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Those who cannot hear the music, think the dancers mad.
- SOURCE UNKNOWN
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PAST
| Non Ducor Duco
Anjelina didn’t have anything particularly noteworthy to boast about until she reached the age of nineteen.
She had two siblings and a pretty mother. From the former she’d inherited a tendency to scowl at every loud noise she heard, including the habit of glaring at any seagull who decided to open their beak; and from the latter she’d inherited features that would’ve been called smooth if she hadn’t had the Northeast sun carved into it since young.
Anjelina had rough hands, a rougher voice, and a good-enough disposition that meant she had a good number of friends (too great a number of friends, though, spelled more betrayals than help). She had a good head for numbers, which meant she’d been designated her father’s heir since she’d revealed the ability.
Her father, a small-time merchant—not Merchant, Gods only knew how much Anjelina wished—dealt in fabrics, even though Anjelina never remembered her clothes being particularly luxurious.
Her life wasn’t mediocre, but it certainly wasn’t noteworthy enough to be recorded in any history books.
At least, that was what she’d thought.
The Queen’s Cage had occurred thirty-six times when the God of War had come to her, in a dream.
I am Ares.
The Empire had been an entity of one hundred and eighty years. P.Q.C., the measure of time Anjelina had heard people measure history in, only represented the amount of Cages that had passed since the Cage’s establishment. Anjelina was good with numbers. Thirty-six times five was one hundred and eighty.
That was the thought that had passed in her head when War had looked her in the eye.
And you will bow, he said.
Anjelina did.
Have you known war? he asked, red eyes glimmering with the knowledge of—eons? A long time, Anjelina decided. The tip of his spear glistened with a rust-like sheen, metal twisting around the God in the shape of grotesque armor. Waves of terror pulsed through Anjelina as she clenched her fingers in fear. This was neither monster nor man—it was pure, undiluted—
Well? Ares inched closer. His face was a tapestry of wallowed scarlet, spears driven and screams layered atop each other. There was nothing to be glorified, nothing to be exalted in the gaze of War.
Anjelina was afraid.
Yet she raised her head.
“No,” she said, voice trembling. “And I don’t want to.”
His presence pried the words out of her, and Ares laughed.
You will, he simply responded, his fangs crimson.
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The Cage’s doors opened and golden light bathed Anjelina’s face.
The name that Ares gave her to her came unbidden on her tongue, as people clapped.
She gave a bow to the people, her clothes and knife soaked in blood.
Angelo.
Angel.
The Thirty-Eighth Victor had seen war, and she did not laugh.
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She had been extended many hands, but the one that had lifted her the highest had undoubtedly been her father’s.
Glory Prince Rocco Queenscage had a broad grin and an easy temperament, the kind of personality that made you doubt the fact that he had killed twelve Chosen of the Gods. She had been welcomed readily, and he’d offered to adopt her as his daughter even though they were born only ten years apart.
Rocco had...a complicated relationship with his Imperial Father.
Angelo had seen them argue on many occasions, oftentimes about political issues, and once Rocco had confided in her that he hadn’t been the Emperor’s favorite—when he’d gotten rid of the others to get named Heir Designate, he had taken the Emperor’s other children and murdered his siblings.
To be honest, Angelo hadn’t bought into the family schtick that the Imperial Family provided at all when she’d first settled in the Palace.
She’d thought it a hollow title—nothing more than a falsely-worn charade.
But it was when she went on midnight walks after nightmares, that she’d seen Rocco and the Emperor outside in the gardens, watching the moon.
When she had been caught in tears, they had accepted them. She soon realized no one else could do the same.
They were more of a family than family, if that made sense—Angelo’s other family couldn’t understand. When she’d visited them, they’d treated her distantly, curiously looking at why she flinched at loud noises.
When the Emperor was nearing death and Angelo’s father went off to conquer Keto in her grandfather’s name, Angelo had been the one witnessing the Emperor fall apart. She’d been the one who’d absorbed herself in Rocco’s plans, forcing herself to calculate all possible strategies in order to help them.
Her family.
Legacies—when had the old man become obsessed with them?
Nights full of worry and blood-streaked eyes had strung her sanity thin, and so Angelo had seen her father conquer from afar.
Until her grandfather had insisted that he was about to die, and revealed that damnable fact that had broken something in her father’s eyes.
In her father.
