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In war, the only crime is to lose.

- A Treatise On War, Author Unknown

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  THEY CAME IN HORDES.

  When I thought about hordes, I thought about flocks of crows chasing prey, hyenas flooding to carrion, bees swarming towards bears that poked their noses in the wrong hive. Groups and groups of not rabid, but organized groups of animals; which made it all the more dangerous.

  A golden insignia of twin wolves snarled on a gleaming pole, the standard of the Respublica Roma glittering under the saffron sun. It was carried by the lupifiers, the Republica standard bearers, wolf furs glittering around their figures as they marched with their Army units — cohorts, they called them, equivalent of Imperial battalions — and the first thought that came into my head wasn’t the amount of them; no—

  They had already been stationed.

  That’s why they had only taken two days.

  But we knew.

  “Marcellus, that fox.” Petra laughed, throwing their head back and smiling. “That absolute old fox.”

  Anaxeres chuckled. “If that man weren’t married and with a child, I sure as Tartarus would’ve thrown myself at him a long while ago,” the Duke agreed. “But we’re long past that stage. Pity.”

  I folded my telescope, but smiled, silently.

  The plan was in motion.

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Two Days Before the Battle of Ends, Inside War-Room

  “It isn’t too much to expect, for them to have countermeasures in place in the case of a war,” said Petra, grinning. “Just as we have prepared for them to reject the protectorate — we haven’t given them another option, really — they should’ve expected a conclusion of this sort. They know the Empress has been eyeing their land, but really the more difficult option is getting those countermeasures passed by their Senate.”

  Anaxeres tacked a sheet of paper to the wall.

  “These are the Branches that we’ve bought out,” the Duke said. “Now that our deal with Marcellus has gone bye-bye, it depends on whether they’ll stick it out, or ante up.” He shrugged. “The diplomats have gone with the praetor, but it’s not as if we’re out of connections — the logical thing to do, if we really want to take advantage of their political structure, is to contact Cassia’s heir, and make Senate headway from there.”

  Petra offhandedly gave a wave.

  “That’s political stuff, Naxy,” they rebuked. “We’re killing people — it’s a war, not a politicky stunt.”

  “The silent war speaks, the bloody war shrieks,” quoted Anaxeres in return.

  They continued speaking, while I turned to the sheet.

  Portraits of wrinkled men were stuck across the board, neatly-scrawled handwriting beneath each of their faces. Three of the bought patricians — Aquila, Cornelius, Lucretius — stared back at me in one category, another square containing a young man with the broad features of Alberta Octavia.

  “Apologies for the interruption,” I cut in, just as they were debating over battalion formations, “but where are the papers on the patricians? The individual profiles, of course.”

  Anaxeres tilted his head knowingly, before gesturing me to the pile in question.

  Marianus Cassia.

  “Gods, so many orgies,” I muttered under my breath. “Ah, illegal shipping. Weapons dealing. Ooo, kidnapping of a statesman. Hardly original, but— ah, he tortured that statesman to get Alberta to name him heir. Nice.”

  He owed us a debt, whether he knew it or not. Whether that debt could be elevated into something more, that sounded like an interesting pet project. Can you afford time for a pet project? my Ability asked. “Hey, Anaxeres?” I waved the paper. “Can I take him?”

  The Duke of Tyche shrugged. “Sure. Preferably get him under our wing by the end of this Daycycle, though — wait, are we actually using that formation?” He turned to where Petra was pointing. “Just because Her Imperial Majesty gave us gunpowder bombs doesn’t mean we have to use all of them at the start—”

  Petra smiled. “Not an Angelo’s Pass,” said the Diamandis bastard. “They have far too much precision to fray at the seams — no, I’m thinking big, Naxy. I’m thinking of a severance.” They turned to me. “What’s your magic power — you there.”

  “I can Read people,” I replied, simply. “And Weave conclusions about the best— no, Wisest,” I corrected myself, “avenue of action. That’s it. Not very gunpowder-y.”

  Their eyes gleamed. “Hey,” they spoke, “can you plant bombs, though?”

  And that was how I, the Sixth Imperial Princess of the Eternal Empire, ended up being used as a bomb-planter for the Imperial Army.

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Two Days Before the Battle of Ends, Field Outside Notus

  I blanketed the expanse with my Ability.

