The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else.

THE SKY WAS FAIR, AS ALWAYS; AND THERE WAS TWO, AS ALWAYS.

“Well, well, well.” The Forsaken brought his hands together. “What do we have here? Last time you looked this serious, you ended up killing all my Residence’s attendants. I’m still holding a grudge over that, mind you. They were very hard to replace.”

The Fifth (now Second) Prince was casual, as he (arguably) always was. You could describe his attitude as cavalier, Greta thought, but it was a poor descriptor for the shit-eating bastard that he was. Her brother’s hair was slicked back with some sort of oil—likely made up of Anthinon olives—that made the pale strands stick to his scalp like a skintight accessory.

In terms of looks, Cyrus had always been the dashing one—traditionally heroic. Orion was older, the hardened soldier, and Arathis had always stood out next to them. Not because he was short—in fact, the Ninety-Ninth Victor was arguably rather lanky—but because of the way he stood.

While the brothers had always stood straight and kept still, Arathis would always be either leaning back, moving forward, or in the process of doing something. Smiling. Hammering his fingers against the table. Watching. Over the five years Arathis had been a part of the Imperial Family, the boy had welcomed the light. The audience. Attention. (He’d never demanded it, or asked for it, but Greta knew the Palace’s spotlight was enough for him all the same.)

He was young, and it was hard to forget it.

And he was human, after all.

“So I’ve been told,” Greta replied, as the Empress sat next to her brother. “Where’s Josephine?”

The boy—man, technically, over twenty but they were all children to her—threw his shoulders up. “Have absolutely no idea,” he said carelessly. “I thought she was busy with the new project you gave her.”

Impatience crawled into her chest.

“Give me your best guess, then,” said the former princess. “Where do you think she is?”

A question.

Pale eyes flickered as he drew his lips upwards in a smile. “Why, dear sister, are you asking me for my valued opinion?” He was mocking, but it was more biting than it usually was, less probe and more insult.

The Empress gazed at him.

“Yes.”

Arathis countered it with his own, lazy amusement dancing at his grin.

“You told her to make the anti-Imps fall in line, didn’t you? By charming that poor helpless boy? She’s probably doing exactly that—using him as a mouthpiece to reorganize public sentiment and slowly get rid of the agitators, positioning the leaders where she needs them to. A nice neat round of dominoes, is it not?” He leaned forward (which had practically become a habitual motion at this point). “But you’re not here to play dominoes, are you?”

Hollowed-out skeletons of monster meat, imported from the other side of the continent and very, very expensive, sat on the plate by his arm.

Greta raised her eyebrows. “Why do you think I’m here, then?”

The question hung in the air.

Arathis snorted, as if it was a stupid question. “Because you need me. Because I’m family. Because you’re the only one that can handle me. Because someone else told you to. Because you can. How would I know, dear sister?”

Well, this is uncharacteristic, she would’ve thought, if she hadn’t caught that gleam in his eye as she’d asked.

“Then you know what I’m about to ask?” the Empress questioned, letting a smile ghost her face.

This was the very table they’d played Crown on just a couple Dayhepts ago.

“Well, there’s a proposal for mandatory conscription from Zephyr sitting on your desk right now—already approved, obviously, but you haven’t started implementing it. It’s obviously very corrupt—very morally horrifying, yes—and would cause a lot of trouble if it’s leaked, I mean.”

The Empress’ brother had a playful tinge to the supposedly threatening words.

“Since the proposal’s already in its first stages and you’ve already ordered the Merchants to lend their ships to blockade Azareth, you need to implement it soon otherwise they’re going to rebel and demand their money back...but you’re worried about it being a risk to your current attempt at a coup de grâce, so there’s that.” Hades’ Chosen sighed. “You’re a very busy person, Your Imperial Majesty, and that’s not even mentioning the Williams thinking of rebellion again. I wouldn’t dream to know what you’re going to ask.”

A beat.

Two.

Three.

“Sarcasm isn’t a good look on you, brother,” was the Empress’ only comment.

“It isn’t on anyone,” Arathis agreed, moving a plate in front of his sister. “Sandwich? Haven’t touched it.”

Greta shook her head. “Already ate.”

