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If in the shape of crowns, man's desires are wrought in,
And in the shape of thrones, man's wars are fought in,
Then in the shape of the sun, all dreams must be lost in.
- Epilogue, AN ALLEGORY OF THE BOY WHO FLEW INTO THE SUN, AUTHOR UNKNOWN
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EMPRESS REVEALS SHOCKING TRUTH BEHIND CAGE
Greta the Great has revealed the enigmatic Records of the last three Queen's Cages to the entire public - but at what cost?
As we all know, the Empress Greta the Great rose to the Chryselephantine Throne around three Daycycles ago and has been shrouded in enigma since. But, really, who is she?
After declaring the Empire's presence in the Queen's War, the first continental war in centuries, she has risen to notoriety for having ambition even as the First Princess: then, she was rumored to have been reaching for the Glory Prince title, to get declared Heir. Her supposed background as a Nameless, however, has appealed to much of the public, but has been countered by her exhibition of the Queenscage ruthlessness and cruelty. Yet, her politically radical views, as proven by the view today when she revealed that she would be promoting various nobilities and demoting various others, has caused much upheaval in the Eternal City.
Today, at Daystart, Her Imperial Majesty started distributing a mysterious substance at the village square that she invited other people to ingest, claiming that it was the physical manifestation of the Records. She had called various Analysts, transported from the Athenaeum of Boreas and the Library of Alexandria, to the stage and they all verified her claims. She also challenged nobles and other commoners, after sipping it herself to prove that it wasn't poisonous.
People who ingested it said the following:
"It shows you the memories of something," says one. "I don't know if it's a hallucinogen, or a drug, but it feels definitely like memories...and they all went by fast, like you were living inside a book, but it really shows the brutality of everything...I took Princess Josephine's one, and it made me want to claw my own eyes out because of what she had to do. I remember blurry images and blurry people, but I felt her suffering as if it was mine...when she had to kill that man, I felt an inexplicable pain that nearly made me forget the other bad things she did, and that was probably the point...Tartarus, I would've done the bad things she did if I wanted to survive. These kids - these children - they...really had no choice.
"I'm not saying they're not cruel or ruthless, because they definitely are. I felt her disdain, her arrogance, and everything else - and not the point where I was her, but to the point where I gained a fundamental understanding of why our rulers always turn out messed up...but this is definitely a difference from when we just had to cheer for the winner, because we didn't know anything else. There was a girl who had to lie to the world, and I'll be damned if I don't recognize why the Gods chose these children. I can say that I'll never look at the Queenscages the same way again."
This revolutionary decision caused tens of people (half a hundred, according to the rumors) to view the Queen's Cage from the Victor's perspective, and although there have been rumors that it was a hallucinogen, an engineered drug, "the memories are too vivid," says another. "I can swear on my life that this happened."
Most people do recognize that this was done with an agenda: to humanize the royals, for people to pity them. But, really, is that pity justified? This warped system has been going on for decades, and Her Imperial Majesty has just revealed why the Empire is the way it is: centuries of history, all undone by one woman.
But the Gods must have some punishment for this, reasons one.
So, as all trades and bargains go - and this really is a trade, it seems - we have received our share.
But, I ask of you: at what cost?
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Three Days Before the Battle at Bellum
Five Days Before the End of the Queen's War
BELLUM | war
When I arrived, Ara was busy hosting what seemed to me like a wrestling match.
Except with the intent to kill.
Delawar Arathis, stylized Arathis Delawar for Gods-know-what Imperial formality purposes, was standing gloriously on a ragamuffin of a throne—sitting next to his side, in an equally horrendous abomination of a chair, was (assumedly) the Galani leader. His white hair glistened under the sun in various shades of enchanting, sweat-covered pale, beads of product of Bellum’s sun glistening at his dark forehead. He was still grinning widely as the day I’d first seen him, fingers digging into the sides of what looked like a golden damask curtain draped over a Republica ottoman (with a coat rack serving as a backrest).
Again, a ragamuffin of a throne.
I, in all my sun-tainted glory, stepped out of the carriage and was promptly met with a death match.
Surprisingly, everyone surrounding the area was looking at the wrestle with shock. Unsurprisingly, it was the distant kind.
A woman was smashing another one into the ground, beating the latter’s body into the ground with everyone, their mother, and a lion’s share of ruthlessness. There was no hesitation, no break in the twisted rhythm—the blood speckled on the former’s fists and the fact that the latter was passed out (cold, didn’t seem to look like she would be breathing anytime soon), meant that they’d been at it for quite a while.
