did, and it was time to find my way out.

Cecilia wouldn’t trust me enough to get her house in order, and I wasn’t sure I could, or would: I wanted the Empire to win this war, and directly helping the Republic, even if I could get some information along the way, wouldn’t help my cause. Pretending to turn fully wouldn’t do anything, either—I’d be practically under lock and key, and I doubted the Senate would trust me any further than they threw me.

The Consuls wouldn’t risk their positions trying to drag me into their mess—Cecilia’s martyr proposition was likely either because one, she wanted a you-rejected-the-first-one-now-you-get-what-you-get bargain to corner me into the Forsaken thing; or two, she actually wanted to get me past the trial unscathed by convincing the Senate that I wasn’t that bad. I wasn’t sure which option was worse, just as I wasn’t sure which one was better.

Now that I thought about it, there weren’t actually any good political reasons for why she would want me to be executed, not if she had a use for me. But the fact still remained that I could be tried as a scapegoat for the Curia explosion since they hadn’t followed Anaxeres’ trial, which was, quite obviously, not good.

Some people would want me as a scapegoat, that was for sure.

It would be a good way out, an easy way—especially since I had pushed the I-have-no-information on the Consul.

I was, practically speaking, useless.

Greta would likely want me to stay here for the remainder of the war, even if the ideal position would be for me to take up my grand ducal duties as soon as possible. Or she would want to break me out as soon as possible.

One thing hadn’t changed, at least: I still didn’t know what in Tartarus my sister was thinking.

Or the woman in front of me.

“The Forsaken border,” Cecilia brought up. “It’s an unnecessary drain on our resources, keeping the monsters at bay—but I’m sure you know that, don’t you?” The Consul tilted her head. “That was why the Empire took the risk to strike when the Throne was unsteady, wasn’t it?”

I ignored the question.

“What does the Republic want me to do at the Forsaken border, then?” I asked. “Invigorate your troops? Kill a Minotaur, skin it as a carpet, and bring it home? I’m up for a challenge.”

If they want me to go at all.

Keeping me guarded throughout the transportation to Gloria would be needlessly hard work. Cecilia might just be dangling the option in front of me to see if I’d bite, but then again I’d steered the conversation so I’d be the one seeing the rope.

Was she giving me enough rope to hang myself with?

I knew things, but I didn’t; and to that I smiled as she spoke.

“We’ll discuss it more another day,” promised the Consul, and got ready to get up.

Yeah, she was dangling it.

“Of course,” I said to the abrupt change of topic, not letting my smile fade as I let my eyes track Cecilia across the room. I heard her call the legionaries back, and they came, stern faces and all.

I leaned back into the bed of cushions, staring up at the ceiling at the multicolored lights. It was spangled across the arches that made up the roof, dancing across the room the same way the glass spheres were dangled. A familiar viridian, a pretty golden, and a resounding violet.

The same colors that haunted me, even if they didn’t know that.

It was pretty, for a prison.

I turned my head to the legionaries, eyes turned towards their faces as I smiled.

“Do you guys have any tea?”

Hadrianus, Summanus, Cassia, Tiberius, Quintus, Cornelius, the major players, belonging to either the Romanus or Romus factions.

Publius, Felicius, Decimus, Manius, Spurius, the minor ones, vassals of said major players.

And the last: Romanus, Romus.

The Branches of House Roma, and the seats of the Senate. The twelve patrician seats, and the seats of the two Consuls—they had been filled, at least temporarily, and the entire affair had taken six hours. It was approaching the middle of the day, the afternoon sun dipping towards the horizon just a bit, and the break consisted of Julian drinking as much water as he could to rid himself of a dry throat.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t a remedy for thinning patience.

Cecilia came afterwards, seemingly unrattled, but she seemed tired. Julian tried to speak to her further, but she shut it down for some reason and told him to go visit his parents while she took charge of the rest of the session. The boy hesitated to do so—it would give Romus domination over the rest of the Senate session—but then again Cecilia had trusted him with the first shift, and so Julian acquiesced in a small leap of faith.

Julian was about to visit Marcellus either way, what with the Hadrianus situation—Julian’s maternal grandfather had proved unhesitatingly difficult—and the Consul had hopes that Marcellus’ alliance with Hadrianus, without Claudia in the equation, would count for something.