My Legacy is you?
What the fuck was that kind of bullshit?
Angelo had tightened her fists, anger bubbling at the man she’d considered family, but Rocco had merely whispered, haunted—me?
Arraign. As the Emperor breathed once more, she couldn’t take it anymore. Discreetly, she’d wrapped her Ability around her grandfather’s throat and Arraigned him of all the sins she’d Seen.
Rocco screamed.
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That night, news had been delivered that Republica soldiers had taken Keto back and executed all of Rocco’s loyal subordinates—friends. All names of people Angelo had called uncle, and Rocco called brother.
The sun had barely brushed the sky when his body had been discovered.
The paper he left behind—the one naming Angelo his Heir Designate—had fluttered to the ground, soaked in his blood as the Avenger picked it up.
You want a Legacy?
She spoke the words to someone, something that would listen—
I’ll give you one.
She would avenge her father, and Arraign the world on crimes against the Empire.
That would be her Legacy.
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| Non Duco Vincere
She didn’t know when people started calling her General. Or when they stopped and started calling her Emperor, instead.
The Republica generals supposedly cursed her name—she was reviled as a she-devil in their circles, apparently.
A she-devil. Angelo chuckled, and looked at the war map beneath her hands. This was a simple strategy, but one that would win her a victory. She’d given the Republic the worst five Daycycles in their life, chipping away at both their morale and food supply—she’d blockaded them, keeping supply caravans from arriving at their camp, and cornered them with no way out.
Well, she’d left a few avenues of hope to not let them panic too hard.
Cornered animals tended to bite.
They only had enough food for a Dayhept more, if they rationed hard—and if they did, their soldiers would be pushed off their wit’s end; and they were already there, she knew, from Angelo’s spies sending them the dead skulls of their compatriots under the cover of night.
It was their base, of course, but her Weaver’s Embrace move had stained Ketite plain with tens of their people’s blood—she just needed one more.
One more.
That Dayhept, she executed one of the most brilliant military plans in the Empire’s history.
But, of course, the Avenger didn’t know it.
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The people loved her.
Angelo had conquered a Republica fortress and made the Republic officially surrender the piece of land, making Keto a part of the Empire on paper—in their eyes, she supposed, she’d made them turn tail. Of course, that was merely a piece of reality, but it was a bigger piece than she’d expected.
All the Strongholds of the Empire would need to be renamed, she decided—reforms were in order.
The Northeast became Doxa, all the corner Strongholds were named after the mythical Anemoi, and next would be the Imperial system. After flushing out the traitors in her Court, the Emperor started carving out the rot that had manifested itself in the aristocracy, Arraigning them one by one on crimes against the state.
The people loved her.
The nobles didn’t.
Anjelina stared out the window in her bedroom, studying the pale moon she’d once watched with her loved ones. Arraign—her Ability—was flickering, and she knew why. As the Emperor closed her eyes, she was pulled back by a blade under her chin. An assassin.
The Avenger hadn’t fought back as Death kissed her neck and blood was spilled once again under night.
It was a release, after all—she had Arraigned the world. She had achieved her vengeance, her mission.
Her own Arraignment was long overdue.
Emperor Angelo the Avenger laughed as the Song played its last note.
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PRESENT
| Ubi Amor
Vitajie Aundray had not felt this terrible in years.
Sure, he liked to complain about many things—the Clytemnestra, the country, the country’s politicians, and the fact that he ruled said country; but this situation took the metaphorical cake.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
The Agamemnon gnawed on a monster bone.
The war between the Republic and the Empire would’ve been a theoretical cause for celebration—an ally clawing an enemy to death, well, what was there not to like?
But when said ally was slacking off on, well, being an ally, it wasn’t as pretty.
The Glorydark situation was getting worse, and as much as Aundray wanted to push actively for sending more troops to clear out the monsters—or at least try to seal it—House Desarta had insisted on approaching the matter delicately. And, for once, Aundray knew they were somewhat right—if the Republic was slacking off on culling the monsters on their side, the Dark Forest as a whole would be overrun.
That meant bad news for the Union.
If some of the more fanatical Kato decided to stir up resentment, or Republica refugees started to arrive out of nowhere…
They were looking at a very delicate situation.
A headache gnawed at Aundray’s head like it’d had for the past Dayhept, and he felt pissed off at no one in particular.
