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Aside from the obvious genocidal repercussion of Lysimachos’ Slaughter, there was a massive ripple in diplomacy with other nations. The Union of the Forbidden’s Agamemnon and Clytemnestra raised an uproar, and as did the Snakeland Galani. Tianya’s military House Chu—which gained power as a result of the Thousand Mile War—refused to trade with the Empire in the name of a cautionary measure. Rhianite peacekeepers were dispatched to the Empire as a precautionary measure. There were riots at Notus.
Trade suffered; diplomacy suffered; people suffered: the three components of a nightmarish time in Imperial history. The secret bastard of Lysimachos, given birth to by Nephele Evimeria and disdained by the Gods, ended up being the next Victor, but was struck down by Lightning soon after ascending to the Throne, leading to ten long years of political instability.
As such, the Insane Emperor’s reign led to millions of deaths, some indirect and some not. Which leads to:
* The Golden Rule of Ruling: Do not commit genocide. Ignoring the moral implications, it is disastrous for diplomacy and will inevitably lead to geopolitical tensions.
- RULING: A SERIES OF DO'S AND DON'TS, "SOMEWHAT SATIRICIAL"
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I HEARD VOICES OUTSIDE, and after I shot a glance at Anaxeres and confirmed that yes, they weren’t a figment of my imagination, I listened.
“He’s going to think you’re an idiot.” A brusque—but young—voice.
“He already thinks-s I’m an idiot, but you know he really can’t pick and choose.”
“What did he say again? Don’t engage violently with any suspicious people?”
“‘Es-s-specially ones with blue eyes,’” agreed the other one. “The one that escaped had blue eyes-s. I think. She was a Chosen, apparently. The Sixth Imperial Princess of the Empire—the latest one.”
“See, I told you, you speak better when you relax. Besides, there haven’t been that many suspicious people, unless you count that grandmother who offered us that apple pie a few buildings back. She might’ve been trying to poison us. You can go tell the Consul.”
“Sh-sh-shut up.”
I raised an eyebrow at Anaxeres, who was seemingly paying attention too.
Send Mercy, he mouthed.
He couldn’t use a legionary identity this time.
I quietly rose from my seat at the table, spreading my Ability across my feet as I delicately opened the door and found Mercy gathering reports like I’d asked her to. The assassin was multitasking, holding a bundle of potatoes but also tilting her head as if listening, and we heard several boots trudging against the stairs as they came near. The time was excruciatingly slow as they started on the bottom floor, one that Naxy had rented out to an elderly couple that stayed in their rooms often enough that they could feign ignorance to the comings-and-goings of Anaxeres’ colorful employees.
“Move all the papers to the drawing room, quickly,” I said, briskly but evenly. “Abandon your reports and put some potatoes on the stove. You live here, alone, with your brother, Xandros. Re-use the identities we used in Azareth. Invite them in for dinner and act like a gracious host—don’t let anything slip. If anything goes awry, jump out the window and we’ll meet you at the store nearby. We’ll wait as long as we can.”
And then I scrambled into action, pushing all the boxes of papers into the drawing room as Mercy started cooking, discarding her Imperial robes in favor of demure Republica attire that she found in Anaxeres’ costume box (it made sense: this was a spy headquarters, after all).
The boxes weren’t that heavy, thankfully: Naxy abandoned his papers and helped me lug all the boxes of official reports from his spies into the drawing room with only minimal obscenities when he accidentally dropped one on his foot. Mercy came in and shoved a grandfather clock over the door to the room, effectively sealing us in.
Unless one of the legionaries was particularly smart and realized that this flat and one room less than the other ones, it would be a temporary fix.
They came afterwards, and I pressed an ear against the wood as Anaxeres did. The Duke didn’t seem shocked or concerned, but a specific sort of grim that I hadn’t seen on his usually-smiling face before.
Muffled noises came from outside, but they sharpened as I abruptly condensed my Ability to reach into the door’s hinges and beyond the clock. The spiderwebs
“Salvēte, miss,” said the second legionary at the door, the ‘What did he say again?’ one. As expected, he was the main talker. He oozed with boyish charm. “We’re here on behalf of the Honos branch of the Romulus Army of the Legion, to conduct a routine inspection. Don’t worry, miss, you didn’t do anything wrong; we’re just here to ask some questions.”
