----------------------------------------
He stood on the ledge, and looked into the gaping chasm—it was an abyss, endless and gasping, choking on its own darkness. It looked him in the eye, and dared him.
And so he leaped.
- THE DARK FOREST, IMPERIAL NOVEL
----------------------------------------
I'D NEVER PARTICULARLY LIKED SLEEPING.
Or needed to, for that matter.
There was a time when I’d hated it.
Hated sleeping, hated having those dreams, hated waking up with my hands shaking.
But it was useless to hate things if you couldn’t kill them.
Thankfully—I muttered a quick, albeit irreverent prayer to the Gods—I was too exhausted to dream. And it was surprising, because I hadn’t felt the exhaustion until I’d entered the threshold of Naxy’s safehouse and my Ability said sleep, a bone-dry accumulation that was far too sudden to be rational.
I woke up with my lips dry.
“Water,” I said. It would’ve been more accurate to say I croaked the word, but Xandros allowed me a shred of dignity by ignoring the quaver in my voice as he obeyed.
I turned to Mercy.
“How long?” I said, and then cleared my throat. The rasp was rather embarrassing.
“An hour,” replied the assassin. She helped me up silently, ignoring the stumble in my ankle as I stood.
Weakness. Physical weakness wasn’t an option.
But I was safe now, wasn’t I? Technically, at least.
“Naxy?” I asked evenly, accepting the water cup that Xandros handed to me as he neared.
“Should be somewhere around here,” he answered, my right hand (or left?) scanning my face with surprising concern. “I think he’s writing up some paperwork. Or dealing with the fallout from your escape—it’s Tartarus out there, Your Highness.”
An unsurprised smile made its way across my face. “Nothing unexpected there. An hour, though. How many?”
Xandros hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he hedged. “At least half the legionaries stationed here, I think. They’ve swept the entire city—or, at least, the Imperial-y neighborhoods; and I didn’t even know there were Imperial-y neighborhoods here—and are conducting surprise raids now somewhere in the east. They’re moving fast and closing in.”
“How?” I tilted my head. “They should’ve taken at least a minute to discover my absence, and then another couple—” I paused, my voice breaking off as my Ability coalesced.
And then I laughed.
It would’ve taken at least twenty minutes to assemble troops and implement such an organized effort. Based on Xandros’ report, they’d already gotten concerningly far. It wouldn’t been possible unless—
“They already put a what-if protocol in place just in case I escaped,” I noted out loud with an unseemingly cackle. “Either Celia or Mari’s behind this, likely, since they didn’t even get to introduce me to the Senate. It’s almost flattering, really.” And then I paused. “Are they violent?”
Xandros blinked. “The raids? Not yet. I got most of this information while out buying groceries—wanted to get the sweets you like, Boss, but they were out of stock—so it might not be reliable, but…I don’t think the Consuls have a whole lot riding on the searches. There were legionaries whispering that the praetor—sorry, Consul now—but…”
“They’re trying to flush out everyone.” My Ability whispered it, and my fingers loosened as quickly as they clenched. “It’s not that they particularly want to get me back—no, I mean, there’s no practicality in funneling all of the capital’s resources towards a city-wide manhunt while there’s a war going on. They’re trying to find the ones behind the Curia along that route—Naxy’s spies. And then, potentially, get to me through them. A big net.”
Senate pressure would drive them further—Julian would likely counsel against an ‘impulsive reaction.’ That would be how he put it, likely. (I could see him at a tall podium, speaking with the same measured-but-not words, unrelenting but not undefeatable. He had changed, but he hadn’t—that honorable praetor. He’d be angry that I escaped, but he wouldn’t have been surprised. He knew better than that. He knew me better than that.
But then he’d changed, I thought. Or I had. Or just our circumstances.
But that was that. It wouldn’t do to dwell.)
Cecilia, I thought, had a way with words, but even she wouldn’t be able to convince all of the Senate. It was the old fuckers against the new ones, and everyone knew that, regardless of who won, a fight was a fight.
The Republic was crumbling, and I surprisingly did feel something other than apathy and distant pity.
