When elephants fight, the grass gets trampled.

HONOS OUTSIDE MY WINDOW WAS DRAMATICALLY ON FIRE.

Or, at least, it had been.

The remnants of the Curia lay in shambles as the wind crumpled my curtains inwards, the breeze breathing life into the dangling spherical lights that hung from my ceiling. The clinking of the beads on the strings accentuated the very loud and very angry Republica from arguing guards in front of said Curia, very obviously in conflict with another group of guards that were stationed outside the site. From the scattered words I caught as I leaned out my window, they were engrossed in a discussion about something-something-bodies-Consul-Romanus-something.

I sipped my tea as the Republica legionary eyed me warily.

“Look, lady,” he said in very slanted Imperi, in that tone that meant that was the most polite term he could offer, “if you’re going to off yourself, please don’t bring the teacup with you. It’s imported from Tianya, and—”

I gave an offhanded wave, still hunched over the open window’s ledge. “Don’t worry, I’m good with heights.” When that wasn’t reassurance enough, I added, “If I wanted to kill myself, I would’ve done so very effectively much earlier. I certainly wouldn’t have publicly surrendered in front of Mari and Celia, so have no fear.”

I could tell the nicknames irked him, and his eyebrow twitched precariously as his gaze flickered to the teacup in my hand, but he didn’t press further.

I continued having tea on the makeshift terrace, balancing the cup on the windowsill as I propped my chin on my hand.

The tea was good.

The sunset was better, I mused to myself as I took another sip.

If only there was a painter.

Would this be my last sunset?

No, it would not.

The tea swam in my mouth as I swallowed, bitter and light. The thick floral—rhododendron?—flavor was almost overpowering, but it was balanced by something else. Something sweet. Honey? Sugar?

It was foreboding.

I could hear the clattering of dominoes again, feel the ricocheting sensation from the wind of a faraway explosion, taste the iron of blood in my mouth again. Sometimes memories came in clusters, sporadic bursts—but other times they came as faint warning, a warming of the skin or a cold wind blowing through the curtains.

I was aware my hand was shaking as I drank the tea, unravelling my hand to settle around the cup as I set it down.

The chill. It was the chill.

There had been three ropes, I thought—three problems I could “solve” to prove my use. In order for the “trial” to not be the end of me, I had to prove to be useful. And I had to admit, being treated as an honored guest when you were basically a prisoner was...unsettling? Different? A unique experience, I settled on.

Rather than being ordered to sort out their political affairs, or be a spearhead in their retaliation, I offered myself up to be used in diplomacy. Particularly of the Forsaken kind—I knew something about the entire thing. Julian knew about Harbingers, assumedly from his father.

But how much did he know? Had he thought like I did, that Greta was the Harbinger—no, now I had to admit: it was a hasty assumption on my end. Did Julian know that I was the Harbinger?

If I released the information that I was the Harbinger, and that I was the source of the monsters coalescing near the Source, would they try and kill me? No—would killing me even work? You wouldn’t get rid of a prelude to end a song, would you?

Research, I filed away. I could use it as an excuse, a bargaining chip.

But the end goal was getting out, wasn’t it? And learning as much information as I could along the way.

Could I depend on other people to get me out? Naxy would try, I was sure, but I didn’t know the limits of his abilities without exposing his agents in the city. I needed a plan, and right now I was stuck trying to find one.

I could leap out of this window.

It would be a hard fall, but I’d make it. I was a fast runner—but there was a certainty that I’d get caught. And then I’d get more guards on me and needless animosity.

The right time.

Certainty.

It spun along with doubt, that tiny feeling that something was wrong. Certainty. Uncertainty. Doubt. Paranoia. I had landed myself here, but how was I going to get out? Calling on my Ability, I tried to Weave together my thoughts, pulling on those invisible strings that I felt through the air. They were almost intangible, fainter but more solid than before at the same time—now is not the right time.

The realization was clear. Certain.