Mercy was hesitant, like any innocent citizen would be.
“I’m really sorry to ask this of you,” she said softly in the Republica I’d taught her. “But would it be alright if I asked where your identification badges are? I’m home alone, so…if we can’t talk like this, could I ask only one of you to come in?”
(She could take one, I knew she could. It was smart of her to not call them all in at once.)
A pause, as Mercy spoke again.
“There’re potatoes inside. You can eat for your trouble. Again, I’m sorry, but in these times, safety…”
The speaking legionary cleared his throat after a round of murmurs that I could only barely catch. “We understand, miss. We’ll do our best to accommodate you. With that said, I can only show you our legionary badges if you open the door…but it’ll be only me coming in, miss. We encourage your cooperation.”
I heard the door open and the hairs at the back of my head stand to attention in anticipation. I’d already used Thought twice, and was using my Ability currently to overhear the conversation—if I strained myself, and if the situation went awry, I’d run slow.
Better not risk it.
“Hello,” I heard Mercy greet, nervously. “Would you like some potatoes?”
The legionary coughed. “I appreciate the offer, miss, but legionaries can’t eat on duty.” He sounded wistful—longing-warring-practicality—but was ultimately professional. “I’m the newly-appointed centurion of the current Cohort in Honos, miss. Tiberius. You can call me Tibby, miss.”
If it were any other day, I would’ve burst out laughing. But now, with a mask fixed on my face, I looked at Anaxeres and deliberately let my lips twitch. As if to offset the tension, he rolled his eyes in response. Somehow, it was in this moment that a fleeting thought pulled at me: This was the man who’d killed Marianus.
“Then salvēte to you, too, Tibby,” responded Mercy. “What questions do you have for me?”
And then came routine, almost mechanical questions. The boy wasn’t nervous—he was steady, firm. I couldn’t see his face, but I could picture it: almost like that stable boy I’d met in that one town, cheeks round and flushed, with fingers that twitched and gestured animatedly when he spoke.
I shook the picture off as the important questions came.
“Have you seen any suspicious activity around?” I had to give to him, he was deceptively casual.
“Plenty.” Mercy hesitated. “I stick my head out the window, I see shadows scaring me. Ever since what happened to the Curia happened, and all the news…I wouldn’t want to voice any of my suspicions. I’m superstitious, you know. My brother, he says I sound more like an old woman than our own mother.”
“You have a brother? You live with him?”
“Ever since our mother died, yes. We’re orphans. He’s out on errands right now, but I don’t think he’ll be back until late.”
“Errands?”
I could feel the faux guilt in her voice. “That’s what he tells me…but my friend, she saw him at the district downtown…”
After throwing the legionary a couple more false crumbs, about Xandros who was supposedly in debt after falling in love with a prostitute, and them being orphaned after their mother took their own life due to grief (after their other sister died), the boy (surprisingly) didn’t show any sign of impatience. Mercy kept the story plain and vague, with no specific names and no easily verifiable information.
The legionary listened, and as the conversation prolonged I almost let my guard down, except my Ability blared as I heard shuffling.
The boy unrolled a—piece of paper.
“One last question, miss. Can you read this?”
A pause.
"It’s Imperi, isn’t it?" Mercy hedged. "I don’t think…"
“It’s fine, just give it a shot, miss. Or I could read it aloud, if you want. The only thing that matters is that it’s heard.”
“Oh…alright.”
As if there were Republica subtitles beneath the words, the smooth talker spoke in jagged Imperi:
“Seraphina Queenscage, if you are listening, we need you to know that we have been ordered not to violently engage with any suspicious people. We don’t want to apprehend you…yet.” The pause seemed choreographed, stilted. Were they really reading it aloud in every household? “Our orders come from the Consul—” the words came in Republica “—Romanus, who we assume does not want to harm you. But we warn you, if you are in fact here: do not make any large movements. If you do, we will be back; even after we report back to the Consul, if you are here, we will know, and we will act. Do not harm our country.”