Her brother smiled. “You’ve spent the entire day so far in meetings and holed up in your office and the throne room—Deimos can’t do everything. I doubt you want me to make the calculations, and Orion’s not here to strongarm you—if you want me to go to Bellum, eat.”

The plate was pushed further.

The Empress eyed the meat for a second, as if analyzing the advantages and disadvantages of pursuing the topic, before picking it up unceremoniously—but regally—scarfing it up. While she was, the Prince spoke.

“You have other bad news to bear, I assume? Aside from the ‘don’t destroy Bellum and cause another diplomatic incident’ talk?” Arathis was still smiling, but his eyes gleamed.

Greta wiped her mouth.

“You already managed to figure it out,” the Empress murmured in between bites, less of a realization and more of a remark.

The Prince made a noise of agreement. “Seraphina’s in trouble?”

“Captured,” Greta volunteered. Her eyebrows threatened to knit together. “A couple of days already. She can hold out for that long....Anaxeres’ already planning to get her out, but we don’t know whether she’s taking the opportunity to gather information, or she needs us to get her out as soon as possible.”

“Point of contact,” Arathis supplied. “But, one, you’re already in debt from the blockade on Azareth. If you’re going to continue to hold it without satisfying the Merchants’ end of the deal, you’re going to dig yourself a deeper grave. And two, the new Duke Marksman isn’t doing a good job of rounding in their horses. It’s not that we use the ‘guns’ a lot, per se, but with the limited production, it’s easier to monopoly, is what the Williams are thinking. Monopoly, gather allies and advantages, pull one over on you while you’re busy, etcetera etcetera...Drakos is too busy to act as a counterweight, too.”

It was nothing Greta hadn’t heard before, but Arathis had a sharp eye. Even if he was a wild card...

The Empress’ gaze was clear. “And what do you suggest?” she asked, finishing off the sandwich.

Arathis sipped a glass of water.

“You’re well underground on the internal unity part. That’s always the bad part with dealing with Imperials. And on the external pressures part...well, we’re in a war, aren’t we? The Republic’s looking to strike back, and on the surface, Bellum’s the best target. The easiest, because it’s swarming with Galani and Cadmi, who don’t have the best relationship in the world.”

The Chosen hummed.

“The fact that you’re not sending Damokles there, and me specifically, well...you need guerilla tactics. Underhanded ones, at that. You want me to bait the Republic into an offensive on Bellum, and distract them while you get your house in order. And after that, you’ll launch your assault on their people’s morale, and do one final attack to sweep Honos in. Gloria’s in the bag after that.”

He was right, of course.

“But,” the Empress said.

“But,” the Forsaken agreed. He stretched lazily, putting down the glass. “You’re in a tight spot in the Zephyr bit—thank Gods you didn’t implement it in Doxa, too, otherwise that would’ve been a pretty little mess—but you can get out of it. Exploit the loopholes.”

A silence.

“And you’re not going to tell me any further than that,” Greta guessed dryly. Imperials.

Arathis laughed.

“A magician doesn’t reveal all his tricks, sis. Besides, you know what I’m talking about.”

The Ninety-Ninth Victor grinned, mockingly spreading out an invisible deck as he swept his hand in a semi-circle. His pale hair gleamed under the sun, gold mingling with silver, as his grin took on an almost familiar sharp, carnal quality.

“Pick a card, Your Imperial Majesty,” the Hanged Killer offered.

Your Imperial Majesty,

Enclosed is the second draft of the initial approved proposal, and the ledger of the recorded transactions. I, as a subject and a Duchess, strongly suggest the implementation of mandatory conscription as soon as possible. I have received word from my Princeblood in Zephyr that Merchants are unsettled, and although I have tried my best to scrounge up compensation from Azareth, they will not be appeased for long. My seat is unstable, at best.

Zephyr is at heart a trade city, and with the ban on trade from the Republic, there has been unrest beyond the eye can see. We have threatened them into submission, but if there is no threat carried out, they will begin to point fingers, and the blame will inevitably lay in our Empire. I, as a leader, must deliver on what I have promised.

I apologize if I am overstepping my bounds, but we are in dire straits. They are not unnavigable, but these are treacherous waters[...]