Just to test, I tentatively reached out towards the Guards as I closed my eyes. I could feel—vaguely—his face. He was breathing slowly, at a regular pace—his heartbeat threaded itself through the Song, amidst the clattering and drumming. Alright. It was back. It hadn’t been gone, though. Just not as strong—

I let out a breath, an obvious sigh of relief, and the tension around my shoulders unravelled just a bit. I opened my eyes again and looked down at my hands. They were steady. A bit of crystalline liquid rested, shrouding crumpled leaves, at the end of the teacup that rested inside my cupped hands. Dark—no metallic scent—clumped—weight—regularity. No poison.

Certainty. That was good.

Did it only come back in times of duress? The question floated to me, before I tossed it aside.

Wind swept my hair—now free from that itchy cage of a wig—back as it started up again, breeze tasting cold but refreshing in my mouth. The warmth of the tea balanced it out as I grinned at the sky, another possibility glimmering into existence.

Would Thought—

Scarlet flashed before me again, and the teacup rattled in its position in my hands.

Research, I Thought.

The pathway opened, and—

Discovery. Pages rustling on tall slopes, even taller bookcases stretching towards the sky. A bargaining chip, a card in the hand—the building up of trust. Losses and gains, a dappled mural—satisfaction of curiosity. Revelation. Green eyes, crinkled in amusement.

So it was a big outcome.

An outcome that I had caused.

Even though I’d just thought about, I reached for something else—

Escape.

Blood. The cracking of a plummeting fall. Bone falling apart, the rushing of footsteps. Yelled Republica. Haplessness, danger—uncertainty—

I cut the trail off.

So that was a no-go.

I needed to promise Cecilia something solid to help the Republic on the Forsaken-Republica front—and I needed her trust. Julian was my only leverage on this, and he’d need to vouch for me—if Cecilia and Julian believed I could be useful, they could keep me alive: even if it was just to get me past the Republica “trial,” I would follow this rope to the end.

Presentation.

I needed information, and I needed a way to present that information to the Senate and the Consuls to extend my warranty in their eyes. To claw my way up from prisoner to potential ally would be a tall order, but it was all about theatre in the end. Promises, deals, and the right words said in the right way—it’d gotten me this far.

So.

I had a plan.

But escape.

How would I start?

A smile fluttered its way onto my face but was gone with the wind before either of the guards could catch it.

Based on the very loud Republica conversation across the street, Mari had been busy today.

It was time to figure out who was who in this city.

And Mari had come—later, of course, after the sun had set and midnight had tainted the sky—and I’d made idle conversation with the that-teacup-is-expensive guy, asking about his hobbies and great-grandmother who was (apparently) an expert in Tianyan porcelain, until he’d seemingly realized I was an Imperial and refused to talk further. Otherwise, I’d lain on the ground, stared at the ceiling, and—from an outsider’s perspective—counted the number of crystal spheres on the dangling lights.

Of course, I had actually been trying to piece together what I could reveal and what would get me killed. I had it chalked up to, one, okay, if they know I’m a Harbinger some of them might try to kill me; and, two, I need to find out if killing me actually works to stop the monster hordes. A very intricate master plan, I’d been told.

My Ability could criticize it all it wanted, but it was at least something.

I’d also been skimming through my memory—there hadn’t been much actual, workable data collected on the monster hoards near the Dark Forest’s Source throughout the ages (but, then again, there hadn’t been much on monsters at all, really: at least, except for copies of Chosen diaries that consisted of Daycycles-long experiences). It was more focused on what the monsters were, for the more biological Analysts, then where and when they formed.

Technically, I’d memorized everything there had been to know about monsters: Inevita’s libraries had served as an almost-foundation for the knowledge that had gotten me through the Cage.

But if I wanted to have an actual informational foundation, I needed to compile a historical account of the lifespans of various Harbingers—who had Dionysus mentioned? Angelo, Cesas, Lysimachos—and compare them against the swelling of the monsters near the border, which would be a shaky foundation for any plan. And what was the plan? Would I lie and present Greta as the Harbinger? Would they ask me to help them kill her?

No, I needed a revelation. Something to spin into a Tale, something to push me forward and keep me alive.