And then he left, after a silence in which he assumedly eyed Mercy for any visible reaction. He closed the door behind him, and after Mercy pulled away the grandfather clock and let us out, I was smiling (and sweating, the drawing room was unbelievably humid).
“We’re in deep shit, then,” I voiced, cheerfully. “Now—you mentioned potatoes?”
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“Gods, these are damn good,” I said through bites. “You really should replace Hawthorne: no matter how good that man’s moustalevria is, he really can’t top these. It might just be because I’m starving, though, so don’t take my word for it.” I turned to the man to my left. “You want the rest, or should I take it?”
“All yours,” Anaxeres said pleasantly, and after I turned to Xandros and Mercy whose responses weren’t an outright no, I polished off the rest of my portion and reached for another spoon before I spoke again, seizing the lull in conversation.
“The legionaries read it for others, too, didn’t they? The elderly couple downstairs.”
“Likely,” Naxy agreed. “I mean, I could get it out of them with a well-placed bribe, but I would rather make a decision before we do. Discretion is key.” His dark eyes flickered to me, holding my gaze after his dipped to the ring on my finger. “How much does the boy care about you?”
“Not much, after you basically offed his brother,” I replied diplomatically. “But I suppose not violently raiding the houses here is his form of an honorable mercy. If we don’t get out now, I don’t doubt that he’ll find me here and drag me back to that Estate by the hair. It’d be easier to present the Senate a scapegoat to blame all the Consuls’ military faults on…but he’s either being soft or making a rational decision because I’m not his first priority now.”
It was undoubtedly the latter, I thought, even though I didn’t tell Anaxeres that.
Julian wasn’t an incompetent, lovestruck fool. Honor-driven, yes, but never one to sacrifice the many for one, least of all a supposed greedy, ruthless Imperial like me. This wasn’t an honorable mercy—this was containment, of an accumulating force (patrician greed) that had now appeared on the battlefield.
When push comes to shove, the rock ends up rolling down the hill again.
Xandros tilted his head. “He knows my face,” my aide murmured. “And Mercy’s. Even though he doesn’t know the Duke’s, it’s only a matter of time before they narrow down on the search and ask around.” His green eyes glimmered as he met my own. “We need to leave, Your Highness.”
I know, some part of me wanted to say.
I just continued eating my potatoes as silence reigned again.
“Julian didn’t order them to flush out the suspicious people,” I said, after another bite. It was their own decision—restless little children. “He probably meant discreet reconnaissance. It was their own decision to do it—I don’t even think all of them speak Imperi. Julian wanted them to probe around and report back, not obviously knock on the door and poke the sleeping bear.”
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
A smile crawled on my face. A mistake.
“Well, that does gain us some advantages. We can now pack up and leave without looking back.”
Of course, I was saying this for the benefit of Anaxeres, who fixed me with a steady smile.
“Are you planning to leave me alone then, Sera?”
I didn’t turn to face him, merely casting a deliberately careless glance back before I finished off my portion again.
“Your objective,” I responded, “is to provoke Honos into an attack on Bellum. With my escape putting pressure on the patricians, it’s only a matter of a time.” I smiled. “Think of it as a ‘rational retreat’. Someone has to keep Arathis in check.” That much was true, at least—he’d get the Galani and Cadmi at each other’s throats in order to make an ‘interesting’ assault.
Anaxeres hmm’ed. “I don’t think the Empress’ll be too happy about that. She didn’t order you to do that, did she?”
I laughed. Really?
“Greta?” I voiced my incredulity, although blandly. “I don’t think you know her at all then, Naxy. The one thing my sister prizes above all things is necessity.” Again, that bit was true, at least. “She may trust Arathis with wreaking havoc on Bellum and Honos without doing anything too unnecessary, but your objective is your objective. My orders are my orders.”
And I will not relinquish them, was what I left unsaid.
I raised my fork and casually pointed it at the Duke the way I would a knife.
You could gouge his eyes out, a voice at the back of my head said. He’s challenging your power. Your knowledge.
