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If you can only be betrayed by a friend, best to make the world an enemy.
- UNKNOWN SOURCE, SUSPECTED TO BE ANGELO THE AVENGER
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JULIAN ROMANUS WAS TIRED.
He’d been run ragged ever since he’d been given the command of Cecilia’s eastern troops and the order to scramble from Honos to Bellum. He’d done so in a matter of a day, seized command in an hour, and marched through the Draconian Peaks in two days.
And he was going to fall asleep on his horse.
Cecilia tittered in amusement as she watched his eyebrows droop. Julian’s archenemy cocked an arrogant eyebrow. “Tired already?”
The other praetor didn’t have the energy to protest, flipping her the finger in response.
All of the subordinates in the vicinity widened their eyes, most of them stopping their conversations at the obscene gesture. Cecilia merely chuckled again, as Julian ignored her.
Redirecting Ralla nearer towards the fire they’d started—they’d retreated, avoiding direct conflict as ordered after the flames had started—the boy-praetor sighed to himself just as he was out of earshot.
The Snakelands were more murk than land, and Ralla whinnied in complaint as his hooves sloughed through mud, but Julian coaxed him to set the praetor down near a steady tree. Ralla harrumphed, but obeyed, and the stallion’s figure blocked Julian from sight of the camp as the boy removed the purple cape from his shoulders.
War was war.
Orders were orders.
Julian closed his eyes, fiddling with the ring on his left hand—a different one, newer; one he'd commissioned shortly after receiving a gift.
Fighting a Minotaur was much easier than this.
Of course, he could see the practicality behind it.
The Galani and the Imperial Stronghold of Eurus had a turbulent history, and although it had sweetened over the years, it was inherently bitter. Souring relations now, when Greta needed their help to attack Bellum—which Julian’s Army held—would certainly prove to be a setback.
It was effective.
Yet.
Julian was angry—he couldn’t deny it, now.
Yes, he was angry.
Before he’d set out to Bellum, he’d been invited to a party. Many patricians had been in attendance, and much wine had been consumed. He’d only been there to shake hands and show his face, but the sheer resentment Julian had felt had been strange. As if it had been invisibly accumulating, all these years.
They were drinking.
The nation was at war, and in danger of burning, and they were drinking wine.
Julian’s fist clenched, but he didn’t have the energy to slam it in the ground.
It wasn’t honorable—he could see that, now. Perhaps the Empire had gotten to his head, but Julian felt like he had finally opened his eyes.
Honor.
The praetor laughed.
What was honor worth?
As Julian sighed and prepared to rise, he opened his eyes to...rain—?
Storm clouds had gathered in the seconds he’d closed his eyes, grey marbling the sky as caution immediately sparked inside him. Julian climbed up Ralla and rushed back to camp, lightning streaking the sky in a strange shade of white-blue. Thunder follows after as rainwater rolled down the praetor’s cheeks, and he saw those in the camp staring at the sky with mild confusion.
“Be careful!” he yelled, his instincts blaring. “There’s—”
Light flared, and prisms danced in Julian’s eyes. The white-blue of the lightning flooded his vision—
The hairs on his arms stood to attention, electricity crackling at the praetor’s skin as his eyes finally focused.
A familiar face stared back at him, shrouded in light as electric blue eyes narrowed.
“I knew I should’ve never approved you as a brother-in-law,” the Third Prince Cyrus Halgrove said.
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It was very obvious I was very irritated.
If it wasn’t, then it was probably a sign to start screaming and throwing things.
My first thought after they told me it was Eurus was Cyrus. And then it was the fact that Cyrus was likely going to serve as a diplomat. And then I marched to the Zephyrean Duchess.
I’d received three letters—Greta giving her seal of approval for any actions I wanted to take in Zephyr, as long as I gave her heads-up and reasoning; Timmy, telling me that he killed his father; and, surprisingly, one from Julian.
Of course, the second and third weren’t as straightforward as the first.