Something to do with the border.

I studied the baubles in front of me as I continued to think—at least, before a familiar voice spoke.

“How many?”

Eighty-two.

I smiled brilliantly.

“Guess,” I said, reaching a hand upwards.

The Consul deliberated but accepted it all the same, hauling me upwards.

“Eighty,” he guessed as I met his gaze.

“Close,” I conceded. “Off by two.” I made a show of looking around the room for a chair. “I would offer you a chair,” I said briskly as I shook imaginary dust off my robes, “but I’m afraid we’re fresh out. Tea?” I gestured to the very-empty cup next to me, the cup itself balancing precariously on a pile of cushions next to the lonely table.

“Tea,” Mari agreed as he seated himself. He gestured for the two legionaries to move away with a, “Please tell the maids to bring refills.” A pause happened in the beat after: “And a Crownboard. The Imperial ones—ah, which one would you like to use in a theatrical visual representation this time around?”

I beamed. “You know me so well—but anything goes.” I gestured for him to seat himself as I did—and he did, after he finished sending the legionaries out of the room.

“Have you had dinner?” was the first thing he asked.

I shrugged, masking the surprise that came. “Wasn’t hungry. The tea was filling.” I raised my eyebrows at his tired-looking face. “I’m sure I’m not the one you should be worrying about—you look like you’re a foot in the grave.”

Julian managed a snort. “And whose fault is that?” he murmured, shaking his head. He sounded stabler than before, but there was a haunted look in his eyes—he’d evidently come from a hard conversation. Or multiple, who knew.

I could, if I tried to analyze him.

“How’s your father?” I asked instead. “Seems like he’s been dealt a pretty heavy blow—are you a temporary Consul, or has he relinquished the title already?”

The now-Consul shrugged. It was a strange movement under his weighted regalia—almost uncomfortable.

“Was one of the first things discussed, but it wasn’t really much of a discussion. Romus and Romanus are the only Branches that can succeed the positions anyway, elected or not. Since I’m an only child, and the Cons—Marcellus,” he caught himself, “doesn’t have any bastards, it wasn’t much of a contest. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and arguments about my experience would be useless, and unproductive.”

Hmm.

“You’re plenty experienced in combat, though, aren’t you?” I replied, leaning back. “All those shiny metals have to count for something.”

The other made a noise of irritation. “You’d think. I have plenty of military experience, and have a strong political presence—but this is a crisis situation. There’s been talk of handing Cecilia’s Patrician of Azareth title to someone else, and at Gloria...the situation’s pretty much up in the air. Besides the fact that most of the subordinates I trust are dead...they can’t rip it away just yet.”

There wasn’t really an offence intended with the 'dead' part - especially since I'd killed some of them - but it would’ve hypothetically stung.

I made a thoughtful noise. “Bellum’s Patrician was executed for killing Brother, right? It seems like you’ve done something, at least, with filling the Senate seats—and no, don’t get surprised, no one told me, I just have good ears.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. “You’re right on that,” he admitted. “But enough about me.” There was a knock at the door—and the Crownboard was delivered, with… a large meal.

The teacup guy was back, and with a sheepish smile on his face.

“The Consul Romus sends her regards—and a message, Your Consulship.”

Julian didn’t look amused, sighing deeply instead. “What did she say, legionary?”

“Uh— ‘don’t forget to eat, otherwise you’ll die of starvation and bureaucracy,’ and...uh, ‘your Princess is certainly a slippery customer…’ with, to the Princess, ‘don’t forget we’re not done here. I won’t leave any threats or warnings here—’” the guy looked awkward “‘—but we won’t be done until the trial. You are still a prisoner under all terms of war, and until your status is revised at the martial trial—which will be held next Dayhept—you will be treated safely as an honored guest, but nothing more.’” The teacup guy looked up, and as if he was saying with meaning: “‘This is not the Empire.’”

I smiled at that.

Cecilia had a way with words, even back during our conversation.