  Xandros was chattering away eagerly, either not noticing or ignoring my plight. “Did you see those generals? I heard one of them cut off a person’s ear, and then ate it. Ate it! With roast pork, Boss! Even from the capital city, we heard that Notians were wild, but, for once, my expectations were exceeded—”

  “Shut up, Alexandros,” Mercy said, tiredly. "Your tongue is a genuine blight on humanity."

  I snorted. “Blight on humanity. That’s a good one. Where’d you get that?”

  Soldiers marching.

  Roman military formations.

  Time, beat, rhythm.

  Not waiting for an answer, I pointed to the spot my Ability designated, nodding at Alexandros. “Dig there. And be very, very careful — if it blows up in your face, I can’t build you a new one.” My poached subordinate obeyed, and I turned to Mercy. “Did you copy the battalion formations?”

  The assassin inclined her head, passing the crinkled paper she stuffed under her shirt to me. I scanned it.

  Based on previous copies of Republica stratagems, the nation applied tactical force, direct strategy, and troop loyalty. There was grand strategy, operational strategy, and tactical strategy — these battalion formations were, technically, opsec. This paper was...strange.

  “These…” I traced the roughly scribbled blocks. “They’ll put their own in the line of fire. They even calculated the bomb radius.” Mercy’s copies were slightly off, but the plans were obviously the ‘big plan’ that Petra was talking about. Petra’s forces are trying to surround them with the bait of— ballistae. “Did you see blueprints, my mercy?” I asked, not tearing my eyes off the papers.

  “Drawings of machines, yes,” said Mercy. “But I did not copy them.”

  “Bait — they’re using the damned things as bait.” Gunpowder, ballistae, bombs — advances in Imperial military technology were hidden away in the stockpile in favor of the use of Chosen; and now they were being resurfaced. Heroes weren’t Chosen, even in the strangeness of Republica bloodlines.

  A smile curled on my face.

  If Cyrus were here, they could’ve detonated the bombs from afar. But because he wasn’t, they had to use a card — and that was operating on the assumption that Greta knew (Greta knew everything, so there was that).

  Heavy chains of an Oath weighed on my shoulders, but I had to trust — such another heavy word — that she knew what the Tartarus she was doing.

  I looked up, and pointed again, at another patch in the ground. “There, Xandros. Do be careful.”

  We finally finished in a few hours, and I looked up at the sky — it was a strangely bright turquoise, sparkling like a gem that housed an ever-bright sun, but I wrinkled my nose. It irritated me — there was that itch, again; that itch to just step on the bomb and let death take me.

  I didn’t scratch it.

  “My robes are itchy,” I said. “Let’s change. We need to go somewhere.”

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Two Days Before the Battle of Ends, Notian Slums

  I let myself stand for a while before sitting. The ground underneath my rear was rough gravel — the material belonging to barely-paved roads — and it was both uneven and uncomfortable; but still I leaned back on the wall of a simple, rickety shed and watched. It was only a few minutes before I was ushered out.

  “Hey! Hey!” a scrawny wisp of a thing came outside and waved her arms. “Hey, get—” she saw my face, and then stopped. “Ah, you’re a person,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I replied, smiling.

  She squinted her eyes. “Thought you were a crow or a scavvie looking around,” she admitted. “But you look shiny. Are you a noble?”

  Technically, I wasn’t. But still. “Maybe,” I answered. “I’m just looking around. I’m a tourist.” I paused, before I offered, “My name’s Sera, by the way. I’m not going to steal anything.” With that promise, I returned my gaze back to the street. “Just a breath — I just need to take one breath.”

  I took it.

  “Ma says that she needs a break,” said the girl. “She says that ever since the new Empress was crowned, the Empire went to shit. Not the bad kind or the good kind, but just shit.” The wisp wriggled her fingers. “Other people said that the shit is all the stuff you’ve eaten, just chewed up. Ma said it’s necessary, but no one wants to hear about it — just like politics.”

  I snorted, amusedly. “Politics is shit,” I told her, honestly. “A very messy, crapper of shit.” I stretched. “Your mother sounds like a very smart woman.”

  “She’s inside,” the girl told me. “Do you want to see her?” She looked as innocent as always, but my Ability sparked in warning.