You are cordially invited to the succession ceremony of the Drakos Marquessate.
Damianos wouldn’t have croaked out of nowhere, likely. I suppose I was lucky—the second I’d thought of a solution to the potential Armistice rebellion, an opportunity had immediately fallen into my lap. When—not if—Lazarus got named heir of the duchy, all he’d need to do was get rid of Matthias and Theadora, and the duchy would be his.
Although Inevita wasn’t technically a part of the Armistice, it did hold military influence—the more problematic root in Drakos had been culled; and the Williams marquessate had already been hesitant to join Drakos, which meant that it likely wouldn’t take further aggressive action (or do anything stupid, like starting a rebellion during a war).
The Armistice would likely be ours very soon, eliminating most possibilities of external interference in the Empire’s weapons production. That was good.
I opened Julian’s package as I approached the manor’s main building, ripping apart the papers to reveal—a half-eaten apple. I peeled it from the sticky packaging and studied it, the consumed crescent golden and moist from the sun.
Or perhaps this letter will turn out to be a fruitless endeavor, I had written.
I snorted, now.
Looking at the glistening fruit, I let it fall to the floor. Unwarranted disappointment bloomed inside of me. Smashing my heel into it, I ground the apple into a pulp with my heel before I started towards the manor’s entrance.
Mercy’s hand stopped me from entering.
Wordlessly, she handed the scraps of half-torn packaging to me, the bundle containing the weight of an object I hadn’t noticed.
I hadn’t—noticed?
With the apple had been delivered a—Crownpiece. Rather, a Crownpiece-themed piece of jewelry. A Queen’s Crown, installed in place of a diamond on some sort of ring—a strange ornament, made of wood and fused gold. On the inside were carved initials, glimmering demurely under the sun—S.Q.
It was tiny, lithe, and delicate—surprisingly tasteful.
An engagement ring, a half of a promise.
Again, disappointment; but a rush of satisfaction—and something else.
Hope.
Nah, that wasn’t it. Probably.
My Paladins were gathered, and as I slipped the ring on the fourth finger of my left hand, I breathed in.
At least one thing was going right today.
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Cyrus now understood why Arathis’ most-often used word was ‘fun.’
There needed to be a phrase, a word to grasp that satisfaction, that pure adrenaline that coursed through his veins.
Even though Cyrus didn’t like to admit it, destroying things was fun. Beating up people who were in the way of his revenge? Even better, whispered the Lightning.
Light flashed, electricity coursing through his veins and rippling through his body—white-blue shrouded his arms, that familiar heat coming at him from all sides as he channelled the streaks through the sky. Undulating flames rose up in waves and at the end of every strike as lightning-blue Fire roared through the Republica’s camp.
It made him feel alive.
One step closer.
The woman—one of the two leaders; Cecilia—charged at him with a sword, eyes calculating—as if he’d be vulnerable.
Cyrus had always preferred the spear over the sword.
The prince unsheathed his weapon, letting his Ability course through it and wreath Lightning over the spearhead, raising it to the sky to let the strikes hit it (it’d been a neat trick he’d learned in the Cage). Using his spear as a lightning rod, he parried the woman’s sword as Julian charged at him.
The exiled heir of Halgrove scorched the earth and set the praetor’s cape on fire—he’d always thought Republica regalia irritating.
It always got in his way.
It’d been barely half an hour, and he was just getting started.
His surroundings were smouldering, Fire searing white and ember in the Lightning’s wake as Republica soldiers screamed and were burned alive.
He felt no particular attachment to the Galani. But seeing that mindless destruction, caused by those honor-blinded fuckers—the very fuckers that had burned down Cyrus’ only home after his exile, mind you—enraged him. War?
It didn’t mean shit.
War was just another obstacle, but Cyrus had been made a promise by Greta—a promise that she would conquer the lands that had failed him; and it didn’t matter that her reasons ran deeper than his roots. He’d make the Halgroves—everyone—pay the debt they owed him.