It’s a shame, I would’ve liked to say, but I didn’t. Saying it aloud felt like a desecration of centuries of history (but then again, just because I didn’t say it didn’t mean I wouldn’t. But what was a proper response to it all? War was war).
I was digressing.
“What’s Anaxeres doing?” I said aloud after a long while. “Have any other spiders swung by while I was gone?”
Mercy shook his head. “None. It’s been quiet; the Duke’s in the drawing room. Should I fetch him?”
I waved off the offer. “Nah. I’ll go talk to him.” A pause. “Xandros, are you sharp right now?”
The boy jumped. For an instant, I saw the scowling suspicion of the Guard initiate he’d been before; but then it was gone, replaced by mild confusion and careful consideration from the boy who’d come up with the Trident Formation (again, a terrible name).
“I’m fine,” he responded after a while.
I raised my eyebrows. “That’s not what I’m asking, though,” I chided, and Xandros thought again, caution clawing his face.
“I’m sharp,” he corrected himself. I’m fine. I can come with you, he was saying.
(He was lying, just a little bit. My absence had taken an unfortunate toll on both of them, the poor dears. I could see exhaustion in the tiny Hints that scattered across his figure.)
“If you say so,” I accepted the answer with a wave. “Come with me—Mercy, before you make dinner, could you collect the reports of what happened the last few days?” And then I turned, putting a hand on Xandros’ shoulder.
He looked worried, the dear.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine—Naxy doesn’t bite,” I reassured him (even though I knew exactly what he was worried about, and it wasn’t an Imperial spymaster with a concerning similarity to my remaining brother).
He, thankfully, didn’t comment on the fact that I’d been clenching my fists since I’d woken up.
----------------------------------------
I owed the madman a debt.
So I looked him in the eye, he looked at me back, and when neither of us opened our mouths to cash it in or lie, we both ignored the fact that it ever happened.
(I had no doubt the bastard would bring it up later. Debts weren’t a huge deal, unless accompanied by some sort of Oath of Temporary Fealty until said debt was paid off, but I wouldn’t let Anaxeres of Tyche—or anyone—force me into another Oath again.)
“I brought Xandros here along to help you out,” was all I said after the small silence. “I hear they’re hunting your operatives. You did mention some resistance earlier, yes?”
The man tilted his head. He was now in Imperial robes, of a surprisingly bright yellow, and somehow the spymaster pulled it off as he spoke.
“Yes, dear spider, but I’m handling it. None of them have been burned yet.”
“Yet,” I echoed, before presenting Xandros like a painting at auction, “but I’m sure an errand boy wouldn’t hurt, yes? You mentioned a lot happened while I was gone. I’ll help with something else, since I can’t go out this soon.” I dramatically spread my arms. “What about it?”
Naxy laughed. “If you want to sit, you can,” he said. “I don’t think you’re in any state to do anything, though.”
I laughed, but still sat next to the Duke while glancing at the paper in front of him. Names. Identities. Addresses. Even pictures were there—messily drawn sketches—of hardened spies and veterans, very obviously Imperial and dressed in familiar robes. I memorized them in seconds, ink settling in my head, and then looked away.
He’d caught me, of course, but he pretended not to as he rattled off orders for Xandros.
And then off Xandros went, and I leaned back in my chair and watched the Duke work.
He was very efficient, objectively speaking, even though I didn’t know what he was doing. I stared as he sketched shapes—stars, circles, and even adorable-looking hearts—on the sides of the papers in various orders, pausing in various instances to consider the shapes before crossing some out and re-ordering them. It seemed like a mangled categorical system, one that I tried to figure out but couldn’t—it technically wasn’t important to risk Ability strain on, anyway.
He shuffled the papers into some semblance of order, and then looked at me.
“What do you want?” he asked casually, as if we were sitting on a table on a terrace in the Palace with Arathis’ sandwiches between us. (I didn’t know I could miss harpy gizzard this much, I realized, even though my brother would hear it over my dead body.)
“What are you doing?” I returned. The old trick of answering a question with a question never got old.
“Politics,” said the Duke. “What else?”
I tilted my head. “You’re deciding which of your spies to kill and which ones to keep. I’m assuming the shapes either represent what state secrets they’re privy to, or some other descriptor of their circumstances…it is politics, yes. But is it more important than the current state of the Empire, which I request of you to inform me? Jury’s still out.”