  “Nah, it’s fine, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” I lied. I saw the dilapidated structures of the houses, scattered with layers of that extra-special Notian dust, as I leaned back. “What do you think about the new Empress? Of this Empire in general, really? Just curious.”

  The girl shook her head. “Ma says I shouldn’t answer questions about politics,” she answered, seemingly honest. She was probably trying to lure me into a trap, I guessed — but ah, well.

  Her flesh clung to her bones in the way that hunger did, but I had never known it. Her hands had calluses and were bruised at the knuckles, in the way that hardship gnawed at them, but mine only had calluses from knife training and were smooth besides. Some sort of strange feeling wormed its way into my chest, eating away at my insides. “Do you want money?” I asked, casually. “Power? Survival? What is it that you really want?”

  She peered at me. “Why? Do you think you can give it to me?”

  I can.

  The answer was balancing on the tip of my tongue precariously, but it tipped in the favor of a more diplomatic: “Maybe.”

  I flexed my fingers, staring at them. “I don’t think I can,” I replied, honestly, upon further consideration. “You know that shitty fable? The one with the guy and the starfish? One guy says it’s pointless, and the other says some sentimental shit like, ‘Well, it made a difference for that one starfish’?”

  “You sound emotional,” the girl cut in. “Ma says that people like you — shiny people — are only emotional when they’re desperate.”

  Desperation.

  I barked a laugh. “Let me finish, first, at least,” I said, smiling at the girl and the slums around her. “The guy’s right. It did make a difference for that one starfish, but I don’t think I’m the type of person who’s satisfied with just one starfish. If I’m going to dedicate my time to saving people, I need to save all of them. I don’t want to just limp my way through life — it’s all in.”

  Now, away from the masks, it was safe to admit it—

  I felt useless.

  A bomb-planter?

  Damnit.

  It’s irrational, my Ability whispered.

  The girl pursed her lips, as if tempted to say, that sounds like a you problem. She settled for a: “That doesn’t make sense.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Why?” I met her dark eyes.

  “Just save all the fecking starfish you can,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how many you save.”

  I didn’t ponder that, instead abruptly asking, “If you could change the world, what would you change the world into?”

  Ideals.

  I laughed, internally. How much had Orion’s death wrecked me, to get me to this point? No— how much pressure had I put on myself, to crack? Here I was, asking a kid living in the slums for advice on how to live. The only thing money and power could guarantee me after death was a shiny coffin, a bunch of ass-kissing mourners, and an expensive funeral, I knew that.

  But you still want it, spoke my Ability.

  Or is it what the world tells me to want? I returned.

  “Damnit,” I whispered.

  The girl studied me with an emotion resembling pity, before she replied. “I would make the world a little bit better — for me, first, of course; and then the people around me; and then the people of the world. I’m not obligated to, I’m doing it because I want to.” She tilted her head. “What do you want?”

  Everything.

  The answer remained unspoken again.

  “I don’t know anymore,” I admitted. It wasn’t that, it was that I wasn’t certain like I was before. “But I started this, so I’m going to finish it. Half-assing wars isn’t an option.”

  The girl raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.

  I stood up.

  I had never crawled in the dirt because the world had failed me.

  Why did others still do the same?

  That strange feeling came again.

  The winner takes all.

  But how would the world take the winner?

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Two Days Before the Battle of Ends, War-Room

  “You’re using the ballistae to pretend to surround the marching cohort,” I said, slowly. “But you’re going to push them towards the bombs.”

  Petra nodded. “We’ve calculated the explosion range so we’ll take the least casualties possible,” they explained. “It’s a calculated risk. My soldiers will know what they’re in for — only twenty or so, will be lost.”

  That wasn’t the part that bothered me.

  “The ballistae plans are authorized, so no worries, Your Highness.” Anaxeres smiled, wryly.

  There it was.

  “I call you by your name, Duke,” I responded, flickering my gaze to the ballistae plans in question. “It would be a pity if you did not extend the same courtesy.” The gambler was young, surprisingly so; I’d guessed his early twenties or so — he grinned, broadly.

  “Anastasia Andino — have you heard of her, then, Seraphina?” Anaxeres asked, tilting his head.