And his rage fueled the Fire.
Cyrus smiled.
And then he signalled for the troops.
Eurusan generals with their golden eyes gleaming flooded the clearing of the burning camp, the Empire’s finest warriors fighting alongside blue-eyed Galani. The Snakeland tribes had their own form of combat, their own view on war; but Cyrus hadn’t been in the Stronghold doing nothing—he’d spoken to both sides, joined hands, and delegated tasks.
He’d promised the Duchess he’d take care of it, and so he would.
“No survivors!” the prince thundered. “I will take the praetors!”
Julian charged at him again, and Cyrus had to admit his talent wasn’t bad—in other circumstances, the prince might’ve lost. In this situation, with the Cecilia woman backing him, losing was a very likely possibility. But the Lightning King—Zeus, King of the Gods—had chosen Cyrus for a reason, and he would not regret it.
Revenge will not be your salvation, the king had said.
But Cyrus would make it so.
The exile roared again, raising his spear as lightning flashed in the sky. Fire glimmering over his skin like a gossamer drapery, Cyrus spun his spear and pointed it at the two praetors.
Thunder boomed in the distance as the prince of nothing made Fire rain down from the heavens.
“Repent,” Cyrus Queenscage said.
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Arathis smiled at his oldest sister.
The Empress and her brother were playing a game of Crown in the throne room, and it remained uncertain who was winning.
Sometimes the Forsaken used an Actor to infiltrate her ranks; the action foiled when she Discovered the piece and used a Paladin to defend her Queen. Sometimes Greta decimated Arathis’ Troops, only to lose an Archer in the process and frown at the approaching pieces.
It was a game of crowns, and although it was perhaps a bit dramatic of a pastime, Arathis thought there was nothing further to it.
It was, after all, not the Game.
Yet.
“Why do you insist so persistently on stopping me?” Greta asked, her head held high and regal as always but green eyes folded towards the board, where Arathis had taken an Actor from her.
“I’m saving you, dearest sister,” he corrected. “To the best of my Ability.”
Greta aimed an Arrow at Arathis’ Paladin, and the Forsaken tipped it over.
“I never thought you were that benevolent,” commented the Empress.
Arathis shrugged. “I’m not. It just sounds interesting.” He hummed. “Besides, if you’re not careful, you could hurt more than just yourself. It’s a precarious Balance that hangs in the board, one that’s already toppled due to the loss of your Archer.”
But they weren’t really talking about her Archer, now.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“I could use my Ability, you know,” Arathis continued. “To Revive him. All I need is a Sacrifice, and he’ll be resurrected.”
The Forsaken’s Paladin, now encroaching upon Greta’s Circle, was blocked by a single Soldier.
“He would likely prefer to rest in peace,” his oldest sister returned. “To revive him to use him as a Crownpiece? He would see it as eternal torment.”
Arathis ran his Soldier Squareforwards, Ascending it into a Paladin. He smiled as it was soon taken by Greta’s Queen, who made the gamble of stepping out of her Circle.
“But there is a Balance, dearest sister,” he chided. “Balance is needed. For one who works in the night—” he tapped the space behind the board, the space of the players; before moving his fingers onto the pieces “—another who rules the day. A Balance of people and things alike.”
Arathis moved his Actor forward, approaching Greta’s Queen.
“For a puppeteer from behind the stage,” Arathis began, “a seducer who revels in the attention of the Play’s audience.”
Pale-dark eyes and a gaze the color of molten gold.
“For the hunter who loves the chase? Well, what better than a chaser of dreams with an iron fist?”
Amber oceans and twin lily-green lakes.
The Forsaken grinned widely as the Empress wordlessly moved her Queen, but continued. “A prince of nothing, for the one who wishes to rule everything.” Bright cobalt, and a sparkling sapphire. “The Balance can be broken, sister, but it will be fixed, sooner or later. You can tip the Scales, but to destroy it? It’s a different matter entirely.”