Too late, I said back. It would’ve worked if I was a year or two younger, but I knew now that there were bigger fish to fry than my impulse to be the strongest.
“It’s a gamble,” I continued, smiling. “But aren’t you a gambling man after all, Anaxeres of Tyche?”
A challenge.
And then Anaxeres laughed, and it was surprising how hollow it was. It was nothing like the affable man with the genial smile, the chameleon spymaster who get along with anyone, the trader of secrets who always felt—not warm, exactly, but devoid of substance in the way that his own personality warped around other people’s, and that was how he survived: by staking his own words on how much he knew of others.
The laugh was cold, almost bone-chilling—shrill—and then he stopped to look at me.
I didn’t have to force myself not to stiffen, but the impulse was there.
He leaned close to the fork, as if it was really a knife and we were back in Notus and my hands were around his throat, daring me to grab him again and crush his windpipe (to sever his vocal cords, as I’d once done to that poor Chosen of Apollo Iason, would be an easy feat if he was willing).
The fork was at his chest, now, above his heart.
“My dear Sera,” he said mockingly, so much like Arathis, “how ever did you know?”
And then we both laughed, as if it was the funniest joke in the world, but I didn’t move my hand and he didn’t move himself.
But I had won.
Now my decision was cemented.
I was going to Bellum to witness the fall of a kingdom.
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Cagekeepers didn’t often leave the Cage, Fos thought. Which was why their fingers felt foreign to them as they clasped them together tightly. Bone-tight, peeling gold skin tightening around each other like strangling vises, that would've cut off blood (if, Fos conceded, they were human).
“Greetings,” they said, “Queen.”
The Queen—or, as her personal name went, Margaret Highlander—looked like all humans did. If Fos was asked for elaboration, they would say that the curve of her brow and nose looked slightly like the one they called Alexander the Great, her eyes shaped like the one they called Lysimachos—all humans were a bit like that, Fos reflected. Cobbled together with pieces of their predecessors, servants of history.
“Greetings,” Margaret responded, her reaction miniscule as green eyes met ones bleeding golden. “Cagekeeper.”
“The Queen asked,” Fos said, “for the Records.”
Inside the Keeper's hands they held three crystalline compacts, forged from the metal of the Gods. The prayer to get them had been methodical, careful, as if the Empress was a Cagekeeper herself, but the main thing Fos disapproved of was the sheer lack of reverence in the Empress’ words. But, they reprimanded themself, it is characteristic.
Humans, after all, could be predicted.
“Thank you, Keeper,” said the Queen as she rose and took the baubles from Fos’ hands.
“This invention,” Fos said, enunciating the words slowly, humanly, “contains a substance inside the metal. It resembles ambrosia, but not quite. Our Lord’s sister, She-Who-Gave-Birth-to-Nine—Mnemosyne—models it as a food that recovers certain selected memories. Your father ingested it, and so did his mother before him, to gain knowledge of the Chosen living then.”
Each compact had animals engraved onto them: a dove, for Lady Aphrodite’s Chosen; a screech owl, for Lord Hades’; and a barn owl for Lady Athena’s. Fos knew the current Empress would know which was which.
Now, comes my Duty.
Fos breathed in.
“This version of the invention, can, however—as requested—show these memories to other people, if the participants willingly ingest the substance. Even then, these memories will not be selective—the whole experience of the Chosen will be shown to these participants as a third-party observer. There will be no, as humans call it, ‘sugarcoating’. Every murder, every torture, every step of the way in the Cage are in these Records.” Fos had taken a long time to write the speech.
Cagekeepers used this memory-ambrosia—anámnisia—to keep Records, after all. There was no ‘current version’—anyone could ingest anámnisia and see their memories, but since it was limited to usually the Emperor who hoarded it for themselves, there was usually no need to express that to others. But Margaret had prayed for it anyway, so the Keepers had decided to pretend that they had made new Records for the current Empress, regardless of whichever treacherous reason she had behind this.
“You are warned,” Fos said, looking into this human’s eyes. “What you are planning to do, it is—” Reckless, Afaneia would say; but Fos decided to be more diplomatic “—dangerous,” they completed. “If this endangers our Lord, we will not stay still.”