  “The late Dame Anastasia, famous during her time for her military technology breakthroughs, yes.” I leaned back in my chair. “My main concern is not the casualties. If it secures the first victory — especially at the beginning of a war, I understand this dictates the tide itself — it is a tactical decision, that I am aware of.

  “But—” I turned to the Duke and Ducal Lord “—if we start using our non-Chosen reserves now, even as bait….”

  We may not be able to compete with the Republicas’ advances.

  Anaxeres inclined his head. “I understand your conflict,” he said, smoothly. “It would, in fact, make sense to use our Chosen advantage—”

  Petra waved a hand. “Stop speaking your lyrical wax.”

  “Stop waxing lyrical,” I corrected. “And that’s incorrectly used—”

  “Shut up,” the Notian general told me.

  I raised my eyebrows in response. “Shutting up.”

  “Naxy doesn’t like it,” Petra said. “And I don’t, either. Having a more offensive Chosen deployed here without the excuse of a shitting spy war would be nice — especially since we’re expecting a battle. I would rather not waste our pyrotechnical knowledge — shut up, Naxy, I know big words — this early on.” They shot a glare at the Duke’s snicker.

  “But Greta has her plans,” I understood. “I realize that the earliest ballistae plans were drawn by Dantaleus Icarus — wait, fuck, no shiny words, you said.” I sighed, massaging my forehead. That headache was coming back.

  “Andino refined the plans, right? The bombs will likely work, but we can’t just leave the ballistae plans for the taking even after all of them are dead,” I said, slowly. “Isn’t our first priority to clear out the camp itself? No, more correctly, we’re going on the defensive— I get it, but I don’t.”

  Anaxeres grinned. “We need Notus to be attacked, for our spy covers to work,” he explained. “People get scared, people run. For the people that flee, there’ll be just as many people who will stay, inspired by the supposed victory. Better a victory seen by the populace, than a victory from afar, apparently.”

  The Duke shrugged. “Morale’s a strange thing.”

  I drummed my fingers on the armrest beside me as Naxy passed the plans to me.

  “This is the battalion position,” he informed me. “Partially so you don’t go to the war council tomorrow blind. I’d suggest you visit Petra’s people and get to know them before shit hits the metaphorical wall the day after tomorrow, Seraphina.”

  “Of course.” I looked at the night outside. “It would be my pleasure— tomorrow, of course.” I fluttered the papers in the air, right in Mercy’s eye-view while lacing my Ability through the ink.

  Imprinting the plans into my memory as well as my assassin’s, I smiled. “Could I take them for further study? As well as the battalion plans….”

  “No.”

  I continued, still smiling. “Pity.”

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Two Days Before the Battle of Ends, Night in Seraphina's Private Bedroom in Notus

  I sank my quill into the ink.

  Anastasia Andino, I jotted down. Developed the ballistae. And, according to further probes, I wrote, refined the process for gunpowder. Although the Republic and their people had first made the first bayonet — taking inspiration from the Galbraith continent’s designs, apparently — the gunpowder that the Empire used today was due to her (before her fall from grace and expiration of the Dame writ, of course).

  Battalion formation, I wrote a heading silently.

  Scratching at the parchment, I filled in the dark blocks that I saw from before. The calculated blast radius, the estimated detonation time, which contact could set it off — everything that I’d peppered Naxy questions about, I wrote it down.

  Then I handed the quill into Mercy.

  “Connect the dots,” I told her.

  I didn’t use my Ability to find out what was Wise. This was probably a kind of step — into surface or thin air, I didn’t know — in some kind of odyssey, if anyone cared to hear my mess of a tale. This...

  Being Wise isn’t the solution for everything.

  Ah. This conclusion...was strange. It weighed heavy on my mind, but I ignored it as I watched her do what I told her to.

  Silently, she did what I wouldn’t have done — she traced dark, shaky lines surrounding the collection of the blast radius where she messily scrawled: sacrifice. It was so obvious, that I hadn’t; but Mercy wasn’t finished.

  She wrote some more statements, following dashes, under which she wrote: gains.

  Losses and gains. Such a practical way of thinking about things.

  Being Wise isn’t the solution for everything.

  This was a first step to something.

  A want, a desire; a conflict.

