These violent delights have violent ends; and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume.

- UNKNOWN PLAYWRITER

THERE WAS A TALE ABOUT A SCULPTOR AND HIS CREATION—widely known as both Pygmalion and Galatea; the former, who was a king, fell deeply in love with one of his sculptures that he’d molded with his own hands (somehow).

When he was younger, he hated women with all their ‘detestable flaws,’ and vowed to himself that he would remain celibate—yet his sculpture, carved in the likeness of Aphrodite herself, became his one and truly love. Pygmalion kissed its lips, and lo behold it became alive with Aphrodite’s blessing—the plaster fell away to reveal a woman beneath, who Pygmalion later married and had a child with: Galatea.

If you ignored the artist’s obsession—well, if you were competent enough of an artist, Arathis Delawar thought, all eccentricities could be forgiven—what would it feel like, to have your creation take a physical form?

That was the weakness of plans made during war—there was no dramatic flair, no theatricality of all the pieces falling into place; it was more of a haphazard Game, war—minimizing losses and maximizing gains, because you could not prevent losses. There was no satisfaction from slaughter—at least, mindless slaughter.

Arathis disagreed with Pygmalion, and it wasn’t just because of Pygmalion’s mindless hate of women. Without the human mind—the center of all humanity’s flaws—the world would be so unremarkable. There was no intrigue in perfection, nothing worthy of play in mindless action.

That was why Arathis indulged himself in these games—the games, and the Game of Life itself: life was too short to be enjoyed, and too bitter to be loved—but existence; oh, the beauty of existence and the people that populated it.

“The Evlogia Duchy has fulfilled their promise,” said Alina, sipping her tea while narrowing her eyes. “I have asked you once, and I will ask you again—what do you want, Arathis Delawar?”

The greenery was a pretty light green, flowers glittering a pretty maroon under the sun of the pretty outdoor pavilion, beige pillars stretching towards the pretty sky. It was hard to believe that it was Aionios in war—the beautifully dangerous Eternal City against a power of the continent.

Arathis smiled—or rather, widened his already-present smile.

“I do not want,” Hades’ Chosen corrected. “Nor do I take—I swear, those really are the only words in the Imperial vocabulary, aren’t they?” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Let me be direct—don’t look at me like that, Auntie Alina, I am fabulously generous, sometimes—I want to help my family.”

Alina’s smile turned wry.

“We both know that doesn’t answer the question, Arathis,” responded the duchess.

“Anything can be an answer to a question,” returned the Fifth Prince, laughing. “It’s more a matter of is it a correct, complete answer, than is it an answer—but I’m sure you’re not here to quibble over semantics, Auntie.”

“Such a roundabout way of deflecting, yet again.” Alina leaned back in her chair. “What is your Endgame, dear prince?”

Prince.

If it were Cyrus in Arathis’ place, undoubtedly the Third Prince’s lips would’ve soured by now. Josephine’s expression wouldn’t have changed—she would’ve just giggled and said flirtatiously that she didn’t need to be addressed so formally. Seraphina? She was used to being addressed as a member of nobility, so she would likely have little reaction. Greta? She was above reaction.

Endgame.

Hades’ Chosen threw his head back and laughed. “You see,” the Forsaken mused, recovering, “you people are so obsessed with ends. Beginnings. Means to the ends to the worlds that you want to achieve—more specifically, you all are so obsessed with your own goals, your own selves, that you cannot possibly ponder the true depths of someone else’s motivations.”

It applied to himself too, of course.

Arathis shook his head, pale hair glinting under the sunlight. “I have no Endgame—I do not want to change the world because I desire to. If I want to change the world, I will because I can.”

Alina was actually listening to his Act—well, of course she was (Arathis didn’t deny the use—all good Acts were rooted in truth)—but…

The Forsaken clapped his hands together giddily.

“What do I want?” he repeated the earlier question, smiling. “Well, right now, I want to stop my sister from running this Empire to the ground.”

I will stop her from destroying the Queen’s Cage.

The prince of death—who had not used his Ability once since it had been given to him—threw his head back yet again and laughed.

“The king, after all, cannot destroy their crown.”

My hands were shaking—I was shaking, with a bitter mix between laughter and—well, perhaps something breaching concerning waters, but that was an issue best left for later. “Damn it,” I whispered, my voice low. Not falling, but—floating?—to the ground, I shook my head and smiled. “Damn it.”

The letters glared at me, a wordless taunt.

The peacock plans to destroy its cage.

Shall the owl exit the stage?

It reeked of Arathis’ work, but Josephine’s dove sigil had gleamed on the envelope—’its cage.’ It was quite obvious, in context.

Greta’s Endgame was to destroy the Queen’s Cage.

It was a possibility—although Arathis could be lying, but I doubted he was since all the clues pointed to him going against Greta for some reason—so I had to wrap my head around the possibility of it. How Anaxeres had specifically used the phrase ‘stage’ along with this letter—that suggested communication between the two; likely due to Arathis’ typical theatricality.

