The urge to create something but have nothing to create is the worst of all [...] there is always the stereotype of the tortured artist, that makes art out of their own pain [...] then is art not a self-sacrificing thing, to give away parts of one's own self in order to create?[...] Giving away one's beauty to something inanimate, to impose upon the object the suffering of existence?

It is not because of art that tortured artists suffer so. It is the lack of it; the lack of beauty that both [artists] and the world suffer from. If there is no beauty, we must create it, they think. If there is no art, we must make it. If there is suffering, we must take it.

Yes, the urge to create something but have nothing to create must be the worst of all. But is an imaginary urge in the way that it only exists in the mind, and therefore I am condemned to suffer in silence.

- THE RAVINGS OF A MADMAN, a literary piece published through an anti-Censoring movement after the Angelian Reforms

"WHAT DID SHE TELL YOU?"

The question was simple, but not.

“What was she supposed to tell me?” was the only thing Julian had to say.

Cecilia’s hair was all over the place, but an uncharacteristically on-edge expression was on her face. Her eyebrows were drawn together like a tight curtain, wrinkles dappling pale edges above her eyes, and the Consul grabbed the other roughly by his collar.

“This is no time for snark, Julian,” she snapped. Again, she sounded surprisingly tense. “What if she got into your head?”

The former praetor felt the tightness around his neck as he was pulled from his seat. Cecilia was strong, but it was more from the shock of it than anything else—Julian ripped his neck from the other Consul’s hands, letting the seams stretch with a resounding tear as he raised his eyebrows.

“It seems more like she’s gotten into your head, Consul,” remarked Julian, evenly, the only signal of the inhuman gesture a bit of stinging pain at his scruff. “Why are you so worried she’ll win me over? Is it because she nearly swayed you, Eva-Valeria?”

Cloth lay flatly, hanging in tatters within Cecilia’s grasp.

“Don’t change the subject,” she responded back, looking unperturbed as she shook her hands free of threads, scraps falling to the ground. “You either gained nothing or everything, judging from that look in your eyes.”

“Judging from the bags under yours, I might not be the only one who needs rest,” returned the younger boy. But, as it was intended to, Julian’s voice fell through.

The other Consul fell back on the seats across from him. “You’re changing the subject again, Marius. What did she say to you?”

They never were really that familiar, Julian thought. At least, not enough to use names. When Julian and Cecilia would succeed their fathers’ positions as patricians, Julian had always assumed they’d assume the cat-and-dog dynamic as head of opposing factions: fire and ice, ice and fire.

She’d always been a distant figure, the only daughter and descendant of Romus, a product of a “mistake.” They’d gone to the same military academy, and gotten shipped off to different spots afterwards: Julian as a ward of the Patrician of Gloria, and Cecilia as a ward to Azareth. They both “part-timed” between different Strongholds, and caught each other’s eyes often, but they were acquaintances, Cecilia being years older. Encountering each other was inevitable, but it usually came as stories founded on gossip, and people even spun it into a rivalry: Cecilia would catch a boar, and Julian a Minotaur; Julian would win a duel, and Cecilia a political dispute.

As praetors, they’d clashed. Both of them were stubborn, and at times when they met each other, they usually avoided each other. Cecilia was almost an older sister, or a cousin, in childhood; a distantly close one, one he was supposed to see but never did.

“What did she say to me?” Julian repeated, as if considering honesty, flopping back onto the seat. “Not many things. But I suppose we can’t play that game now.” He pushed the letter he was reading across the table. “Hadrianus is asking for weapons. Marcellus—Father—isn’t in any shape to coax him.”

“We’re not in any shape to pull an offensive,” was all Cecilia said. “He knows that. You know that. We all know that.”

A silence.

“I want,” replied Julian, finally, “to reveal why this war started.”

The words were a surrender, and Cecilia’s eyebrows were raised like white flags.

“The war started,” the other replied, coolly, “because the Empire tried to kill our leader during a diplomatic summit.”

“The war started,” corrected Julian, “because of politics.” The boy shifted on his seat. “Marcellus and Valerius refused a protectorate. Not everyone knows that.”

Cecilia looked horrified.