“Your Majesty the Agamemnon?” a familiar voice asked.
Right. He was in a meeting.
“Yes, Aubin?” Aundray asked with a sigh, finishing off the thigh bone he was chomping on.
Sympathy was reflected in the faces of the Clan members—they too wanted to eat Minotaur thigh, instead of sitting through this shitshow of a gathering—and Aubin was patient.
“The harvest rates...are critically low,” the vassal said, pronouncing his words carefully. “I fear we must take action soon, Your Majesty. One of our Clan’s people has put forward a proposal to address the issue.”
Aundray scowled internally as the mood darkened.
“Send the proposal over to the Clytemnestra for approval,” he said with another sigh. “If we both deem it necessary enough to bring up at the inter-Clan meeting this Dayhept, we will. I thank Clan Aun for their contribution,” Aundray added as an afterthought. They would get resentful if he didn’t. Families were petty like that.
Harvest rates.
Because the Forsaken had taken a step away from the Glorydark for now, the main source for the Daycycle’s monster harvest had been cordoned off. Obviously, the people weren’t happy—it was alright as a temporary situation, but Aundray had been joking when he’d proposed sealing it off.
The ‘Source,’ as the other nations called it, was vital for the survival of the nation.
He would need to talk to Aceline about it—and he wasn’t looking forward to the argument.
Politics.
Pah.
“There’s a fly in the room,” he lied loudly. “I’m going to go kill it. Meeting adjourned.”
Everyone hesitated.
Aubin blinked. “Your Majesty—”
“There’s a free buffet outside, by the way,” Aundray added.
The parlor was very quickly emptied.
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| Ibi Dolor
Aundray walked with his men and a few tens of wagons behind him.
There were people starving—his people, and for that he wanted to knee all the Clans in the face.
Cloaked, he gestured quietly for the Tartarian Guard to file out and distribute the meat—taken directly from the Dome’s cellar, it was enough to feed at least a hundred people. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do—at least, until they made a decision.
Bureaucracy could go die in a pit.
For all that the Clans argued and fought, hundreds died while they sparred with words. Governing the country was a war no one was winning, and for all Aundray got accused of being a figurehead, they were right. And he hated himself for it—hated that all he could do was give silent charity, and hated that he could do something, but didn’t know how to.
He wanted change, but how would he get it? Certainly not cursing his ancestors.
Aundray had never wanted to be Agamemnon. His Clan had pushed him forward because of his intellectual prowess, and then he’d up and given himself false hope that he could do it. Younger him had told himself that he could change the Union, that all he would need to do was command the world into being and it would follow his orders.
Naive.
He’d been naive, and now he—and his people—were paying the price.
As the wagons flooded the slums of Tartarus, and eyes watched its contents being distributed amongst increasing numbers of sickly people, Aundray fashioned the guards into a more efficient position and murmured orders as he saw fit.
The sky was dark, the sun searing its path through the hazy clouds, as—
It wasn’t enough.
It—he—was too little too late.
The Agamemnon’s expression twisted into self-disgust, like it always did these days, as he felt a tugging at his cloak.
A child.
He looked down, lowering himself to the ground as its hem brushed the mud to meet the figure. “Yes?” Aundray asked, careful.
Dark eyes blinked at him.
“Are you important?” the child asked.
They were thin, likely shorter than the norm for their age, pale hair cropped close to their skull but gaze unwavering.
Aundray considered the question. “You can say that,” he answered.
“Why don’t you fix things?” they asked. “Mama says that important people can help us, they just don’t want to.”
The Agamemnon blinked. “I suppose that’s true,” he conceded. “Important people just want to get more important, and instead of helping the people they have an obligation to help, they fight with each other for power.” Aundray looked at the child. “Do you know what ‘noblesse oblige’ means?”
The child shook their head, but they seemed genuinely interested, so Aundray continued.
“It means, ‘privilege entails responsibility.’ That means, if you’re privileged—if you have the power, to change people’s lives for the better—then you should. It’s morally expected of you.”
The Agamemnon cleared his throat. “But, there are those who believe that it’s selfish, to think that you can be the one who decides what’s ‘better’—they say it’s misuse, to give too much power to one person so they can change a bunch of people’s lives. Those are the people who think that ‘government’ is inherently flawed—am I going too fast?”
The child furrowed their brows, but shook their head. “I get it. Kinda.”