No—that wasn’t the bit to focus on, here.

I had mistakenly thought that Greta would stop at uniting the continent under her reign—but it wasn’t in our genes, my Ability finished. She was aiming for more—that was why she’d brought out the tech: not because she’d wanted to allocate the other Chosen strategically; but because she wanted to push the Empire’s military reliance off the Chosen.

If her plan worked—and that was another matter—after the war (when/if we won) and rebuilding, with the implementation of new systems (that Greta would doubtlessly create), the Imperial Army wouldn’t collapse if Greta destroyed the Cage and its stream of military.

But it would be a controversial topic—how would she handle the divine backlash? How—

Harbinger.

Tapes, provided my Ability. She’ll leak the Cage records in the name of the Harbinger—

We were getting too ahead of ourselves.

The war. A game after a game—this was the more important priority, the Wisest to value—

Wisest, my Ability agreed.

But not best.

We were in synchronization again, and it fit right into my senses like it’d never frayed in the first place. But when it’d been gone— I’d been fine. I hadn’t made any stupid decisions—rejecting Mercy’s Oath. Unquestioningly obeying Greta’s orders. Provoking Julian—well, any stupid decisions that had any lasting effects.

Besides, you were the one who screwed everything up, with your idiotic conclusions, I spat.

I never said that they were correct conclusions; just—

The Wisest. I was arguing with myself, and this wasn’t productive.

The war.

Alexandros’ treatise—? Zephyr nautical trade. Potential Zephyr-Azareth blockade—?

Ara—Naxy. Josephine—Greta? Julian—Marcellus—Marianus—Valerius? Spies—Naxy and Marianus...Cyrus—Eurus? Military efforts—Eurus-Bellum?

My mind was spinning again—my Ability was at it, again, and it was only when Mercy coughed that I realized her presence. I—would’ve realized her presence under normal circumstances.

“Are you alright, Your Highness?” she asked, genuine concern flashing in her eyes. Mercy Xanthe reached forward, as if offering a hand, before she seemingly thought better of it and stopped.

“Pudding,” I said, blinking at her. To her, I’d probably been blankly staring at the letters, deep in thought. “I want to eat pudding—and get me paper. Lots of paper, please.” Of course it was a useful excuse to get her out of the room, but I narrowed my eyes at the wall after she left.

How many pieces were at play here?

The Imperial royals.

Arathis, Josephine, Cyrus, Greta.

The Cardinal duchies.

Damokles, Elexis, Delphine, and Petra.

The administrative duchies.

Alina Evlogia—Doxa. Anaxeres—Tyche. Matthias and Theadora Marksman—Inevita.

The military marquessates.

Damianos Drakos—Drakos. Marquis Williams—Williams.

The mercantile counties were probably under the control of Greta—but these were all the bigger pieces.

So many pieces, but I was playing the wrong Game.

I slammed a fist into the wall—not hard enough, not good enough, to draw blood. I did it again, purpling my knuckles as I forced myself to Think. Think. That was a capital-letter word? Think. Think.

I refused to bend. Break. Submit. Play—do you refuse to play?

My Ability was curious.

“I can’t refuse to play,” I said, shaking my head as I smiled at my bruised hand. Surprisingly, my mind was clearer—it was garbled, like it always was, but the thoughts were distinct. “I need to Think—yes, I need to Think.” A laugh shook my body—I’d always only needed to Think—before I slammed my fingers into the solid wall again.

I’d made a mistake.

I’d underestimate Greta, the one thing that was not Wise.

I was a fool a fraud not a Victor.

Think.

Greta wanted to destroy the Queen’s Cage. Arathis didn’t. Josephine was likely in the middle, and Cyrus would go along with anyone who had the upper hand and could help him with revenge. Anaxeres mentioned something about a dark horse—which meant that, after the war was over, political factions would be fully formed (not that they weren’t in the midst of forming, already).

But right now—during war—the Empire would lose if cracks were beginning to form in their system, and Imperials could be many things, but they weren’t stupid (arguably). Conquering the Republic meant more land, more titles, more resources to exploit—they weren’t going to give it up just yet, not while Greta had the current upper hand and could lead them to victory.

Political turmoil would come after.

This entire Queen’s Cage debacle would come after.

It was a priority that would come after.

I was bound by Oath—I couldn’t betray Greta. A mistake, my Ability said.

Perhaps, I agreed.

I interlocked my hands together, leaning backwards on the foot of my bed. I heard the door open—the footsteps weren’t Mercy’s.

Before I spun on my heel and reached for my dagger, a slightly smiling face greeted me.

“Your Highness, Seraphina,” the Duchess of Zephyr said, accompanying the greeting with a giggle. “It appears we have much to discuss.” The Cardinal Duchess shook a pouch in her right hand. Dominoes. She fluttered her fan with her left hand, eyes casually skimming over my bruised hand as if it was but a room decoration.

“Do you like the theater?” Delphine Hyacinth asked me, eyes gleaming.

The duchess was beautiful.