“If we tell our people that there was a way out of this mess and we didn’t take it, there’ll be riots, Julian,” she responded, stating the obvious. “Riots we can’t afford. You’re basically telling them this is a losing war.”

And? The walls of Julian’s throat tightened. Isn’t it?

“Then?” he snapped. “What do you suggest? We’re losing, Eva. We can’t afford an offense, and the only weapon we have in our arsenal is Seraphina, who’s holding a Godsdamned Oath over our necks.”

“What?”

Cecilia Eva-Valeria Romus was smart. He couldn’t deny that, Julian thought as he saw the cogs spin to a halt in her head.

“That’s why,” she said, breathlessly. “She was dropping hints the entire time throughout our earlier conversation, that bastard. That’s why she emphasized—fuck.” The other Consul slammed a fist into the desk.

“She’s leading us around by the nose,” Julian admitted, tactfully. “We can’t pursue this without losing at least something we can’t afford to lose.”

Green eyes met his own.

“We’re not abandoning this route,” she said, firmly. “But we’ll set this aside…for now.”

You haven’t won, was what she was saying.

“Fine,” Julian acquiesced all the same, sighing. He shifted the papers in front of him and brought out another. “This,” he explained, “is the death toll and damages from the attack on the Curia. The unedited version, not the one we used to coax the Senate to back down.” He leaned back. “All of the bodies have been claimed and buried. I was thinking of paying for a mass funeral service out of Romanus’ pocket, but if the patricians asking for weapons, we won’t be able to.”

Cecilia was drumming her fingers on the table. “It might appease the victims, but it’ll just seem like a publicity stunt,” she pointed out, coolness settling on her features. “And our funds need to be carefully managed. The granaries and imports from Azareth have already been cut off because of the blockade. The taxes on Azareth and Bellum can’t support us anymore, and if we raise the taxes in Honos now…”

“I know,” Julian said. “But I was planning to ask for tributes from the patricians—and no, not the ones asking for weapons. The minor ones that died in the explosion have to have left some wealth behind that. And while they’re quibbling over successions, we just need to pass a regulation confiscating most of their treasuries.”

“That’ll backfire,” Cecilia warned. “Although, I’ll admit, not as much as your protectorate idea would.” She sighed, the sound echoing. “But you know we can’t be on the defensive most of the time. We have to fight back soon—we need to move before they do.”

“As long as you’ll put the confiscating treasury regulation on the Senate agenda,” said Julian. “We can leave the morale management and potential offensive second.”

Cecilia scowled.

“And I’m assuming I’m leading the meeting on that,” she remarked with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll take it. I suppose I’ll have to put that down as ‘on Senate funds and management,’ then. I’ll be sure to bring a treasury representative—I’m sure someone will cut in with an issue on weapons, so I’ll have to nab another witness on that. With the trial last, as per your benevolent wish.”

“Alright.”

A pause, as Cecilia looked up tersely.

“Do you have something else to say, Consul?” she said with a sigh, grabbing a piece of parchment and a quill before looking back down titling the former ‘Draft for Senate Agenda.’ Julian watched her put down ‘On Senate Funds and Management, Potential Confiscating of Taxes, Addressing the Issue of Weapons Distribution and Offensive’ as he considered it.

“How are they maintaining that Azareth blockade?”

A silence, and Cecilia broke it after she finished signing off on the draft.

“Is that a rhetorical question or a real one?” the woman asked with a sigh. “They’re using Zephyrean merchant ships and Princeblood troops. Based on you interrogating the poisoned legionaries, the Imperials strong-armed their way into the city through the docks, and toppled the reinforcements that were supposed to arrive.”

The theory was already turning its wheels.

“She—Seraphina—told me to think about how the war started,” said Julian. “But ignoring that, think about Imperials—more specifically, their Merchants. They wouldn’t be happy because of the ban on Republica imports. How would the Empress ask for their aid?”

The other Consul’s quill stopped writing.

“Money?” she offered, looking up, but it was half-hearted.