My people are currently making efforts to improve the standard of living in Azareth and supplant the reliance of the Fort on Republica domestic administration. But, admittedly, it is hard to gain the trust of a people whose city you have conquered. They remain hostile, especially after the remnants of the Republica Army Imperial Princess Seraphina have scattered[...]

I, frankly speaking, cannot think of any long-term strategy to maintain my tenure as both Duchess of Zephyr and current administrator of Azareth. The Princeblood I have brought here are going hungry, and there is no way to feed them without taking from Azareth’s resources, which gains animosity from the city[...]

Mandatory conscription will undoubtedly bolster our army and foster trade[...]

I beseech Your Majesty for an answer. Long live the Empire.

Delphine Hyacinth

Duchess of Zephyr

For The Eyes of the Managers of the Imperial Treasury and Her Imperial Majesty

From the Desk of Delphine Hyacinth of Zephyr

A Ledger of Confirmed Support from Zephyrean Merchants to the Imperial Army

Written by the Duchess of Zephyr, in Conjuction with Imperial Princess Seraphina Queenscage

Horatio Pseftis

—Two galleons

—Ten shortswords

—Twenty longswords

(10,000 DRACHMAS—GOLD)

Acastus Baros

—One galleon

—Fifteen swordswords

—Thirty longswords

(5000 DRACHMAS—GOLD)

Yiorgos Agathangelou

—Ten shortswords

—Twenty longswords

—Ten crates of potatoes

—Ten crates of flour

(700 DRACHMAS—GOLD)

[...]

APPROVED BY

DEIMOS

Manager of the Royal Treasury and Aide to the Throne, Appointed By

Nikephoros the Nightbidden, First of His Name

Continuing Tenure Under Her Imperial Majesty Greta the Great

To the Duke of Marksman,

It has been brought to my attention that the Williams Marquessate has been in contact with my subordinates of the duchy of Anthinon in order to engage in what can only be called as high treason. They have offered much, by way of weaponry, position, and prestige; but I can only state simply that this is a paltry offering. I do not balk at political plays, but I certainly cannot stare betrayal in the eye and remain stoic.

This letter is written with no attempt to offend the duchy of Marksman. I understand that you have succeeded to the seat only recently, but I offer only one piece of advice: you must keep your eye on all your cards. I have, however, brought this matter to the attention of Her Imperial Majesty, and I expect for both of us to be in contact over this. And with that I advise you, not as duke to duke, but as a more experienced figure, to approach this with utmost caution. Affairs during war are no less, if greater, than affairs during peace. I hope you do not think Anthinon presumptuous for approaching this matter as such.

I state here that I have turned away Marquis Williams’ envoys multiple times. Anthinon will have nothing to do with the storm brewing in the Armistice, and remains loyal to the Empire.

Damokles Anthinon

Duke of Boreas

“Sister.”

The Empress visited her sister next.

Josephine was dressed in a cloak, golden eyes gleaming as she smiled. It was almost a genuine one, but it touched her eyes similar to how grief couldn’t be hidden as well as vulnerability could. Josephine wasn’t an emotional person, Greta thought—and none of them were (or could afford to be). But Arathis had felt different, these past few days, and Josephine had, too. Brittle around the edges.

Arathis’ attempts at getting her to eat had been...a worrying development. It’d lurked at the edge of Greta’s consciousness as she’d thought about a thousand things at once. It hadn’t even been emotional, or anything along those lines. Just...concern? Coming from Arathis, who’d tried to kill her at least ten times, and tried to overthrow her at least eight? The lack of usual opposition coming from her siblings was...a strange quiet. After their stunt that had kick-started the war was when it’d started. No, maybe even before that, Greta had conceded. After Orion’s death.

They were almost playing at being human—and perhaps that was unfounded, at least with Josephine. She’d always been more...reachable. And the footage from her Cage had shown that—she’d loved that Chosen of Zeus, that had been as clear as day. (But then she’d killed him anyway, Greta supposed, but the emotion wasn’t rendered null because of it.)

Arathis, on the other hand, could never be genuinely human in the way that the others could. He’d led eleven Chosen by the nose before killing all of them. No remorse, no guilt, absolutely nothing except an almost manic obsession with manipulation. The concern was deliberate. And it wasn’t because Greta assumed the worst, it was because she just knew.