His eyes twinkled. “Are you ordering your supervisor?”
“I’m asking a friend of a friend,” I corrected.
Anaxeres looked thoughtful, and then laughed. It was a belly laugh, not at all chilling, and then he spoke.
“A secret for a secret then, friend of a friend,” he said, pushing the papers aside. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick—I have paperwork to do, after all.” The bright yellow hue of his robes brought out the slight yellow of his teeth as he smiled, I thought, and then the gambler leaned forward and spoke.
“Do you love your brother?” Anaxeres of Tyche said, before he clarified. “Delawar Arathis, of course, since he’s the only one left.”
I put my hand over an imaginary wound, raising my eyebrows. “You hurt me, Naxy, you really do.”
And then I pretended to think, but really I was trying to calculate how useful the answer would be to him. He would likely reveal some sort of correlation later after dancing around the subject. I (unfortunately) was well-versed in the mechanics of aristocratic conversation.
“It’s complicated,” I admitted, honestly. “I care if he dies, and I care about him, but it would be rather presumptuous to say I love him when he would kill me and vice versa. It has only been five Daycycles since I’ve met him. Jury’s still out.”
“That’s not a concrete yes or no,” Naxy chided, before relenting. “Still, an answer’s an answer: the first new happening is that our dear Arathis is going to Bellum.” He looked up. “Greta wants us to help provoke Honos’ lovely Senate into an attack on the Mountain City in order to pick off what’s left here. She’s going to start mandatory conscription in Evlogia and Hyacinth, on a small scale to appease Delphine and to funnel the little manpower from the west to the east.”
An obvious fallout of the Eastern Fires, but in reality an easily-grasped tool for Bellum.
“Ara?” I asked, letting my obvious disbelief tange with mirth. “My Gods, she’s really going all-out.”
There were obvious repercussions because of this, but the Duke wasn’t done.
"The second new happening involves your sister," he informed me. "Princess Josephine is settling another rebellion in the Armistice, leaving Timaios and Greta to their own devices. The most likely option is that they’re planning to either release something that Josephine doesn’t approve of, or—"
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
"—Something that involves the Armistice and requires Josephine in the middle of it," I finished.
“Exactly,” Anaxeres said, looking rather pleased. And then his dark eyes crinkled. “A secret for a secret, then a choice for a choice.”
I laughed. “You rescued me,” I continued, “to increase Senate pressure on the Consuls to help with that provocation, I assume?”
Choices, choices, choices, Anaxeres had said. Here, you make the wrong one and you die. But no pressure, Sera. Even if you didn’t make the right one, you still have me. And I have a plan.
Plans in plans in plans.
Machinations in machinations in machinations.
Choices in choices in choices.
The Duke smiled at me. “That’s a good eye you have there,” he commented, with a glint in his eye that made me feel that if there was a glass, he’d have toasted it. “But debts, no matter the intention when making them, are debts after all. And I saved you, so you’ll have to save my hide in the coming days—tell me, how do you use the Ability you used earlier?”
And then I laughed again, because, as shameless as it sounded, he really was extracting information from me at every turn.
“Do you want to know how it’ll turn out if things go according to plan?” I laced my hands together and whispered conspiratorially. “I guess I could find out—but then the ‘debt’ would be paid, right?”
And so I Thought.
Hordes. Not even hordes, collections of soldiers. Craggy mountains, dipping and curving; bloody sands. Spears and blue eyes, sun glinting off steel glinting off sweat-glistening skin. Bodies hit the floor, strings and strings and strings. An orchestra’s crescendo, a baton clutched in a familiar hand; a pale devil reached out a hand, and war clutched it.
My eyes flung open, and I kept myself from looking perturbed.
Interested eyes—a blade-like edge—searching for a tool—more calculation than curiosity.
“You have almost the same eyes as Ara,” I said, purposefully. “Almost.”
He didn’t look taken by surprise, but it was there.
“What’s missing?” Anaxeres smiled easily.
I dropped my voice to a whisper.
“You’re not a Queenscage,” I said lightly.
The Song was gone, I thought. Not gone, but not roaring. Not yet.