Julian shook his head. “They’re Imperials. The Queenscages wouldn’t empty out the palace’s treasury for the Merchants. War costs money—soldiers cost money. Tossing scraps at the Merchants wouldn’t lead them to volunteer their ships either. No, think about the Imperial way. Manipulation. Blackmail. How does it work?”

Julian drew out the words, one lingering in the air.

Fear.

Cecilia met his eyes. “You’re suggesting that Azareth won’t last because the Merchants won’t be scared of threats for long?” Her tone wasn’t incredulous, just flat. “Even if they want to,” she pointed out, “withdrawing entire supplies of food and ships won’t be an easy feat—if you’re using this to justify a possible offensive on Azareth, Julian, it’s suicide. I can’t condone that.”

The former praetor shook his head again.

“Do you really think I, of all people, would encourage an assault at this point?” he said, tiredly but with venom that surprised himself.

The boy sighed. “I’m saying that,” he continued, softer, “that if we do the calculations, there might be a possibility that the Empire’s biting off more than they can chew, at least monetarily. With our estimates of their treasury, there’s a possibility that the Imperials can’t sustain their current advantage and effectively attack us—at least, at the same time.” We have to take into account Greta’s turbulent reign, Imperial morale, and their political system, right?

It was an uncertain reach, but all Julian had to do was grab a treasurer, confirm some things, and question Seraphina again. It was a risk, but playing the waiting game until the Empire broke themselves apart was on the table.

The Senate isn’t going to be happy with it, he thought idly.

But when was the Senate ever happy?

Green eyes searched his own, hard and cold, and Julian saw the loss of a father in that gaze. The girl who was behind scorching miles and miles of Imperial land, the girl who was behind the Eastern Fires—even before then, Julian thought ruefully, she’d always been the one who’d had to make the hard decisions. The older one, the stubborn one. All he’d had to do was play the hero, the hound, the loyal servant—she had to be all three at once. It wasn’t easy to be off the battlefields.

Desertion would never be an option for both of them.

Cecilia broke eye contact first, sighing.

“I swear to all the Gods, Jupiter and Saturn,” she muttered under her breath, “this better not be just because you want to save that girl.”

But it was halfhearted, because they both knew what the other did—they’d seen the similar inscription in the bases of ancient vases and medals: the homeland above all.

Our people of Roma, always first.

Anaxeres of Tyche, I thought, had the type of face that could blend in anywhere.

His smile could have belonged to someone in one of the Tyche’s gambling Dens or luxurious casinos; or someone strolling through the Palace or sitting on the noble seats in the throne room during meetings. I’d seen him stand to attention with bloodied corpses at his feet in a torn Healer tent, at the top of a siege tower with a spyglass in his hand, even in the middle of a battle-scorched plain; but he’d never once looked out of place.

The legionary uniform was a new look, and I told him so.

“Thank you, dear spider,” he said, smiling. “But. The point. Are you ready for extraction? We only have so many openings. They really are tightening it up.”

He was dusting off his uniform, I noticed, before he sat down across from him.

“I’m ready,” I said, “but I haven’t gathered anything useful yet except the fact that they’re desperate. And the obvious, of course. They’ve scheduled a trial for me in a day or two, and have hard evidence for execution, but they’re not letting me handle anything because I haven’t let anything slip. But they need me. If you pull me out, I don’t think you can get anyone else close to the source in that short of time.”

Naxy examined me closely.

We were wedged in the corner (windowless) bathroom that I had permission to commandeer for five minutes a day, but I’d stalled for more by pretending to be on the rag and making sure that the room itself was soundproof. I’d already heard them arguing whether to stick someone in here: it was only a matter of time, and Anaxeres had waited the entire day here, apparently.

“You can’t do it,” he said after a while. “I can see it in your face. You’ve spent the entire night grasping at straws. You’ve played all your cards, spider. Things are happening in the Empire, and you won’t be there for it. You’re Greta’s linchpin, and currently you’re at a disadvantage, and even you can’t keep negotiating like this—it’s not fighting a losing battle, it’s fighting a battle we don’t have time for. You’re unstable.”

A short beat.

“I won’t spend time arguing the point,” I conceded, “maybe I am. But we’re wasting a vital opportunity—”

A knock came at the door. “Imperial? Are you finished yet?”