And no one’s stopping her, look at that, I remarked internally.
The passed-out (I was being generous, ‘dead’ seemed more likely) victim was Galani, based on her attire; the Eurusan golden eyes of the puncher were a dead giveaway that she was likely Cadmi.
“Stop,” I called out, smiling as I neared. No one had noticed the carriage—or, at least, Arathis was deliberately ignoring the murmurs—and immediately they glanced to two places: one, the Imperial seal on the carriage; two, my blue eyes because of course.
They didn’t stop—not at least until I strode in the middle of the match and aimed a vicious kick at the punching woman’s back, infusing it with as much force as I could. The woman threatened to lurch to the side of her victim, just enough to be distracted but unfortunately not enough to have a bone broken, and fixed me with anger as she whirled around.
“I said, stop,” I repeated pleasantly, fixing her with a stare, the victim’s blood leaking second-hand onto my shoe. (They were both drenched in it, damn it.)
I heard Ara step off his cobbled-together seat before I raised my head.
“Come on, sis,” he said, voice a low whine but still able to be heard amidst the silence. “Don’t ruin the fun.”
I pretended to be affronted, but let my teeth pull into a smile. “Ruin the fun? Is that really any way to greet your dearest, dearest sister who you haven’t seen in two Daycycles?” I casually swept my gaze. “Don’t let me ‘ruin’ your festivities, then. But do stop. Let the woman breathe—if she still can.”
I said the last bit, amused, before gathering up my now-bloodied skirts.
“It would be rather spoiling if I had to ask someone for new clothes,” I remarked. “But I did come all the way from Honos. And Azareth, before that; Zephyr and Notus, too. Let your sister have her privileges.”
Ara made a face. “Traveling. Such a bore.” But he did put his hands on my shoulders in a brief hug—he felt moist with the sweat gathering on his arms, but his skin was still dry and not—before pulling away and giving me a peck on the cheek. “Everyone,” he announced, turning me around, “this is my sister, Imperial Princess Seraphina Inevita Queenscage, Third-in-line to the Empire, Athena’s Chosen, and Grand Duchess of the Second Isle. If someone could get her a seat, that’d be gladly appreciated.”
A seat was given.
Arathis beckoned the victor near after we both settled in.
(What are you thinking, not stopping this, Sera, you could ask me, and the answer was 1) I simply couldn’t care less which Cadmi or Galani died, except for the wasted potential, and 2) This was Arathis’ little game. The second fact would serve enough to prove that nothing was as simple as it seemed, and if Ara was content to restrict himself to a small, controllable mindless slaughter, then I would give him his comforts. It wasn’t as if I could control him, either. No one could control him, just the consequences of his actions.
Also, 3) I had now at least some idea of what was going on as Ara spoke.)
“Penelope, is that correct?” the Prince asked lightly.
“Yes,” she said, and, after a quick cough from someone, “sir.”
“Like I said, there are no limits on reasons why you want to kill someone, as long as you provide them,” the Forsaken said, pleasantly. “But first, please, reiterate for the audience.”
The ruthless puncher met his eyes. Her face was mean, pinched, and she definitely looked like she would stare daggers at royalty if I cared enough to meet her gaze. “She looked at me funny.”
A silence.
“Right,” Arathis conceded. “No, ‘she was hogging the supplies that my dying comrade needed desperately,’ or ‘she stabbed my friend in the back after General Leon dumped us here,’ but just ‘she looked at me funny’.” He turned to me, eyes dancing with mirth, and started laughing breathlessly. “Did you hear that, Sera? Akila? Absolutely hilarious, my Gods.”
And then he continued laughing, something mangled but very, very genuine; and it was drawing the ire of the agitated crowd (something that would’ve caused me to step in if not for the fact that I knew—Ability and otherwise—that this was a deliberate provocation).
Penelope cut in, angrily rising to the bait, “She was a witch.”
And then Arathis stopped laughing, almost like she’d pulled a switch, but the smile still lingered on his face.
“Go on,” the Prince said with an amused wave, ignoring the murmurs coming from the Galani side of the crowd.
(They never knew what would hit them.)
“Her kind,” Penelope continued to spit, “don’t deserve to be pitied, even when their home was burned. They do magic, you know, witchcraft. With their blue eyes and symbols and ink. They weren’t even originally here—they’re not even real Imperials because their ancestors were stowaways from the Principalities. Some of them have killed Cadmi. Now we’re stuck here like rats in a cage, and you expect me to feel sorry for them? No can do, Prince.”