“And does that matter?” The gambler spoke idly, but he did seem interested.
I laughed. “It always does.” And then I started smiling, before turning towards the papers. “So, about Bellum and the spies…”
----------------------------------------
The sky was split into halves, Arathis thought. And halves within halves within halves. The sun was bright as it always was, light streaming through delicate wisps of white—today was as bright as the day the Cage’s doors had opened, the Forsaken thought, and as bright as the day it had closed.
His mother had died on a sunny day just like this, the Prince realized as he blinked lazily at the blue expanse. Father had, too, when I think about it.
It had been a bright day when the assassins came and the envoys were there—but a dark night, as if the languid heat from the morning had been bottled and balanced; before being deemed lacking and replaced with a cold of an equal measure.
Delawar Katriene had died beaten and broken in a pool of blood.
Nikephoros Pax had died…how had he died, again?
Peacefully, but with an assassin’s blade through his heart.
The Second-in-line (technically, in order of seniority) to the Chryselephantine Throne let his hands wander to his chest, closing his eyes and listening to the thrumming of his life beneath his fingers.
Right here. The knife had been right there. It had likely pierced a blood vessel instead of the actual organ, and Ara found himself thinking that a quick death suited the old man.
How do you want to die? someone had asked him, once. He didn’t remember who, but it was either Josie or Sera. They asked questions like those ones.
I want to die slowly, he’d answered with a grin. Slowly, and painfully.
And on my own terms, he’d thought.
“Lord Arathis,” an attendant spoke from outside the carriage. “We’re ready.”
He opened his eyes as the door rattled open, to which a fresh-faced boy with a somewhat strained smile met him.
The Forsaken climbed out, ignoring the boy’s hand, to watch the walls of the Stronghold nearby. There wasn’t a procession in front, but he hadn’t expected one; armed Galani soldiers at the gates welcomed him with naught but a hostile nod and glance. This was the place where his brother had died, Arathis thought. Bellum. The Mountain City,
Depressing.
He could smell it in the air—a slaughter was coming.
“By the way,” he remarked to the boy, conversationally. “It’s not Lord.”
Pale hair gleamed. And it would start with him.
“It’s Prince,” said Arathis Delawar, before smiling.
It was never too early for a bloodbath, was it?
----------------------------------------
Home was excruciatingly quiet, Greta thought. And it was surprising.
She wasn’t above carving the Palace hollow by her own hands, but there was a difference between making that choice and seeing it. The halls were quiet, none of the Servants were there to spy on her, and dinner was taken alone (usually with Deimos or some other important figure that had better things to do than try to poison her).
“You’re making things very hard, Your Imperial Majesty.” The Dragon King didn’t sigh, but his tone was weary. “You’ll throw the West into a riot if you do this. Unless you’re planning to cast out the Hyacinth Duchy and give a Merchant the position, there’s no way to placate them fully.”
The Empress tilted her head.
“It is not necessary to placate them,” Dionysus’ Chosen responded, “so why try?”
Surprisingly, the Marquis Drakos didn’t seem visibly frustrated. He sounded tired as he spoke, but it was as if he had limitless patience lurking inside of him. He was conveying emotion without feeling it, those alert green eyes and that mild smile. It almost reminded Greta of Nikephoros.
He was smarter than his predecessor, as young as he was.
“Then, you have some other way of maintaining the blockade without using the Zephyrean merchant ships,” stated the Marquis. Not you must, or you should, or even the question, do you.
This would be where people would’ve laughed, finding him amusing.
Greta abstained, only looking directly into his eyes. Green, browner than Greta’s wn.
“Marquis Drakos,” she said, evenly, “the purpose of the blockade was to take control of Azareth. Said purpose has been achieved. The rest operate on uncertainties, and are therefore classified as contingencies—although they are necessary, they are not a concern.”
It sounded dismissive, but the younger man carefully considered it as if it was an Imperial Order.
He would be intelligent enough to get the connotations. She’d seen his lot.
The Empress turned to her aide. “Deimos, hand over the drafted Order.”
The paper was placed in front of her as the Marquis thought, and Greta Queenscage stamped the Imperial Order as the peacock bled gold onto the parchment. Deimos shuffled it away, and the Chosen leaned forward, ceremonial regalia draped on her shoulders drawing back.