  You are arrogant, Athena had said. A Chosen of conflict and desire, she had called me. But, deep down, I knew. That it wasn’t practical to have conflicting desires moving forward— and I would move forward. Towards what? How would I use my power, how would I change the world?

  I couldn’t have everything — I would always want more, and I would still look in that infernal mirror and not be satisfied with my reflection. That was...the kind of person I was.

  Did I need to change?

  Or did the world?

  The first question eluded me like a scampering rabbit, which I decided to abandon for today.

  I wanted change.

  That was the first step.

  I took a breath.

  I just need— one breath. One more breath.

  “Damnit,” I said aloud, almost in awe of how that word accompanied me everywhere.

  Mercy tilted her head in curiosity but remained silent.

  “Damnit,” I swore again, laughter bubbling inside my throat.

  I shook my head at the moonlight streaming through the windows. It came in cascades, waves of pale that fluttered in shadows that illuminated the floor— if there was a plummeting height outside, perhaps I would’ve spiralled right then and there.

  I wriggled my fingers, and my mind created the crimson that stained them — a deep scarlet that came from skin that I crushed and cut.

  I smiled. “Damnit,” I said to myself, thrice and for the final time.

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The Battle of Ends, Notian Outskirts

  The charging calls were louder than expected.

  Well, I didn’t know exactly what to expect — I had never engaged in war before.

  Petra’s forces — whom I had spent the day before getting to know — had constructed a war-tower outside the field where the Duke; the Ducal Lord; I, the Imperial Princess; and Mercy, my assassin were waiting. The gathering people, with the addition of Petra’s military entourage from their Council, sounded like the beginning of a badly-written joke.

  Unfortunately, we were neither here to amiably drink wine or engage in conversation that undoubtedly spawned from witty wordplay.

  We were here to engage in a war.

  And war was what the sound delivered to me.

  The Republica cohort’s war bugle was strange.

  It was a sound that didn’t roar, but lightly tore, tore through the seams of people’s ears and skin, and struck the soldiers’ hearts as what it was - a frightening omen. It was the call of home, for some; the call of glory, for others; but a call of death and destruction for all.

  The cohort had marched in unity before being stopped by the ballistae, as planned. Dressed in all their regalia and battered uniforms, their wolf standard snarled in favor of blood. They didn’t charge, instead almost expecting the ballistae.

  That...was not a good sign.

  Almost as if they knew we were going to shepherd them into a trap, they gathered around the ballistae instead, forming remarkably tight shield-walls in a ring around the hills where the war weapons were perched.

  A general rode out on a horse — he bore the ashen skin of the Republic, a shade that was slightly more monotone than the standard Imperial bronze — and raised a spear in an indistinguishable command.

  Petra was quick to react, barking a quick: “Formation Three, you idiots!” to their soldiers down below. Before I could even speak a word, they jumped from the hovering tower at a precarious height, landing on a nearby hill while mounting their horse at an admirable speed.

  Anaxeres merely chuckled, looking through the spyglass smilingly. “They expected a trap,” he said as Petra’s generals followed them, mounting their respective horses. “That’s interesting. We might have to change up our strategies in the future.”

  “So my bombs will be for nothing unless we manage to herd them,” I spoke up, letting regret taint my tone. “Well, that’s just sad.”

  The Duke grinned broadly in response. “Have no fear, Seraphina,” he told me. “The Empire has a very, very large bag of tricks.”

  I smiled, distantly. “It is not fear I hold, dear Duke.”

  I looked out at the expanse — every life taken out there was full of so much potential. Wasted potential — wasted physicians, soldiers, guards, generals; wasted people with the potential I had spied in Ajax, Alexandros, Mercy, Macedon; wasted chances that I could wrangle to my benefit.

  A voice in the back of my head piped up: Well, what about the lives? They’re human, and—

  Since when did being human shield against suffering? If anything, being human promised hardship, and they chose to use their lives. Their lives were a tool — my life was, the Empire’s life was — a cog in a massive machine. I would respect their choices, because one needed to respect the dead.

  If they chose to run away? I wouldn’t hold it against them, but order was needed.

  I saw crimson spill against dusty plain, amber light illuminate desperate soldiers and spears and knives that hit true. The garbs that designated one side from the other all were stained in scarlet, just like my hands. They would all be red before dawn, that universal color that painted the world its grotesque hue.