What was he playing at?

The other thing he'd implied, though - she'd gotten it at first try, which didn't bode well...

“Josie,” Greta greeted. “How’s Timaios?”

“Timmy’s busy with running his fief. Sophie, Tanis, Katherine, and Alyssa are absolutely wonderful people for putting up with him, as cherubic he seems to be, that Adonis,” Josephine drawled. “I was just returning from the city, finalizing things with the anti-Imps. A report should be on your desk by the end of the day, but I’m sure that’s not what you’re here for.”

Her voice was different, an influence lingering on it like a sickly sweet perfume. Her Ability, likely.

“You’re right.” Greta cut to the chase. “It’s about your parents.”

The jarring change in topic didn’t seem to rattle her.

“And what about them?” the Princess asked, eyes blinking. “Are they planning a rebellion again?”

Again. That was how ludicrous the situation was.

Damokles’ letter to her had been...intriguing.

“Unfortunately,” was all the Empress replied with. “This project can’t be postponed, but I’d rather send you instead of Timaios.”

Josephine raised her eyebrows. “I doubt I’ll have any major influence on them,” she said breezily, “but I can try. What do you want me to do?”

Greta didn’t hesitate to reveal the information. (She’d learn from Arathis sooner or later, either way.) “Seraphina’s captured, and can’t relay orders to the new Duke Marksman, who’s having trouble keeping his vassals in line. The Marquis is seeking help from the north.”

That caused a small furrow in the Victor’s brow.

“Father always hated the north,” remarked Josephine. “He talked about how it was cold and dreadful there all the time, and was nothing but a breeding ground for scholars who turn their noses up at everything. But times change, I suppose. Haven’t contacted him in...what, sixteen years? More?” That last bit was Aphrodite’s Chosen trailing off, as if musing to herself.

Greta acknowledged her sister with a nod. “You can hand over your duties to me and Timaios. Arathis will be elsewhere.”

The Eurusan woman’s gaze caught. “Where?” Curiosity.

“Out,” the Empress simply replied.

A beat.

Two.

Three.

Mild surprise was carefully covered up by a giggle. “Well, the Republic’s in for a treat, I suppose,” was all Josie said. “Other than that…I’m sure you’re aware that I’ve been taken out of the succession line for...quite a long time. I can’t legally succeed the Marquessate, so all I can do is use Imperial authority to intimidate them into inaction—or confiscate their arms production, as small as it is.”

This felt awfully like a genuine conversation and not a trap, was all Greta could think. After the escapade where Josephine had—surprisingly—revealed her genuine feelings, the situation had been slightly awkward for a while, but the tension had been cleared away suspiciously easily. (Not that there had been much tension before. Greta could count on one hand how many Josie had tried to genuinely murder Greta.)

But.

“Don’t scare them too much,” Greta responded after a while. “Too many new successions’ll make other people think I’m deliberately targeting the opposition, and scare the opposition into making more stupid moves, which we don’t need.”

Josie grinned. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

The Empress stayed there for a while, thinking.

“How are the anti-Imps?” asked Dionysus’ Chosen, partially out of conversational obligation and partially out of reason. “You don’t need to put a report on my desk, I—”

“Will handle it,” Aphrodite’s Chosen promised, cutting her sister off. “I know you have things to do.”

The tension was back in her shoulders.

The Empress raised her eyebrows in response. “I did not know you were a ruler of this nation,” she said.

“Just the second-in-line for it,” replied Josephine, a flicker of something indistinguishable in her eyes. “But I would give up the right, so it’s nothing to flaunt.”

How had the conversation taken this turn? Greta would’ve wondered— if she hadn’t used her Ability carefully and dipped into the recesses of Josephine’s mind. (It was a Sacrifice, and it Cost her, but it was worth the risk, Orion whispered.)

And (as always), there was a restrained, bitter hate for the world, bordered by a twisted form of grief (which was expected).But there was hope, coated in the oils of something akin to frustration. At her.