“Are you finished, Marquis, or do you need further explanation?”
Timaios looked at the Empress for a while longer, and then shook his head.
“No, thank you. Please continue, Your Majesty.”
Greta accepted the answer with a nod, gaze unflinching as she spoke.
“I am quite sure you have gotten the papers ready for public release, Marquis—I would not expect incompetence—but I am also sure that you must have many questions about the entire plan—” she met his eyes again “—and I, of course, will not directly answer any of them.”
The Empress paused for effect, a habit she’d inherited. The other was still listening intently. Good. She had him.
“But,” Greta continued, “fortunately, I dislike keeping my subordinates completely in the dark unless I deem it completely necessary, so allow me to explain some of the thought behind this.”
A pause, that the younger man seized.
“There is a cost,” Timaios realized, slowly. Again, a statement.
“There always is,” the Empress agreed, somewhat amused, “but why barter with someone, Marquis, when I can order them?”
(Greta had always found those bleeding-heart aristocrats that refused to use their power somewhat distasteful. Power was power. Refusing to acknowledge it was easily seen as spitting in the face of those abused by it.)
The Dragon King leaned back, somewhat mollified. “Of course. My apologies, Your Majesty. Please continue.”
Interesting.
“The reason why I chose this route, specifically, was because I want to change this Empire, Marquis,” said Greta, slowly. “You could argue that this Empire has not been truly changed—or even attempted to—since the Angelian Reforms. Complacency has gripped the aristocracy, and anyone would be a fool not to see it. Or the necessity of it, for that matter.”
There were those who were powerful, and those who were in power—the aristocracy, and the Imperial Family. The concept of rulers was, arguably, a necessary one, but it didn’t excuse the fact that the Empire was rife with corruption. People feared betrayal more than their lives. And it was currently necessary, Greta conceded, but only because the tumultuous state of affairs meant that the Throne couldn’t handle another obstacle in its path.
The Empress continued. “The people of this Empire cannot live properly, because they live in fear. Of each other, of those in power—of the Empire itself; they live in fear, mostly because they have been taught to. They have seen generations of despots who are only concerned with themselves and their Victories.”
She pointed at the other papers, the ones that Timaios had brought with his entrance.
“This will give them hope. Maybe it will not last, but it will give the people of this Empire hope, that the land they live on can truly be changed.”
A smile made its way up the Empress’ face, but it was a terrifying one; cold and warm all in one.
“I will change this Empire, Marquis,” said the Ninety-Fifth Victor, “no matter what it takes.”
Because it was necessary, to become Victorious. Greta Queenscage hated to lose, because—
“I have,” Timaios cut in, “booked the venue for tomorrow, Your Majesty. And helped Imperial Aide Deimos sent out an Order. Most of the Eternal City will be in the square in front of the palace in the morning to receive your speech.”
And then the Empress smiled again, and then laughed, surprising even herself.
Father, are you seeing this from Below?
Greta the Great hated to lose, because she loved to win.
----------------------------------------
Cecilia Eva-Valeria Romus was at her wit’s end.
“Tell me that you can’t find her, one more fucking time, and I’ll rip your fucking head off—”
“What Consul Romus means to say,” cut in a familiar voice, a hand on her shoulder, “is that we’ve immobilized half of the legionaries and guards stationed in the capital on a protocol that was already gone over. What results have you found, legionary?”
Julian was starting to speak more like a politician than a soldier.
Cecilia shrugged off his hand with a barely-contained glare. The legionary in question, a recruit that was undeniably greener than her father’s prized grass, squeaked.
“As you know, P-prae—Consul R-R-Romanus, there is a s-s-s-s—” he took in a breath, struggling with the sound, but Julian waited as Cecilia stamped down on the urge to maul someone.
“S-s-s-s—unique ar-rea of Honos, that the Imper-rial population tend to gather-r in,” the legionary finished, flustered. “We’ve s-s—looked through most of it, but nothing. No s—agents, Cons-sul.”
“That man named Anaxeres,” said Julian. “He’s the leader. An Imperial Duke, and suspected spymaster of the Empire. He wouldn’t really be stupid enough to leave traces, especially in the obvious locations.”