The Empress’ gaze was serene.
“What do you want to do, youngest brother?” the dreaming conqueror asked.
Arathis Delawar bared his teeth in a twisting smile that was more leer than grin. His dark Queen edged closer, as all the pieces fit into place.
A stalemate.
“Destroy,” the puppeteer replied. “What else?”
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I met the Duchess in the parlor. She was smiling as always, in the middle of placing a new domino to her growing set as she fiddled with her fan.
“I’ve received approval to carry out my plan,” I said, the words slipping easily from my lips as I took a casual seat. “I’ll be sure to send you the updated proposal, with all the plans, before I send it out to Greta again. Just here to ask if I can allocate your ballistae and technical personnel.”
“Feel free,” Delphine replied, giving a casual grin in return. Her eyes bore into mine, and a moment of silence occurred as I let her pillage my gaze. Whatever she was plundering for, she seemed to have found it, the Duchess of Zephyr humming in satisfaction before she spoke. “You have found it,” said the Head of Hyacinth, airily but not with disinterest.
It could be referring to any number of things.
The bandages, form-fitting over my right hand, tightened as I wrigged my fingers.
“It appears I have,” I agreed.
“And what is yours, if I may query?” asked the Zephyrean strategist, closing her fan.
My reason to play the Game?
“Change,” I responded, the word vibrating with the promise of something greater on my tongue.
I will change the Game.
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“Hypothetically,” I repeated, pointing at the spheres, “could you move the explosives by ship without detonating them?”
The Analysts blinked.
“I’m afraid,” one began, cautiously, “more information is needed about the situation before we can draw any solid conclusions.”
I moistened my lips. “The Easterners,” I said, sighing. “During the end of their last dynasty—it was Kang, if I remember correctly—they developed these in their Succession War. Siege warfare. A mix of gunpowder and charcoal—but if they got wet, they would be ruined. I’m asking if there’s a surefire way to not ruin the bombs while transporting them by sea.”
The one who spoke first took a beat to process the question. “Maybe—”
“Yes or no, please.”
They blinked. “No.”
I turned to Mercy. “How many?”
“Fifty bombs,” the assassin answered.
It was too big of a risk. Smuggling ballistae and bombs through Azareth by sea was a no-go, then. Then that left—
“Naxy, Petra, and Notus,” I muttered. Damn.
“Marianus?” Mercy suggested.
“It’d be best,” I agreed.
This operation would need to get started as soon as possible, if we were going the slower route and smuggling the ballistae-and-complimentary-bomb-set piece by piece with Anaxeres’ spies. Even though the Notus-Honos journey was less roundabout than the initial route, you couldn’t just stuff siege weapons up your shirt and pretend they were apples.
Not if you wanted to get past Republica scrutiny, which was likely at an all-time high since they were expecting retaliation from the Snakelands.
The Snakelands.
The entire situation was less than ideal.
“Xandros,” I called, “how many of your Notian connections happen to be arms dealers?”
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After sending off Xandros and Mercy to write their letters, I met with Horatio.
The blockade on Azareth needed to happen, either way—as it happened, it was the city with the least military might among the Strongholds. Seizing Bellum, in this state? Suicide. Seizing Honos, the capital where the politicians and military commands were carried out? Equally difficult.
The mercantile deals needed to happen.
Sooner or later, one or two influential bigwigs would decide to team up and consort with the Republic—knowing the Imperial way, it was inevitable. If they ended up bringing any type of anti-Imperial organization into the mess—which would be the smart thing to do—and manage to spread the wrong kind of sentiment, the Empire would end up rotting from the inside out.
War took a toll on people, and not just physically.
The Rhianites would be scared off, likely—any mention of war was practically peace-lover repellant, and ever since the bandit debacle, they’d been silent. Platin trade had stopped, and Rhianite merchant caravans had halted (I’d checked). Even if an authority besides the Rhianite High King had been behind the bandits, no one would risk going all in this early on.