I raised my voice, pretending to be somewhat uneasy. “Could you send a maid in with linens and a pail of water? They’ll understand—” I switched to a lower tone “—it’s not my pride that’s in the way here, Naxy. It’s the fact that this might be it. This might be the turning point, and we might lose it.”

Even I could hear my own desperation.

Why did I want to win this one so badly?

I switched my Ability on at full volume. If I was—stable—and I wasn’t me, even my Ability would see a girl who was making a foolish, foolish decision.

My teeth dug into my lip as I looked back at the Duke, whose dark eyes were expectant. Waiting.

Gambling.

“If I don’t come now, you’re going to make an executive decision and force me with something, aren’t you?” I guessed, coldness seeping into my tone.

Anaxeres shrugged.

“The wheel of fortune turns, it always does. You’ll get new opportunities. As of now, we’re not taking personal opinions or sides.”

He was much too straightforward to be like Arathis, I thought. No, I corrected myself. He’s changing his stance completely. Half-truths, all false. He’s exactly like Arathis.

“Look at this objectively, spider,” the gambler continued. “You’ve done this before—now is no different. If Greta wanted you here, you would be here. She trusts you—she even asked me to carefully consider your opinion. If you being here could win us the war, the exact opposite could happen. You can’t just pull the trigger and gamble on someone that didn’t ask you to.”

He was going to get me out, one way or another, I guessed. But I knew that if I’d convinced him in the beginning, he would be on my side. But my argument was too weak. He was, objectively speaking, right.

I was unstable. Like Thought told me, I could mess around in the Republica archives, bullshit for—what, how long? The Republic wasn’t stupid.

Where’s your sense of self-preservation when you actually need it? my brain whispered sarcastically. You need to stay alive.

I couldn’t be reckless.

Iron filled my mouth, acrid, as my fingers dug into my palms. My hand still hurt from the Zephyr stint, and again it was shaking.

“You’re right,” I said aloud in a whisper. “I don’t like it, but you’re right.”

I didn’t have time, and I always hated those people in stories putting their pride above all else.

I don’t want to die here.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, and fuck, I wanted a hairbrush and a shower.

If there’s a way out, even a deal with the devil, why not take it?

There was all there was to it. I wanted to survive. If Greta didn’t want me here, I would go. I wanted to win this war.

Anaxeres studied me for a while, with disturbing emotion and almost empathy, before letting out a low laugh.

“Choices, choices, choices. Here, you make the wrong one and you die,” he remarked aloud, before winking. “But no pressure, Sera. Even if you didn’t make the right one, you still have me. And I have a plan.”

And with that the Duke smashed his hand in the bathroom mirror, spilling glass fragments and blood over his knuckles as his grin widened and the legionaries came marching in.

I, of course, threw the first punch.

“You were really cutting it close there,” the man said, leaning back as I finished off the last legionary. “And you’re only incapacitating them. Really?”

I shrugged. “I killed one of them, and knocked out two,” I pointed out. “And you can’t talk, you barely did anything.”

Anaxeres shrugged back at me. “You’re much better with knives than you are with fists,” was all he responded with as he opened the bathroom door and stuck his head out the window. “All the Romanus Estate employees, little as they are, should be having breakfast. The guards are on rotation, but only three were assigned to you. I’m not sure whether they’re underestimating or overestimating you—why haven’t you exploited this interval yet, again? I expected more of you.”

“What about the rotation?” I replied, ignoring the other comment as I leaned back. “And it’s four. One of them went to call the maid, and they’ll be back soon, so we have to—” I cut myself off once I realized.

Did he really come up with this plan while we were talking?

I wasn’t surprised, though.

The maid came and I clocked her in the face, putting on her dress over my robes while wrapping a shawl around my face; Anaxeres kept his legionary uniform while I took the pail in one hand and linens in the other. He confidently went out first and I trailed after him, walking with subservient confidence through the lit Republica hallway.

It was, true to his word, strangely empty—true to my paranoia, I swept my Ability through the elongating passage, all harsh but sleek brick and mosaic. Nobody—yet.