“It’s a system of trust and responsibility—there’s no one to police that responsibility but humanity itself, and for that some people think it’s a flawed concept.” The Agamemnon licked his lips, trying to rephrase the sentence simply. “But those are the same people who think the whole government thing is flawed. A lot of people fight about it, since government is also technically based on trust between a people and their leader. Or leaders.”
Yep, he’d lost them.
It was on him for waxing philosophical to a kid, probably.
“You haven’t answered the question,” they pointed out. “Most adults are like you, and they don’t really answer the question—but you probably did it by accident. I can tell,” they said, proudly.
Aundray laughed, the sound drawing the attention of his guards, who stopped their meat distribution to assess the child.
The Agamemnon gazed pointedly to stop staring.
They did.
“I don’t know,” Aundray said, finally. “I don’t know why important people don’t fix things.”
The Agamemnon didn’t like to admit he didn’t know things, but who was he to comment on power?
He was just a figurehead, after all.
The child scrutinized him. “Are you going to become more important, so you can fix things?”
The other chuckled. “I don’t think I can become more important than I already am,” he responded. “But I’ll try, I suppose.” Vitajie Aundray looked up at the sun from his place on the ground. “Yeah,” the man repeated to himself, “I’ll try.”
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| In Absentia Lucis
The prophecy.
Cagekeeper Afaneia looked at its contents.
Rise a Chosen of conflict and desire; insatiable are they, of ruin and glory.
A play on the Oath “through glory and ruin.”
A crown of greed encircles the head of the liar; witness the crumbling of Olympus’ last story.
It was certainly a reference to the Queen’s Cage— “Olympus’ last story,” the Gods’ last legacy before they decided to rise above mortal affairs; both a reference to the current Empress’ desire and the possibility of it being resolved. The liar wasn’t capitalized, which meant it could refer to any member of the current Imperial family.
The Blur blinked.
Gold spangled their surroundings, the area within the Cage sealed with the kiss of aureate and kaleidoscopic color—Afaneia had long forgotten her past and what they called the place where they survived. Watch. Record. Obey. Those were the only words that survived in her memory as time passed.
The compacts that were distributed allowed them to rewatch events long past, to distinguish the humans that had the capacity to be Legends.
She was one of the older Watchers, yet she was younger still.
She had seen the rise and fall of humanity’s Eternal Empire, the rise of the man they disdained as Ruiner and the woman they claimed as Avenger, the madman they reviled as Insane and the Queensfavored they called Nightbidden. A long history of Chosen and Victor and throne—yet she carried out her Duty, and that was the end of her role to play.
Harbinger.
Angelo the Avenger, they called one of the first. She’d been the cause of many deaths in her seizing of Notus—her Angelian reforms had taken the lives of many in its implementation, and that was when Afaneia didn’t consider the Skirmish. She had heard the Song.
Another had been the one they called Lysimachos, who had ordered a genocide from fear after his mind had broken and he had heard the Song.
United the Empire stands, divided it falls; inherit a throne forsaken by evil.
Likely a prelude to division before reunion. A throne forsaken by ‘evil.’ Evil in this case likely eluding to ‘fortune,’ or some form of it. The Empire had a recurring theme of fortune’s favor and ‘evil.’
A war-banner risen, in the name of origin’s law; a conqueror’s dream, a nightmare primeval.
Origin’s law was—based on collected data—a reference to human nature. There was no confusion on that part.
Carrion torn, a surrender within reach; light is lost and darkness is found. The sky shall fall, the herald shall preach: a ruler blessed by death is crowned.
Thanatos was a fickle God. The likelihood of him ascending to be an Olympian and providing a literal blessing was close to none. Although prophecies made it so no possibility was ‘fully off the table,’ so to speak, the blessing of death most likely referred to the role of the Harbinger.
The suggestion of a new ruler being crowned likely meant something was going to happen to the current Empress, which brought the Watcher to the last verse—
The carrier of a queen’s last wish; an eternal dream, an eternal longing.
A queen’s last wish. The second word was slightly problematic, which meant that Afaneia flagged it for a higher Keeper on the case to look through it later.
The reaper’s first kiss.
Also slightly problematic.
A new form of death, perhaps?
Six becomes nix - see the final sun dawning.
The final sun. Nothingness, the ultimate end.