Chances of inter-continental trade flourishing anytime soon? Very small.
We were separated by the Oceanus in terms of other continents; and after the last of the Eastern merchant ships would trickle in, word would likely spread that Visava was unstable and that very small chance would be reduced to zero.
Merchants wouldn’t risk getting attacked by ‘violent Imperials.’
Sure, if Greta decided to seek aid, she’d need to send diplomats—but, again, based on the High Kingdom’s actions (or, technically, inaction) during the bandit incident, chances of said aid being sent were very low.
This was a test for the newly-crowned Empress to ‘prove herself’ to the other continents, from their perspective.
But the point was, that the Merchants would be hoarding their resources. They wouldn’t want to fork over their coin to the Empire, or to the people—idle hands, and the lack of coin coming in from trade would mean that they would seek other avenues.
Dangerous avenues.
I grinned at Horatio, who was studying me. He jumped as I broke out of my thoughts, quickly folding his calculating expression to something respectable before I tapped the table.
“Do you have children, Face Pseftis?” I asked him. A pause, which I filled with laughter at his beat of hesitation. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to blackmail you.” Yet. “You can answer the question without fear.”
Horatio blinked, his haughtiness from yesterday fading from his shoulders. “I have a son,” he answered, evenly. “And a daughter on the way, Your Highness.”
I leaned back. “And you must love your family very much, yes?” I gestured vaguely at the interior of his lavish mansion (I’d dropped by his home instead of calling him to the Duchy—the action was just the right amount of unsettling). “To gather this much of a fortune to pass onto them, I mean,” I added. “Am I right in assuming you’ve chosen an heir?”
The Merchant coughed. “You flatter me, Your Highness—but you are correct in that, yes.”
“And how old is he?” I asked, politely.
“Around fifteen.”
Old enough for my plan, I supposed.
I smiled. “Do you know what a Legacy is, Face Pseftis?” I asked him.
The Zephyrean shifted, his uneasiness obvious. “I do, Your Highness.”
I made a humming noise. “And what would your Legacy be, Face? Your son or your fortune?”
Horatio stilled. “Are you asking me to make a choice, Your Highness?”
I shook my head. “Not at all—that would be a cruel order. I’m giving you a choice.” I leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. “I’m sure you’ve heard, Face—the Empire is planning to make military service mandatory. Mandatory, I tell you!” I laughed as if it was the most hilarious thing to ever exist.
The merchant remained still, as I continued.
“I dread to imagine the talented youths carried away by the conscriptors. Oh, the great minds lost. I can hardly imagine the terrors they’ll face.” I shuddered, watching the Zephyrean as I winked. “But, of course, this stays between us. Greta would have my head if she found out I leaked this.”
Horatio’s fingers curled, just a bit.
“What are you proposing, Your Highness?”
“You’re angry,” I noticed. “Good.” Tapping my fingers on the arm of the chair, I let my gaze soften. “What do you want out of this world, Horatio Pseftis? Will you always be chasing after it—the more? The better? The after? It might be something you can take, but it also might be something the world can’t afford to give you—you might even be satisfied with where you are now.”
I let earnesty tinge my expression.
“How much are you willing to pay to protect your Legacy, dearest Horatio?” I asked, quietly. “When you depart this world, will you be content with what you leave behind?”
Will you?
The Zephyrean Merchant raised a hand. “You don’t need to manipulate me, Your Highness,” he said, tiredly. “I know what you want—you all want something out of me, and I suppose it’s to be expected. What do you need me to sign?”
I leaned back.
“Well, you’re taking all the work out of it, but I suppose I can’t complain,” I commented, grinning. “I just need your money and a promise. Nothing else.”
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Horatio Pseftis watched the Sixth Princess leave the manor with an unsettling feeling in his chest. His arrogant persona that he often assumed bubbled inside his chest, but worry ripped it apart.