The last bit was more of an accusation, and this time I was the one who started laughing (it was forced, of course, but the amusement was entirely genuine). Ara joined in with a cackle soon after, with Akila standing by warily eyeing us as if we’d lost it.
“Soldier,” I managed to gasp out after a while, “what’s that Rhianite expression? ‘You’re preaching to the choir’? Well, you’re preaching at fucking—” I gasped for breath “—nonbelievers. I’m a quarter Galani, and this man over here, in case you’ve forgotten, is a fucking Forsaken.”
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
Penelope blinked, as if she’d been splashed with cold water.
But she was still angry.
“If,” Arathis said, drawing out the word, “I were a greater man, I would’ve executed you right then and there for having an absolute ass for a personality and disgracing foreigners alike.” Now there was that sharp edge to him, again. “But,” the Prince acquiesced, “fortunately for you, I am not, and currently am just mildly amused that you thought that your anti-Galani sentiments would reach a kindly ear.”
“Or maybe she just wasn't thinking,” I drawled as a suggestion, meeting those pointy eyes. “I’m told people do that a lot.”
A twitch.
Ara was still smiling. “I promised you at the beginning of this match, right? A little surprise after you finish, Penelope of Cadmus.” He turned to the crowd and addressed them. “Who of you here knew the victim’s name?”
Murmurs, and murmurs again.
“He said,” I echoed my brother, standing up, “who of you here knew the victim’s name, assholes.”
I swept my Ability forward as I grinned and drew a dagger, pointing at a member of the crowd.
“You,” I said to the man that Hints were scattered across (like flies to honey, moth to flame), and he flinched, “step forward.”
He stepped forward.
A brave man. Foolish.
I pointed my blade at his throat, just light enough for it to be nothing life-threatening, but its mere presence was a threat.
“What was,” I said, “her name?”
“Giatra,” he managed, admirably. “Daughter of Sosigenes, son of Aristippus.”
“Giatra, daughter of Sosigenes,” I echoed, wrapping my head around the name. “A good name. What was she?”
That was a rather loaded question, one could think. I deliberately asked, What was she, instead of What was she like, or What was she to you. It was a question I would’ve asked Arathis, a Crownpiece instead of a person, a what and not a who. What was she? What piece was she? What game was my brother playing?
I was a bit lethargic from traveling, but my mind was still sharp.
I could see when the pieces fell into place.
“She was the one woman who defended the Cadmi,” he snarled, now angry—he would’ve surged forward if it weren’t for my blade, so I mentally commended myself for my impeccable foresight. “She was half-Cadmi, you murderer—you killed one of your own. Giatra was the woman who said, after every fight you picked, that, ‘Oh, I’m sure she isn’t that bad, she’s just angry at the entire world,’ and she defended all of you. She didn’t even want to fight you. You saw her step into the ring and not raise her fists, and you pumelled her into the ground anyway, you sick, twisted, murderer!”
He collapsed after that outburst, muttering to himself as if he was on fire and he was coaxing himself into death.
“You sick—sick, twisted murderer, you sick, twisted murderer, you sick, twisted murderer,” like a chant juggling emphasis on different words.
Silence.
Penelope, again, looked like cold water had splashed on her.
But her words were unrepentant.
“How was I supposed to know she was a halfling? I—”
“Pick another,” Ara interrupted, raising a hand while leaning back. “I wrote General Leon for a list of his best fighters. You were on the top of the list, and I promised you three people. Pick another.”
By now, it was obvious what he was doing.
And even though it wasn’t the strategy I would’ve picked, it was so characteristically Ara that I was glad I was here: no one would be able to even attempt at reining him in otherwise.
The woman known as Akila turned to me. “Hello. Do you know what in the Gods’ name your brother is doing?”
“Hello,” I replied, pleasantly. “In response to your question, yes, somewhat. But no, I can’t stop him.”
Akila seemed to understand. “No one can?” she asked, bitterly. “He’s like your other brother?”
“Something did stop Second Brother, remember?” I murmured back conversationally. “Death.”
And then the conversation trailed off.
I wasn’t surprised when Arathis took out a thin piece of wire out of his pocket and stepped closer to Penelope, who was gloating.
(The last victim was a Galani boy who’d been about my age. Penny had looked queasy knocking him out, and the death had been quick, and yet.)