The teacup guy stood aside, and plates of luxurious food filed in. I was tempted to look outside, just to compare the ashes of the Curia and the display of wealth I was seeing now, but it would only drive the point home: the food and message itself was a threat. This is not the Empire. The Republic has not fallen. It can afford to treat you like an honored guest, but only if you can prove your use at the trial.

A laugh built itself in my throat as another table was moved in to accommodate the feast, and it erupted when candles were set. It was midnight, for Gods’ sake. I started giggling, Julian studying my reaction as I let a pleased but equally amused grin settle on my face.

“Well, she’s certainly very generous, isn’t she?” I settled on, mildly.

I looked up at the former praetor’s face.

He looked strange at the display, but had been very concentrated on my expression regardless.

“You were saying?” I prompted. “‘Enough about me’?”

Julian cleared his throat.

“Yeah, enough about me. Cecilia’s already talked with you, right?”

I smiled. “At length, as you can see.” I tilted my head. “She didn’t fill you in?”

The boy pressed his lips together. “No,” he admitted. “I—just returned from the Senate session.”

My Ability reached forward towards his face.

“But that’s not all, is it?” I guessed, picking up a fork to dig in the food. “Come on, it’s getting cold,” I urged the other, who’d narrowed his eyes before sighing. Deliberating—what? A question. Information.

The former praetor picked up a fork after a pause, piercing a piece of shredded chicken and chewing it. “No, that’s not all,” he confirmed. “I—did something else. But that’s not the point, not yet. I wanted to ask you about the Azarethian prisoners, the ones that you told us to save.”

I paused before spooning—were these potatoes? Yes, they were potatoes—into my mouth. “And? What about them?” I said after finishing off another bite.

He was grim. “You do realize that they’re evidence of your war crimes,” he said, “and can be used to testify against you in court.”

My mouth quirked. “Yes, I’ve realized the possibility,” I lied. Damn it. “I mean, I haven’t thought about it at length, but I’m sure they can’t harm me, directly or indirectly—Oathsworn, you know. I’d have to summon my subordinate to get the exact wording, but I’m sure you know more than I do. I assume they were interrogated…?”

“Not personally,” Julian confirmed. “But...your argument will be weak.”

I tilted my head. “My, it sounds like you almost want to help me, my dear Mari,” I remarked. “I’m not refusing help, far be from it—but I am refusing a knife in the back, as hypocritical as it seems.” Honesty had been a main factor in our dealings before, and, even if the circumstances were different currently, if Julian had things to say, it was better now than never.

And the former praetor seemingly did have things to say.

After a round of silence in which his fish and my potatoes were thoroughly demolished, he spoke, with all the formality of a Consul.

“I promised you something, and regardless of the cost, I will fulfill it. I will try my best to stand by you until the end. That is loyalty.” A beat. “But I cannot deny that you have done a disservice—many disservices, in fact—to my country. My lineage. And when you look at those individual atrocities and rip off the excusing veil of war, I do not think I can move past this—every move I take from now on, I will have to take into consideration your actions. I will ask you to understand, but I am sure you already do.” His eyes burned. “I like to think we understand each other quite well. Maybe one more so than the other, but the fact remains.”

There was a terrifying earnestness in his words.

(A lot of things scared me in this world, and some of them were even human, but this was the type of thing you couldn’t explain. You couldn’t draw it—even though some would try—you couldn’t paint it, you couldn’t even write about or describe it.

It was something magnificent. Almost inhuman.

It was a specific type of human spark.)

Whichever it was, that made up honorable people, my Mari had it.

Was he a fundamentally good person? No.

But the unwavering belief Julian had—not in his country, but something—was...enviable.

“You’ve changed.” I tilted my head. “I can’t say whether it’s for the worse or the better, but I do admire you. That’ll never change, believe me or not.” I looked at his face, tired and young, carefully. There was a hardness that wasn’t there before. And for a second, I wanted the cake Mari back again. An uncomplicated relationship. Equals. Companions for the interval—of what, a day? More than a day?

I’d lost a potential companion, and I selfishly admitted I wanted him back.

But that road was gone.