“This does not endanger the Titan Hyperion, I assure you,” the other replied. “It might weaken his forces, but I am sure you are aware of what I am planning.”
Olympus’ Legacy.
If the Cage falls, the Keepers do, too.
Suddenly the Light was back and it scorched Fos’ skin, searing, blinding, illuminating.
Fos. Recalibrate. I have something to say.
Lord Hyperion—
Fos slumped, and Greta looked at them curiously as they jerked forward and up, like a marionette. It was almost disconcerting, but it was an honor. Was this what it felt like, possession? Light glimmered in Fos’ body, spilling and overflowing, burning up like a fountain in summer (had they even ever been to a fountain in summer?). It pillaged Fos’ veins like a welcome guest as the Light in the Darkness grabbed Fos’ body with the force of a Titan—an Ancient God—and looked at Margaret.
Fos wasn’t the one speaking anymore.
Legacykiller, said their Lord from their mouth. Child of Olympus, bow.
And Fos watched distantly, backed into some corner of their own body, as the current Empress did.
“Greetings, to skotadi sto fos,” the Chosen breathed. (How did they know—)
You aim to kill Olympus, said Hyperion. Topple thousands and thousands of the world, if you mean to end the Queen’s Cage.
The one who called herself Greta straightened. “Yes, to skotadi sto fos.”
Ambitious. But yet. The Titan was channeling his voice from the depths of Tartarus, where he was so now held captive. Held captive, but chained no longer. I held Ouranus, the Sky. Do you know that, puny child? I would not do that if I did not have ambition. I held my father down, for my brother to slay him—who would do that, if they did not have ambition?
He shook Fos’ head.
The Sky bled in my arms, Hyperion said. And it bled gold. Tell me, child, would I have become the Light in the Darkness, without darkness? Would I have become a part of the Four Pillars of the World, without ambition? He used Fos’ lips to smile. My brothers often said that I have no sense of shame. When my brother’s son—he who calls himself the Lightning King—came to my door in Tartarus, he was young and foolish. His Queen, the young peacock, had thought of an idea to test the mettle of humankind. He was young, but tired of being a God. He wanted to enclose Olympus in the Sky.
The Light remembered.
I helped him, Hyperion said, so I was the only one who lived. Krios, Koeus, Iapetus—they had a Titan’s pride. I was the God Above—I ruled my domain even before the Lightning King was born. But now I am confused for Helios, my son, and the God named Apollo even then. I am the Watcher, the true one.
Hyperion leaned close.
Puny, ambitious child: I will Watch you from Above. When you destroy my servants, I will still exist. While you continue to live, you will remember me. I am both Above and Below, the Light in the Darkness.
Margaret remained silent as the Titan put a hand on her head, as if petting an animal.
Feel my Light, Child of Madness. Hyperion let his Light loose, shining, scorching, purifying. One boon, from your ambition.
As He Who Walks on High faded and Fos took his place, the Titan’s last thought was but a whisper.
Remember this, Greta Queenscage, while you are still whole.
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All sounds ceased as the Empress arrived at the Eternal City square. There were three objects in her hands, and they glistened under the sunlight as Greta Queenscage began her first speech.
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Sometimes Arathis acknowledged the fact that maybe, just maybe, things would be a little easier if he had loyal Servants. It would certainly get rid of the whole, oh-no-you-have-me-at-knifepoint-what-ever-shall-I-do schtick when someone pulled a weapon on him. And it would almost certainly get rid of the beheading-and-burning-at-the-stake-this-is-what-happens-to-those-who-defy me act that had unfolded millions and millions of times before.
But now, he relished it.
The boy who’d called him Lord was now hanging on a pike in front of the lovely Patrician’s Manor—or, at least, most of him.
Arathis had made sure everyone would hear the poor boy screaming when the Prince had cut out his tongue and let it flop to the floor. And by everyone, Arathis meant the Galani leader who now shook her head disapprovingly at him.
Arathis knew what Akila—daughter of Ur, son of Chione—was thinking, but the Prince applauded the leader for not voicing her disdain.