I was less than surprised when my brother wrapped the garrote around Penelope’s neck and pulled, blood beading against skin as golden eyes widened. It was messy and slow, choking sounds filling the air as the metal severed through tendon and flesh. The Cadmi’s mouth frothed with white and scarlet, yellow and red and insides and outsides spilling out as Arathis drove the string back and Penelope’s head flopped to the ground, crimson steadily spilling against the Mountain City’s sands.
People flinched. Some lurched.
I watched steadily, my Ability remaining cool on my skin like a familiar embrace or a blanket, invisible water running off my shoulders.
“And there’s the prize, everyone!” Arathis was covered in blood but he waved cheerily. “Think of poor Penny as a cautionary tale. I do believe in lex talionis, as they say: an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth and all that good stuff. She killed three Galani, so I killed her slowly. An amazing deal, if I do say so myself.”
He—waddled?—to the throne and stained the gold curtain with a deep crimson after kicking the head towards the crowd and letting it roll to a halt.
“You know how Cadmus was founded, everyone? Cadmus the Snake-Slayer, the Hero?” Arathis Delawar asked no one in particular. “He followed a cow. An Oracle—a divine one, mind you—told him to follow this cow, and build a city where it decided to sit. He did, but there was one obstacle: in that place there was this dragon.”
The Prince wrinkled his nose, as if this bit of the story was distasteful.
“He killed the dragon, of course,” the Forsaken amended, “and with its teeth he sow a bunch of bone-men. But that’s not the point, really. The interesting bit is that, after his daughter incurred the Queen of Olympus’ wrath, he and his wife were cursed and they turned into snakes. Snakes, I tell you! A Hero! Of course, the Lightning King made sure they lived well afterwards, but snakes. Calling a snake a Snake-Slayer is rather cruel, don’t you think? Like calling a human a murderer of humans?”
Inaccurate, not cruel, my Ability whispered.
“Humans all bleed red in the end,” Ara said. “We all have lives, and with those lives we have dragons to kill and bone-men to sow. But the reason why you all are here is because vengeances have mixed like oil and water, and this is a reminder that not all humans are dragons.”
Once a monster, always a monster, I thought delightfully, barely restraining my smile.
My brother, the pale devil, laughed.
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Scapegoating was a classical technique, one that usually passed through the hands of people who didn’t want to get their hands dirty. Just as Titus Summanus had been originally set up as a scapegoat for Alberta Cassia, there was a certain effectiveness in setting up people everyone disliked—people could point fingers and reminisce not-so-fondly and that was the end of the matter.
The Galani and the Cadmi—the Eurusans, if you considered the Snakelands part of Eurus, even though some people apparently didn’t—had been at odds for quite a while. There’d been a lot of finger-pointing and discrimination, but mostly the Galani kept to themselves in their communities in the Snakelands.
It turned out to be a misstep on their part (according to the historians): because Cadmus was the capital of Eurus and therefore a more established political entity, the rumors of the Galani being witches and sun-worshippers had spread to the rest of the Empire.
“You have blue eyes,” Akila noted. “Galani eyes.”
“My mother’s half,” I said with a shrug. “She didn’t end up getting them, so it passed onto me.”
I used to blame my eyes for people accusing me of doing Galani witchcraft on them when I stared at them. Don’t get close to the Duke’s daughter, the people of the Second Isle said. She’ll kill you. She’s a murderer. Cold. Cruel, like her parents.
It made me wonder why Theadora, being half-Galani and also my mother, didn’t get those stares, but I knew that she looked traditionally Eurusan: tanner skin, golden eyes.
“What did your brother do?” Akila asked, leaning forward. “Seraphina, daughter of—who was your mother?”
“She’s dead,” I responded, a bit too evenly. I was irritated from standing out in the sun with blood drying on the ends of my robes—crimson had already darkened on my foot and ankles, sticky, and I desperately needed a shower. “Seraphina Queenscage, daughter of Nikephoros the Nightbidden, sister of Greta the Great, nice to meet you.”
Akila tilted her head. “We don’t traditionally use sisters, but this case is special, I assume.” The Galani leader looked at me. “Your brother was a good man, daughter of Nikephoros.”
I raised my eyebrows with a snort. “Cyrus? Really?”
You knew him for barely a Dayhept, I would’ve said if I wanted to discredit her. The only thing he wanted in this world was to get revenge. He would’ve killed you—all of you—if he could’ve razed the Halgroves to the ground.
But, I thought, it still didn’t change the fact that he had his own sense of honor, if Akila thought that an honorable man was a good one, then that was that.
“How is Bellum?” I asked.