I didn’t speak as I passed floor-to-ceiling glass windows, the view exposing a side plaza to the left full of flowering shrubs: it was almost as luxurious as the Palace—home—except far more severe and more white concrete than gold ornament. The silence was excruciating, goosebumps rippling against my skin as I felt uncharacteristically out of place in these carved-hollow halls, but I kept it off my face well enough.

How did people live here?

The war had emptied the staff, probably, I thought idly while juggling a conversation with Anaxeres. At the palace, you’d see people at every corner at any given time, whether to eavesdrop or gossip. It’d breathed a strange sort of life, one that Julian’s home—and now Estate, likely, given the state of his father—lacked.

Naxy filled the excruciating, gnawing silence with casual conversation. “We’re going out through the gardens,” he said, loud enough to seem natural but quiet enough for people to strain themselves trying to eavesdrop. “No one should be there except Claudia and her staff—most of which, admittedly, were infiltrated. She’s on heavy guard, but two cousins escaping to see their family shouldn’t raise too much of a ruckus. At least, a ruckus that involves Consuls and patricians, all of whom are supposed to be on the other side of the building in a Senate meeting.”

It was surprisingly well thought-out.

“Maternal or paternal cousins?” was all I said, running through the scenario while I calculated the turns. (The manor seemed to be based on ancient Roma ceremonial structures with a sleek, almost Rhianite twist. The bathroom was located on the ground floor, a corner away from my prison; the latter led to an outside terrace that Naxy was leading us towards. And said terrace was on the edge of the very garden I’d stumbled through, which meant I would exit through my entrance: very poetic.)

“Maternal,” Naxy decided. “I’ll be Tiberius, and you can be Cara. You’re a new hire after I pulled some strings for my younger cousin who got fired due to the war, and Tibby’s already a persona that has some ground since one of my agents already used it once or twice. The problem is that they’re over thirty.”

“Tibby? Really?”

We walked efficiently along the hall before turning and reaching a nook in damask curtains, where I paused and raised a hand to stop. My heart was still pounding as Anaxeres raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Ability,” I offered as an explanation, closing my eyes. The plan had likely solidified enough for me to use Thought, and so I repeated it aloud, and vivid images seared.

Pale, cool hands.

“Your eyes look like blue rhododendrons—don’t they, Father?”

“Consider my argument and get your hands off the poor maid, Claudia.”

I drew in a breath as my eyelids flung open.

The Duke was staring at me curiously, analytically. Again, like Ara.

“Patrician Hadrianus and Claudia are going to be in the gardens,” I said. “At least, it’s very likely.” I turned to him. “The proper etiquette for greeting a patrician is just a regular bow, right? Not a military salute?”

Naxy nodded before moving from the curtains. “Let’s walk while talking. We don’t have much time.”

Blue rhododendrons.

It seemed like an awfully romantic thing to say, I thought.

But what was Julian’s mother doing there?

I cursed internally as we moved forward.

The captain of the Winterdeath cleared their throat.

“Ajax Panthon. With your contributions towards Boreas and the Empire during the Platin Platoon’s terrorizing of Rhianite-Imperial trade, and now towards this current moment, we, the Winterdeath, recognize you as a Major of the Imperial Army. We recognize you for your courage in the face of adversity, and commend you for your service to this nation. Rise, and remember…”

“We, the winter sun, do not forget,” the soldier completed.

He would be mandatorily moved to the capital for his promotion, damn it.

Damokles—a man he’d gotten surprisingly close to the last two Daycycles—draped all the ceremonial regalia over him.

Ajax knew that his promotion was because of the turmoil with the Williamses, too—the fact that he’d been chosen to shadow Anthinon’s political rivals hadn’t gone over well with him, but orders were supposed to be followed, after all.

Surprisingly, his mind wandered to whether the bright-eyed girl’s offer was still open.

Wasn’t it?

The offer’s always open. At least, until you go and do something stupid like rebel against the Imperial Throne or anything of the sort..

Orders were to be followed, Ajax knew.

If orders were followed in a specific way, you would get promoted.

If you got promoted enough times before you died, you would get money and power, two forces that ran the Empire.

The soldier wondered where the line would end.