He had seen many ‘villains’ in his lifetime—he was one himself, after all. The arrogant Merchant who profited off war, he was. He’d seen children the Princess’ age act high and mighty after slitting their companion’s throat, nobles who slaughtered and poisoned without care, fellow Merchants who boasted only to get the rug pulled from under their feet.
But Seraphina Queenscage was charismatic. Not one of her words had been anything vindictive, anything self-serving—no, if anything, she made you know that she was threatening you, but this was the kind of villain that gave you choices.
Horatio had no doubt that if he’d outright refused, he’d be discarded.
This villain was the type that respected your choices, that let you know she was using you, and for that she was one that people would follow behind.
A villain’s honor.
The Zephyrean Merchant tightened his fist and was about to draw the curtains when a boy encountered Seraphina at the exit. His son, coming home from his lessons—Horatio watched as the Princess’ smile faded from her lips and she gave a polite, but distant nod; lifting a bandaged hand.
They passed each other, and the worry that’d sparked in the Merchant’s chest faded.
Seraphina gave one last—barely noticeable—look back. Her face was blank, unnervingly so, like a spectre’s; her blue eyes like watching still waters, a self-deprecating smile appeared on the Hundredth Victor as she left the manor. One of bitter contrition, Horatio realized—a person who’d seen a possibility of a life long gone. It was a flicker, gone as fast it came.
The Princess left, and Horatio turned his back on the sight.
He had others’ orders to carry out.
He did what he had to.
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I wrote a letter to Timaios turning down his invitation, but promising that I would send him a gift.
I penned two others to Alyssa and Alia, asking for updates on the capital in the Dayhepts I’d been gone; requesting a thorough report on the state of loyalties in the capital from the former, and a gift to be sent to the Drakos Marquessate’s capital manor to the latter.
After sending one to Greta and Lazarus, I called Alexandros to my room.
My minion averted his eyes when he first came in, breathing a sigh of relief when he realized I was wearing a nightgown, and then internally panicking again.
I snickered.
He scowled.
Xandros seated himself beside me as I gestured for him to lay out his notes.
“So the Azareth smuggling is a no go?” he asked, bringing out a battered quill and scribbling away at his parchment.
“Yeah,” I agreed. I tapped the fingers of my right hand against the table, and wincing—just for a beat—at the unexpected pain before I opened my mouth to speak. You never would’ve winced before. Xandros interrupted me.
“Should I get Lady Mercy to get you medicine?” my minion asked, concern flashing in his eyes.
A smile ghosted my lips. “It’s alright,” I said, chuckling. “I’ve had worse—far, far worse, actually—than an injured hand.”
Xandros shook his head. “You should always be careful—bruises can scar, and some scars don’t go away.” He hesitated. “They would ruin your hands, Boss.”
Amusement tinged my smile. “I have far more worries on my plate than my hands. My foremost priority, right now, is hearing your thoughts on a potential blockade on Azareth.” I stood up and stretched, drawing the curtains open—moonlight streamed through the windows, dappling the floor, as I continued. “I’ve contacted Horatio, and since he’s our test subject for the whole Merchant plan, I told him to pitch it to a couple others—” I cut myself off.
Shock was consuming Xandros’ gaze. And he was looking at—what? My—back.
Ah. The fabric must’ve been too sheer—a gossamer back.
I pretended to remain clueless, raising my eyebrows. “Is there something on my face?”
My minion shook himself out of his daze. “No,” he said, hesitantly. “It’s nothing. You were saying, Boss? About the Merchant?”
I sat down again, and continued. “I told him to pitch it to a couple others,” I repeated, “and it seems we should have potential candidates soon. Delphine should take care of the rest, and—wait, I haven’t asked you about the results of your connections. How are the Notians doing?”
He seemed a bit distracted, but he answered my question. “In terms of legality, I don’t have any outright arms dealers, Boss, but I asked around…”
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Xandros came out of the room, feeling strange.