It was more likely that it was a figurative definition then a literal one, yet the finality of the sentence was problematic.
The Blur blinked, again.
The Keepers were the light in the darkness, after all—if she were going for a particularly jarring sentence, she would’ve spoken these words:
Shadows move with the Light.
And her duty was to Obey.
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PAST
| Tenebrae Vincent
“What is the world built upon?”
Dantaleus Icarus looked at his brother.
Lysimachos shook his head. “Nuh-uh. I told you, limit of three philosophical questions a day. You already asked one at breakfast, one at lunch, and one a few seconds ago.”
“‘Is Nephele coming by for dinner’ isn’t a philosophical question, Lys.” Dantelus hummed. “This is important.”
Dionysus’ Chosen wriggled his fingers. “Fine. Uh, brick, I guess? The cement of our ancestor’s ashes, or something?” Lysimachos tilted his head. “Don’t know. The world wasn’t built by anyone, right—wasn’t it just there?”
Dantaleus inclined his head. “It was,” said the Analyst. “And the world has a physical nature—trees, plants, Gods, Abilities—but, curiously enough, human nature is what people decide to focus on instead. Why do people think the way they do, instead of how. Why did Rocco the Ruiner lose, instead of how—because everyone always assumes the how is obvious, they see the surface and assume they know what lurks in the depths.”
The Analyst tilted his head, as Lysimachos spoke.
“This isn’t a history lesson, I assume?” asked Dionysus’ Chosen.
“The past is the past, the present is the present, but history always seems to repeat itself,” said Dantaleus. “Our world—our humanity—relies on structure. Hierarchy. There will always be those who disagree that a Balance is necessary, and those who uphold the Balance.”
Lysimachos blinked.
“I guess,” he said, uncertainly.
The Analyst stared past his brother, into nothingness. “Do you ever wonder, how Icarus fell from the sky?” Dantaleus asked, finally. “Did have any regrets, being that unheedingly arrogant—or was he satisfied, meeting the sun? Was he bitter, being swallowed by the sea? What thoughts went through his head—how, did he fall?”
For this, Lysimachos had an answer.
“Fear,” said Dionysus’ Chosen, smiling wryly. “When you die, when you face the unknown—you feel fear. Some relish it, some ignore it, but it’s human. The boy was likely scared—that fear, fear of the unknown, triumphs over all. He couldn’t have felt anything else in that moment.”
“Selfishness,” supplied Dantaleus. “Human nature operates on selfishness. Arrogance. Sin. Vice. That does not mean that it is fully bad, however—just because Icarus fell from the sky, didn’t mean that Daedalus did.” The Analyst looked up at his bedroom’s ceiling.
“But,” said the Analyst, “just because it isn’t entirely bad doesn’t mean that it’ll never be good. Vice will always be there, and sometimes it will triumph over virtue. Other times, it’ll be the other way around.”
Lysimachos followed his gaze.
The mural Dantaleus had commissioned, of Icarus falling from the sky, met his eyes.
“It doesn’t change the fact, brother,” Athena’s Chosen continued, quieter, “that however bitter victory tends to taste, it is still far sweeter than defeat.”
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Lysimachos now looked at his brother, bloodied and bruised at his feet.
Nephele—his love—had been slain, her lifeless corpse to the side. Of course, Lysimachos wasn’t completely heartless—he’d let his bastard son go as the next Duke of Tyche.
He had a son.
The Chosen cackled at the absurdity of it all.
All that he had once treasured was now destroyed by his own hand, yet the Imperial Throne in all its chryselephantine glory was behind him. The thoughts and voices of memories past crowded his ears like insects, like they always did, and all he could hear was a Song. A Song of revelry and darkness, of grins by firelight and blood spilt amidst trampled scarlet grapes.
“Any last words, brother?” Lysimachos the Insane asked.
Dantaleus managed a small nod.
“I will be selfish, now,” said the Analyst. “I do not wish to defeat you, Lys, and I refuse to be turned monster by this world.”
A boy who fell from the Anothen sky smiled.
“They who win against monsters, after all, become monsters themselves.”
And with that, Lysimachos Crushed his brother, letting the residual Fear—his Drawback—settle into his body.
He tasted the wine of madness.
And it was bittersweet.
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PRESENT
Years later, the world was silent, and in it was a girl with blue eyes who heard the first notes of a Song.
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