  Since when did I start thinking like this?

  There was once a time, once upon a faraway star, where I wanted to become a hero. A hero would’ve immediately rushed to the aid of their nation, sacrificed their lives for others— what was the phrase that Orion used? Yes, they would’ve bore arms and fallen in graves for a worthy cause.

  Since when was blood a worthy cause, to me?

  When I had woken up and decided, ‘Hey, domination over others, sounds like a damn worthy goal’?

  I would not disgrace the dead by thinking further, I decided.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I filled the silence. “I have a basic knowledge of herbs— perhaps I can help the Physicians?”

  Anaxeres looked at me with a strange emotion that resembled pity more than I would’ve liked it to.

  “Petra and Elexis are the most experienced, in terms of battle,” he said, touching upon a seemingly unrelated topic. “I’d like to accompany you, but—” he waved at the ensuing battle. “Take care not to get maimed to the medical tent,” the Duke added, pleasantly. “It’s that way, by the way. Make sure to take your knife with you.”

  He nodded towards Mercy, who showed no offense at being called a knife, following as I climbed down the tower.

  I strolled the grounds, watching bloodied corpses being carried to the tent in question. Now that I looked at the battle, Petra was pushing the Republic’s forces inside, towards the bombs, but the other general was fighting rather valiantly, his mouth puckering in various commands as he galloped his way across the scarlet battlefield.

  I felt…

  Like a spectator, watching a Play.

  Some raw disgust sparked in me, from past memories and masks, at myself. I ducked inside the medical tent, and tried to ignore my Ability screaming that I was running away.

  You are FAILING—

  Not for the first time, I told it to shut the fuck up.

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  It reeked of iron. It was a bitter metal, Mercy decided, one that ran in desperate veins and brutalized hearts. Rickety mattresses — mattresses were a generous term, they were naught but ragged straw (her vocabulary had taken a boost for the better ever since she’d entered the Princess’ service, she’d noticed) — were scattered on dusty ground. Herbs were strewn in haphazard collections and bags, and Mercy noticed her Lady frown in disapproval.

  Her Lady.

  The assassin hadn’t known when the title had first entered her mind, but it was there.

  Seraphina first trailed over to the nearest figure, and spoke faintly — Mercy strained her ears to hear her brandish her Seal, and speak briskly of her qualifications. The brutish-looking Physician in question narrowed his eyes but eventually released her, looking too exhausted to deal with the situation.

  The Sixth Princess neatly folded her cloak, shrugged off her fabric robes to the point where it edged scandalous, but not quite away from the excuse of free movement. The blue-eyed Lady stretched, and got to work.

  Mercy accompanied her slink by stabbing victims like a genuine Physician or perhaps the more common Healer, questioning them while prodding their wounds in places.

  Mashing poultices and creating blends of murky-colored herbs, Xanthe didn’t know how exactly Seraphina had become well-versed in medicine, but the assassin didn’t question it. The Princess deftly poured — wine? — on open wounds, muttering under breath some kind of text recitation (Mercy was sure it wasn’t religious) all the while.

  “I ain’t never seen you here— here before,” gasped one soldier. “Do ya— think ya can—”

  “Shut up,” the Princess, coolly. “Save your breath.”

  As she tended to one soldier after the other, and the Physician’s look of suspicion morphed into something resembling gruff appreciation, Mercy wasn’t sure what to think. There was something...different, about Seraphina these days. It wasn’t that she was going soft, it was as if she was reconnecting with something she’d been out of touch with?

  Human compassion? Xanthe wondered.

  No, Mercy rejected.

  It was something else.

  It was as if the spectral, distant facade was crumbling; and something was solidifying her, chaining her, grounding her.

  Mercy didn’t know what it was — but she had a sneaking suspicion. As the assassin heard the battle rage on, outside; and something indecipherable flickered in Seraphina’s eyes, Seraphina’s Blade of Mercy heard her Lady speak.

  “Damn it,” the Princess whispered, crudely. “Damn all of us. And damn this fucking hellhole of an Empire.”

  Ah.

  There it was.

  For once, the Blade of Mercy decided that Seraphina was the most Imperial Imperial she had ever seen.

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