In the moonlight, the pale gossamer he hadn’t paid attention to—the veil-like fabric that covered the Princess’ back—had shone through, and marring the smooth skin of an otherwise flawless figure were—scars. Whipping scars.
They were deep and ugly, ones he’d seen before on other orphans who hadn’t been lucky enough to evade more corrupt members of the Guard. Childhood injuries, brutal lashes—not from the Cage, then.
When Mercy came back, he’d asked tentatively about them.
The assassin hadn’t revealed anything, save for one strange fact.
“Ask, and you shall receive answer,” she had simply said. “Not how, think where.” Mercy had moistened her lips, pausing, before elaborating. “Do not disturb Her Highness’ sleep—she already has a lack of it.” She said the last phrase empathically, and confusion clouded Xandros’ head.
Before realization.
If she wasn’t the Princess—if she hadn’t had that high identity, he would’ve pieced together the pieces in seconds.
Bad dreams from the Cage, and scars from before.
Not pity, not empathy, but some kind of strange bitter filled Alexandros’ mouth.
The world doesn’t hold back on anyone, eh?
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Josephine Queenscage laughed at the invitation. “You hear this, sister?” She waved the paper. “Timmy finally grew some balls and killed his father!”
The Empress raised an eyebrow, hunched over a battle-map next to Josephine. It was displaying a battle formation, boats stacked to the west of the assumed Republic as strange contraptions were stacked on the north. Greta was currently stabbing the east with a surprising ferocity, her face serene as always as she continued driving the knife into the cardinal direction.
Was it supposed to symbolize her ever-consuming anger for the Republicas?
She was probably just pissed off that somebody committed arson and it wasn’t her, Josephine decided. Wait. Seraphina was the pyromaniac. “It’s really hard to keep track of everyone’s favorite crimes here,” she mumbled in complaint, as Greta looked up.
(The Fourth Princess was technically still in solitary confinement. Technically, which meant she needed to bribe anyone important that happened to see her.)
“Are you on good terms with your father?” the Empress asked.
Josie raised her eyebrows. “If you define good terms as in he won’t murder me on sight, we’re fabulous. I mean, the only reason’s because I’m part of the Imperial family, but you get my point.”
“If we regain control over the Armistice,” Greta said, “we’ll have a better handle on weapons production.”
“Which is according to your evil plan,” drawled Josephine. “Yes, I’m aware.” Aphrodite’s Chosen tilted her head. “Well, Cyrus might’ve thrown a wrench in ‘em, you know. He used his powers to deal with the troops sent from Bellum—practically burned half of the Snakelands—but people are loving it. The Chosen fanatics are drooling—you know what they’re calling him?”
(Josephine had her sources. And by sources, she meant her brainwashed minions that sent very fast-flying carrier pigeons.)
“‘The Lightning Prince,’” quoted the Empress, dryly. “Yes, I’m aware. Very poetic.”
“One of them will get struck by lightning for blasphemy, these days,” commented Josephine. “But you were talking about Papa, yes? I’m not sure you need to apply any force—it might be overkill and he might end up crushed, the poor dear.” Her lips twisted malevolently. “He always was so easily influenced by Eleanora—easily squashed, easily redirected. Like an ant.”
Weak.
Josephine’s smile returned, shortly. “You’ll have your weapons,” she said. “Have no fear, my dearest sister.”
Greta’s eyes were already folded towards her map.
The Fourth Princess examined her, before adding, “Don’t hold it against Ara, by the way, sister. He’s been bored for so long, and he finally saw something he wanted to do—I know you’ve taken Father’s and Rion’s deaths hard, but—”
“What do you want to do with the world, Josephine?”
The Empress’ lips barely moved, her face impassive as her green eyes continued to rove over the map. The knife was forgotten, buried to the hilt in what Aphrodite’s Chosen assumed was a representation of Bellum.
“Savor its attention,” the Ninety-Eighth Victor said. “What else?”
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