Greta’s heart contorted in that way it always did when she used her Ability, flashes of pain ricocheting through her chest that she knew was imaginary. The Empress drew her Ability’s hands back. Why had she used it anyway— family, Orion reminded. You care about them. Did she? Or was that what she told herself— she did.

Unnecessary, these thoughts were.

Arathis (for once) was right. Maybe she was eating too little.

“You have already fought for the right to survive,” said Greta. “It is unfair for the world to ask you to live for others.”

“Have you once,” Josie replied, “ever thought the world was fair?”

The cloak’s hood rested on her shoulders, dark hair tumbling down and revealing a familiarly drawn face.

“Sixteen years, sister. You may have hid or disdained the people I dealt with—and they may deserve it—but I have shaken hands with them, talked to them, laid with them for sixteen years. I know the underbelly of this city, and they have done as much as we have. Was it fair that I, a noble runaway, a prostitute and a glorified traitor, got to live? And not even live, I flourished.”

The words themselves sounded aggressive—an assault—but it felt more like a practiced speech, the words settling in like a calming elixir.

“The world is unfair,” the Princess conceded, “and you want to make it fair. I both admire you, and disdain you for it, and that is that. I have no right—I will not fight for the right, to rule the world.”

The realization came quickly.

“You did not want to kill for it,” Greta said. The Throne, at the initial assault.

Josephine shrugged. “I would kill for plenty of other things. Doesn’t excuse me.”

At that, amusement came quickly, too, like a familiar dancer.

Greta tilted her head. “Did you know all along?”

“That most of it was an illusion, to get Seraphina on your side? And the other parts weren’t, in order to get you the Throne?” The other leaned close, before bringing her hands together smilingly. “No, I didn’t. Not all of it, anyway, but the point is that it worked. The world doesn’t know that you’ve killed your father, Oathbound your sister, and sent—arguably both—of your brothers off to their death, to get where you are now.”

The words could’ve stung more, Greta thought, if they weren’t the truth and rather a vehement accusation. (A twisted version of the truth, sure, but the facts remained.)

“You are relieved,” the Empress replied, “that I will hand my Throne over to Seraphina peacefully, and our family will remain as it is.”

“I will only be relieved,” said the other, “when I am dead and free of this world.”

The morning wind swept up Josephine’s curls almost theatrically, as if it was an actor Aphrodite’s Chosen had paid, whispering strands into her eyes and resting above her brows in sweeping arcs of painter’s ink. (It was a terrifying beauty that Josephine possessed, in the way that yes, she was not a middling, blushing beauty with painted-red cheeks; but no, she also was not a tyrannical beauty or a calamity of a storm that begged to be tamed. Josephine did not beg, and in that aspect she made a fitting Princess.)

“Your hands will not be clean, even at the gates of Hades,” was all Greta responded with. “Death is not liberation.”

It is an escape, Orion said.

But not liberation.

The Imperial Princess chuckled before she spoke.

“But still I hope, dear sister,” Josephine Queenscage said, “that, until death, I will not have to clean my hands after I hold yours.”

The Republic of Roma has experienced a multitude of history. If not of war, then of peace, as we fight—

Platitudes. Pah. Julian perused the first paragraph, scanning for the words he need…

The wolves of Romulus and Romus guide us all, as the spear is—

Gods, they’d upgraded themselves. "The first thing," one of the first lessons a former grammar teacher of his - a grizzled patrician - had taught Julian, "you need to distinguish when it comes to writing, is the different synonyms for one word: 'want.' And that's if you're lucky, and they actually tell you what that they want something from you.

Read in between the lines, son of Roma. That's the first thing you need to know when talking about politics. They'll use all the fancy words in the world, but all you need to know is that people talk for the sake of talking. They want for the sake of wanting."

When people talk to you, they want something from you.

That's what he'd been taught.

For the glory of Roma, we beseech—

Ah, there it was. Julian stopped.

We beseech both Consuls, the twin wolves of Roma, to fight against the Empire—

His eyes caught—

—and arm our most vigorous hands, trusted by our nation and its history of—

Ah. They wanted weapons. That was both unsurprising, and unusual. (They had to know it was a useless appeal.)

Signed,

The Patrician of Hadrianus—

The door slammed open.

“What did she tell you?”

And, there it was.

Time was ticking.