Akila’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “Your maternal uncle—General Leon, son of Elexis—moved Cadmi troops to Bellum without a leader in order to support the Galani and Prince Cyrus’ offensive on Bellum. We won, but at the cost of most of Bellum’s built siege fortifications—we can’t rebuild because labor needs people, and people need food: our troops have been surviving on rations for days. The situation is dire.”
I moved my eyes towards the horizon. A thick stretch of land occupied Bellum’s south, Honos in the far, far distance. “I assume you didn’t bring explosives with you, then.”
“None.”
My Ability was ghostly, cool—its fingers intertwined with mine, and I breathed in.
“How well do you know the terrain?” I ultimately asked, and the Galani leader shook her head.
“Not nearly well enough,” Akila said grimly. “At least, the terrain that you’re referring to.”
“Then we need to map it, first, and quickly,” I murmured. We can’t afford to hold a siege here, from the Fort. “I’m assuming since Cyrus was probably in a kill-at-sight frenzy, we don’t have any legionaries leftover.” That was…a problem.
This is a problem.
“I’ll take the Cadmi and first check the surroundings for any advantages we can use while making a rough map, around at least a quarter-day’s run outwards,” I spoke after a while. “You probably should be dividing your people into smaller units, more suitable for skirmishes than full onslaughters—let’s say, twenty-or-so people, most of them talented enough to survive a small fight and be capable enough to retreat without too many casualties.”
A head-on charge against Honos’ legionaries, especially at the Fort, would be a damning choice. Greta probably picked Arathis because of his indirect ways of dealing with people—even though I wasn’t sure that he had experience in war, I didn’t either—so he wouldn’t want a full-scale offensive.
A nod from Akila. (Technically, she was on equal standing with me, but I was sure she would speak up if I was doing anything reprehensible.)
I paused before asking another question.
“How did Arathis’ stunt go over with the rest of the people?” I murmured, not letting my expectancy show in my tone.
By humanizing every Galani that was killed, he’d appeal to at least some of the bleeding hearts. Aside from that, an asset to the Cadmi had just been killed: even though Penelope had been discriminative, she’d still been a good soldier. But still, an asset that only fought for themselves and their beliefs, instead of the entire Empire was one to get rid of. Ara had likely snipped any future discord Penny would cause at the root.
And now, Ara had united all of the people under the if-I-step-out-of-line-I’ll-get-decapitated banner, which might have be effective in terms of making people recognize Ara as a commander, but also completely destroyed an semblance of trust in the process: people would think that Ara held no regard for people’s lives and their best wishes (which was, admittedly, true, but also somewhat harmful).
“Surprisingly well,” Akila said, before tilting her head. “So far,” she corrected herself.
“But I still need to step in and do damage control with the Cadmi,” I guessed with a languid sigh. It wasn’t a guess: Ara’s actions had made undoubted ripples. “It’s not like I can actually do anything in the amount of time we have except call for reinforcements.”
And then the leader raised her eyebrows. “Were those your orders? ‘Take charge’?”
There was a question, an honest one.
“No, but you would know that,” I said evenly, my previous amiability taken back. I was irritated, and tired enough that I let my irritation show. “I’m not a war general, daughter of Ur. I’m an Imperial Princess that can’t decimate people like my brother can.”
Which brother? she could’ve asked. Instead, the leader just looked solemn.
“You are far, far too young,” she said, and for a second I was reminded of Damokles, who I hadn’t seen in (how long?)—but then I remembered that she was challenging my authority, and that familiar anger rose.
“I’ll write the letter to my sister,” I decided, ignoring Akila’s statement. (There was no triumph on the Galani leader’s face when she realized she’d gotten to me, I realized, and I felt even more irritated.) “And then I’ll rest, and visit my brother again. You can join us if you’d like. Goodbye, daughter of Ur.”
I didn’t feel any more vindicated by throwing a childish tantrum.
The sun is getting to me.
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Dearest sister,
How are you?
Please send reinforcements and food (for, preferably, a battalion) to Bellum as soon as possible. We'd appreciate it.
Love,
Sera & Ara
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Dearest sister,
I realize the reason for you sending me to the Second Isle and the Armistice. I refuse your offer. You of all people should realize the fate I wish to be condemned to.
I also realize that you sent out all of our siblings to protect them from the reveal that I also realize you're planning, and it won't change anything: the Empire will change, by your hand or by the Gods' own.
I treasure you dearly, but remember the our brother's lesson. You know which one.
Love,
Josie
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