The protocol had been to placate the patricians, anyway. Cecilia resisted the urge to scoff. Even she knew that.
“Re-assemble a squad out of a select few members from your group and sweep the area around the Estate for any suspicious activity,” the boy ordered the small legionary. “Trusted ones only. Keep this quiet, legionary, and between us. When someone asks you what you’re doing, tell them that this was a direct order from Consul Julian Marius Romanus, and not to question further. If they’re higher-ranked than you, show them this.”
Cecilia watched a small, but valuable button being slipped into the legionary’s hand.
The Romanus sigil.
“By any unusual activity, Consul,” the young boy said, hesitantly. “What do you mean…?”
Julian pressed his lips together. “Anything and everything. Imperial robes being ordered, any house that looks too clean or too dirty, even people who don’t speak Republica—anyone who knows too much, or too little. Trust your eyes, and then your gut. Do not, and I repeat, do not, engage violently with any suspicious people. Especially ones with blue eyes.”
And then the legionary was off after a vigorous nod, and Cecilia chuckled.
“Do you really think Seraphina and company will get caught?” she asked. “No, wait—this is more of a message, isn’t it? ‘I know you’re hiding around here, and you’ve fucked me over more than once but I forgive you, just don’t get caught’? She’s fucking with your head, Marius. This isn’t the Marius I know.”
Julian whirled around, an edge to him as he bit (a bit like a cornered wild animal, really. Almost endearing).
“I’m not forgiving her,” he said as if the option was poison. “I can’t go after her right now. What’s happened, has happened; but now we need to worry about the patricians pushing us into an offensive more than ever. Why would I ever forgive the girl who murdered my brother?”
You seemed really chummy with each other, seemed like the wrong thing to say; especially when there was so much anger in Julian’s face. And some very conflicted regret amidst disgust, resignation, and betrayal. Resignation…
Her heart fell.
“You knew that she would escape,” Cecilia almost accused. “Oh my fucking Gods, Jupiter and Saturn—you knew that she would escape—”
“I didn’t, okay?” Julian was almost yelling, now. “I didn’t know. I had a feeling, that she would escape sooner or later, so I tried my hardest—it was just a fucking feeling, you don’t know—don’t accuse me, I didn’t betray—” He was almost gasping for breath, some sort of vivid emotion painted over on his face, bright and fiery and ugly. He seemed completely different from the self-composed praetor who’d remained calm even after being released from enemy capture back in Eurus—too animalistic, too desperate—
“Oh my fucking Gods,” Cecilia repeated herself. “You think we’ll lose.”
It seemed like the most absolutely wrong conclusion to draw, but the stiffening of the other Hero’s stance drew a long, cold laugh out of her.
“Julian Marius Romanus,” the Consul Romus drew out the syllables, making the boy shudder with guilt all the while, “thinks we’ll lose this war. Him, of all people. The King of the Battlefield, the Minotaur Slayer, the only scion of Branch Romanus and Blood of House Roma—he thinks we might lose.”
The funny thing was, Cecilia was all out of poison and resentment. She couldn’t even blame the kid—there had been too much terror and too many losses. And Julian felt torn, she could see it in his face: he felt absolutely wretched that his loyalty had supposedly wavered—Tartarus, he was crying. He wasn’t sobbing, but his eyes were moist.
“Fuck—don’t cry, Marius.” The situation had warped so badly it was grotesque, and Cecilia hesitated before she settled for patting the other Consul on the back.
“Hey,” she offered after a while, detaching a flask from her waist. “Here, have a drink. You can cry if you want to, but at least have an excuse, yeah?”
(Tartarus, what was she doing? People were dying, and here she was—)
Julian opened the flask, and magnificently downed it all in one gulp.
Well. There went the last of the limited Eurusan wine.
Cecilia waited for a while. She was generous, even giving the boy ten minutes to process his grief before clearing her throat.
"So, uh, Marius—you know Seraphina’s brother? Yeah, the youngest one, who’s been in the capital since the beginning of the war?"
A sluggish nod. He isn't going to like this.
"Well, our sources in Bellum have news that..."
----------------------------------------