I made a thoughtful noise and tried to sound nonchalant. “I do understand, of course. I guess the engagement’s off the table, then—not the Oath bond, obviously, but I guess we won’t move in together anymore, my dearest fiancé.”

The air was heavy.

“Maybe it’ll change,” Julian began. “The situation, I mean. Not not ever, but not now.”

I snorted.

“But the ‘now’ is the most important time of all, isn’t it?” I said, smiling. “But yes, it’s a pity.” I extended a hand across the table—not in a handshake, but a traditional handhold.

He accepted it a bit awkwardly, but there was a serious look in his eyes.

A silence reigned. He looked like he was about to say something else, but I cut him off.

“Right.” I withdrew my hand. He’d said most of his piece—even though this felt like an unfinished conversation—and I’d said mine. Our relationship—and the advantages that came with it—wasn’t unsalvageable.

(Had the Oath forced him into this situation? Most definitely.

Had my personality helped? I liked to think so.)

“Now,” I said, “let’s talk shop.”

The bodies that were lifted from under the ground were numerous and practically unidentifiable. Faces were gnarled with burns, dark webbing over scorched bodies exposing tinges of yellowed copper and faded red. Skin was curled from the inside out, ash coating grotesquely meshed bone and limbs—the dead that had survived the wreckage were more pieces than whole: detached skulls, ribs coated in tar-like honeycomb, crushed fingers shaped by pitch.

Anaxeres didn’t take pleasure in seeing death. No one did. He was fine when he could choose his victims (at least, that was what he told himself to sleep at night). When people could choose gambles: individual faces, individual choices. There wasn’t a distinguishable difference between a serial killer and mass murder, but Anaxeres had prided himself on not getting his hands dirty.

The other side always pulled the trigger.

This was the difference, Anaxeres thought. And it was a grim one—one he couldn’t deny nor welcome. (Responsibility was one of those political guests that you had to receive because you’d cause a diplomatic incident otherwise, but still didn’t like.) He couldn’t shrug off the guilt, but he couldn’t shrug off the responsibility either.

The cane was gripped tightly as the gambler watched silently. He wasn’t the only one—mourners, some silent and some not, watched as the bodies were dragged out. Some faces were contorted with grief, others with fear, and it wasn’t dramatic twists that his heart experienced: a hole dug deeper, a lingering certainty that whichever redemption he would find in the afterlife wouldn’t be his.

Cards were in his hand, and the gun had been fired. This chamber hadn’t contained the bullet, but what about the next? And the one after?

A gamble.

That was life.

It was a high-speed race—with horses and chariots and gladiators—and what was at the end? The highest reward of all?

All or nothing.

This was his all.

The gambler clutched his cane that he didn’t need, the boy with the gun and the rope and the spiders.

All or nothing.

What would this game win him?

Delphine and her urging for mandatory conscription had been put on a hold due to recent events, the Duchess herself being held up in Azareth. The supposed airhead, with her dominos and perfume and fluttering eyelashes, would start up a new play sooner or later. From what Anaxeres heard, Timaios planned to move soon, too. Obviously, the more conservative members of the nobility—like Evlogia—would oppose his Imperial-ordained move, but what could Alina do? Join up with Delphine, obviously.

The Williams Marquessate and the Anthinon Duchy had been quiet, lately. It wasn’t as if any of them were particularly verbal supporters of any side—Damokles had agreed to supporting Greta because, one, choosing not to would be messy (the older Duke had never liked conflict); and, two, the Imperials had cleaned up the mess the Rhianites left behind.

The Williams Marquessate, on the other hand, was more problematic. They’d been a part of the “rebellion” that the Empire had cut off before it began, but these machinations...it wasn’t to say that the plans being grown on foreign country wasn’t as important: keeping these cities were crucial, as well as striking that coup de grâce to end the war before it stretched the Empire too thin.

Ah, politics.

Well, technically, he was too busy to think about anything else—this was his job, after all.

But he had a Princess to rescue.

The thought surfaced unprovoked, and as the sun began to rise, the Duke stretched.

Ah, I knew I was forgetting something.

The stage was open, and cogs were still whirring.