“You are…different, from your brother,” she said, blue eyes lined with Snakeland galena.
“I am,” Ara agreed amiably. “Hope that it’s not a problem. People do say there’s a family resemblance.”
Akila neutrally looked him up and down. “Quite,” she observed—to her credit, blankly—before leaning back. “At least you’re not disagreeable like that ingrate at Eurus. It’d be a slight to deal with her. Her people are already frustrating enough, if I have to deal with her again…”
“Elexis, correct?” Arathis offered Akila tea, but she declined.
Akila visibly grimaced. “That is her name,” said the woman, “but the usual address would be ‘Elexis, daughter of Orsenouphis, child of Mersis’, as per Galani formality. She abandoned her lineage in favor of licking the boots of the Cadmi, which I understand somewhat. The ‘full-blooded’ Cadmi warriors and the Galani have been at odds for…a very long time. Having a Galani duchess who had completely Galani ties would have been…disastrous, at the time.”
Arathis sipped his tea silently as Akila continued.
“As you might have experienced, people…react badly to different people, to the point where generalizations can be excused. Back when we were…close, Elexis admitted feeling a disconnect from our home. I tried to understand when she married someone ‘completely’ Eurusan, and even when Elexis married off her children, but…” Akila shrugged. “She tried to push us out, taking away the very seats that she gave us in the first place. That is unforgivable.”
Unforgivable.
Arathis smiled.
“I can see why you got on with Cyrus,” the Prince said mildly. “The whole revenge thing.”
Akila’s eyes immediately narrowed. “It is not revenge, it is—”
“Oh?” The Forsaken made himself look surprised. “But isn’t it?”
“What are you—”
Arathis cut her off with a laugh. “It is a question of revenge,” the Prince said, covering up a giggle with a hand. “Can’t you see how this looks, daughter of Ur? Your people’s land have been burnt, and they’ve been shoved out as a byproduct of war - a war between between people that they don’t even care to know, I'll say, based on what shoddy work Imperials have done to Snakelands diplomacy.”
He watched the anger crawl on her face, like a spider.
“Based on how talkative you are, too,” Hades’ Chosen continued, “I bet I’m not the first one you’ve told this story to. You’ve already distinguished the ‘Eurusans’ as the enemy. You’ve blinded your people with fear. They’re living like they’re in an enemy camp.”
When Arathis had come in, the camps of soldiers in Bellum had been split into two distinct sides: Galani and Cadmi. They even had their own separate uniforms—there was a clear, bite-me-and-I’ll-tear-you-to-shreds animosity that Cyrus had easily harnessed with his personality. But anger was a volatile thing.
“I’m not saying that the fear isn’t understandable, don’t get me wrong,” offhandedly continued the Chosen. This was good tea. “Your people have been decimated by the Eastern Fires. If you mingle too much in the East, you’ll get swallowed, digested, and—once they get their fill of your dearest warriors—they’ll spit you back out. You should worry.”
Akila’s anger hadn’t faded, but she was listening. Probably to maul him after he finished, probably, Arathis thought affectionately. He knew the type.
“Worry later,” Ara said, “and get rid of the rot now. Why not let them rip each other apart? Establish a fight ring, fight to the death. Keep the elite warriors away, of course, but let them kill each other. It’ll all be organized, too. You know, like a more grotesque form of a duel.”
Let them vent their anger.
The Prince dropped his voice. “And then, when it’s over, I have a pretty surprise for them—if some of them have morals, they’ll fall in line after I’m done. Fear not, daughter of Ur. You might think I’m theatrically violent, but I am very, very efficient.” It was a promise.
“They’ll obey or they’ll die,” Akila said flatly. “What an effective solution. What makes you think I’ll volunteer my dying people as a sacrifice?”
When the Forsaken laughed this time, he did so with uncharacteristic elegance: he remembered the Tutors teaching him, to lean and tilt his throat back—like so—and fill it with the proper amount of mirth—too little was too much—and at the proper volume.
“Dearest Akila, daughter of Ur, son of Chione,” Arathis Delawar addressed her with a smile, exposing teeth like a cornered animal. “Who said anything about volunteering?”
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