Even if it meant putting his trust in the slivers of consciousness his father had come in and out of these days—and by consciousness, Julian meant the times when the former Consul spoke like the man he was before.

The chances were slim, but it was still a chance.

“Marius.”

Perhaps, Julian thought, it was that statement that had summoned Mother.

Claudia Hadrianus stood with a smile, leaning at the archway that led into Marcellus’ private gardens.

“Mother,” said the former praetor, masking his uneasiness.

“Marius,” Claudia responded again. “I haven’t seen you in a while—you’ve been busy, haven’t you, my boy?” Her eyes drifted to the uniform he was wearing—cape and all—and the expression on her face faltered, just for a bit, before his mother renewed her smile and reached for his neck.

The clasp that held the cape around his neck was adjusted, the fabric shifting around his shoulders. Familiar medals on a foreign uniform, but still one he had stared at for as long as he could remember.

“I have,” he answered, mouth moving on his own.

Cold fingers patted his cheek as Claudia shook his head.

“My poor son,” she murmured. “They’ve been working you hard.” She leaned away with a disapproving frown. “Working hard’s all well and good, but make sure to rest once in a while. They promoted you, right? From centurion to primus pilus?”

He didn’t know if she did know and was pretending otherwise, or had forgotten.

“Yes, I’ve been promoted, Mother,” Julian agreed.

Claudia looked sympathetic. “You’ve worked hard, Marius—but know that Mother loves you, no matter what.”

Mother did love him. It had always been Mother who had loved him.

Which was what made the fact that those Imperials had gotten into the Curia through deceiving her so unforgivable.

“I love you too, Mother,” Julian promised, before hesitating. “Did you..hear about Gaius?”

Branch Hadrianus’ formerly prized daughter blinked. “I did—it’s really a pity. Devastating.” She said it like it was a courtesy, and that gave Julian pause.

“Gaius,” the boy repeated. “Marianus Gaius Cassia, my—best friend.”

“Yes, Gaius,” Claudia agreed. “The boy with the secrets and spies.” Her fractural gaze rested on Julian’s face again. “He didn’t follow my advice. He broke under his burden.”

The words slammed into him a few seconds later.

“Your...advice, Mother?” Julian managed to get out.

The other hummed. “Yes, my advice— ‘if all men were fated to be kings, there would be no men.’” She turned her face away, staring at the distant horizon. “Your grandfather told me that. He said that I was a soldier, and under the small burden I’d been given, I’d have to accept it.” Her hair twisted and turned, the boy’s mother smelling of dirt and flowers.

“And then he threw me away,” she said. “Abandoned me. Like your father. Amadeus was handsome back in the day, you know.” Claudia faced her son again. “You look so much like your father, you know that?”

You told me to never become him.

Words were pulled out of the Consul’s throat. “What did you tell Gaius, Mother?”

Kaleidoscopic eyes shifted.

“Everything the world told me,” answered Claudia, smiling lightly. “That monsters deserve to die.”

Betrayal came again, in a heavier torrent than the last time, but it was mixed with less anger and more shock.

“You—knew,” drew out Julian. “That Marianus was using you.”

The silence that came after could swallow worlds.

“Of course I knew,” responded the other, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I told you. Monsters deserve to die: and your father—no, everyone in that building, who fights for this country and themselves?” Like telling the conclusion of a bedtime story, Julian’s mother leaned closer. “They’re the worst of them all.”

There was still no anger.

Julian wanted to be angry.

He saw the faces of the people he had saved—the children, the innocents that had been maimed, nearly killed—and they’d started to haunt him more than killing that Minotaur ever did.

His Mother—

Claudia’s gaze flickered innocently. “You’re angry.” She tilted her head. “Even before we talked, you were angry at something. Everything. And someone, too.”

His chest felt like he was suffocating, and—

—his mother reached forward and wiped away forming tears.

“Don’t be angry,” the Consul’s mother advised.

Pieces of a woman that once was, a picture that Julian had never seen before. Shattered, reformed, cast and re-cast.

“If they’re like me,” Claudia said, “and I have a feeling that they are—then they only did what they had to do.”

The words were empty, and no one spoke them, but Julian heard.

Choices, choices, choices.