Most Imperials usually were, after having access to a century of picking only the best and most beautiful—lineages were built across both aesthetic and political preferences, although the latter did win against the former.

Wispy blonde hair (strange, for an Imperial) clung to her high cheekbones, blue eyes glinting even in the curtain-drawn room as the ethereal duchess seated herself beside me on the floor.

I’d known of the Hyacinth Duchy since I was young—everyone had.

I’d met Delphine herself a few times, when she’d first passed on the title after her father had passed. She’d been mocked as airheaded and ditzy—even now, those rumors were still prominent in anti-Cardinal circles—and her competence had been unassuming in the way that everyone had still found ways to nitpick.

But if you looked carefully—really, really carefully—she was more than competent. I’d revised my assumptions about her when she’d brought the proposal up at the Imperial council, which meant—

Delphine folded her fan and placed it on my lap, as easily as if she were hanging a hat on a coat stand, delicately unfurling the pouch to reveal—dominoes. As we’d guessed. I hadn’t taken her for the domino type, but I watched silently, waiting as she placed one on the floor before answering her question.

“I go when I have time,” I said.

The duchess smiled brightly at that, but her gaze never left the dominos. She was setting up her third one, the spaces precisely calculated, as she replied. “Plays are much more wonderful than people think—flaw encourages challenge, perfection even more. But the former provokes the arrogant, the latter those who cannot let others’ perfection taint their own.”

I smiled. “Which one do you prefer then, Your Grace? Being a person of flaw, or perfection?”

Delphine giggled. “Is that even a question, dear?” she asked, placing her fourth domino. “Perfection only comes in appearance—besides, the arrogant facing tragedy always makes for a pretty sight.”

The duchess plucked a few more dominos out of the pouch, branching off the dominos that were already there—the first domino was placed behind the second, but the second was connected to systems that the fourth were, binds and boundaries and loyalties that my Ability immediately tried to calculate.

The positioning wasn’t thoughtless.

“Myths humanize those in power,” continued Delphine, her light smile still on her lips as I watched her set up the pieces. “The people? They see those on the throne making mistakes, and think themselves capable of doing better—the throne, the crown, the Game itself is an invitation. Hierarchies are meant to be toppled, dynasties meant to be ended, kingdoms to be lost and found.”

I could feel her trail of thought—it was fun.

“History repeats itself,” I mused.

The renowned airhead was gone.

The duchess inclined her head, before she giggled again. “Humanity is a tragedy, and its history a spectacle—so very much like a Play, correct?” She’d set up the game quickly, the domino-line stretching to a number around twenty.

I could see the Empire’s aristocracy in it—she had a masterful grip on it, I thought; if I weren’t confused on which Imperial was who in the beginning, it’d have been a marvel.

“There is no wrong—or right—way to play the Game of Life,” said Delphine, placing the last domino. “Allies? Opponents? Victors? Losers? It doesn’t—and will never—matter. To play—to live, to truly live—is to enjoy the Game.” Her fingers left the lined-up dominos.

“Tell me, Your Highness, are you having fun?” the Duchess asked, fluttering her fan to the rhythm of her eyelashes. The renowned airhead was gone, I thought, as she continued. “Disregard the politics, the why, the how—to Tartarus with practicality; are you enjoying the Game?”

She was similar to Arathis—Anaxeres, too; but unlike Damokles and Elexis. Was it the volatility of their youth-but-not-youth? They were older than me, but in their early twenties, all of them—was it their age or their personalities? It matters not whether you win or lose, rather how you play the Game. How you live. I didn’t—couldn’t? Wouldn’t—understand.

A Game was to be Won.

That is what the world tells you, my Ability chided.

I had nothing I wanted to say.

So I looked at the dominos.

“Where am I?” I asked finally, a wry grin spreading on my face as my hand continued to sting.

“That would be spoiling, dear,” said the duchess with a wink.

I pouted. “Please, Your Grace?” I raised my eyebrows while fluttering my eyelashes like she’d done, to which Delphine giggled.

“You’re adorable,” she noted smilingly. Her airy voice was low now, as she pointed to the two dominos at the top of the chain. “You’re either the second one, or the first one—I have a hunch, of course, but it would be cheating if I told you.”

The second one, that sets off the game while pushed by the first one (Greta? Arathis?) or the first one, that can change the entire game.

I smiled.

“Well, then,” I said, winking, “we wouldn’t want to cheat, would we?”

We left the dominos untouched.

After my fruitful conversation with the duchess, I went out. It was evening, and while Alexandros threw ideas at me about a new war strategy, Mercy and I were sharing a portable cup of pudding that exchanged hands after we both had our individual spoons. It was good pudding.

The sunset was slightly boring, the colors muted; but other than that, the walk to the Zephyr docks was quite alright—we made for a motley trio, but the Princeblood (the name for the Zephyrean Branch of the Imperial Army) were well hidden accompanying our trip, and we weren’t bothered by any assassins.

“Would that actually be authorized?” Xandros asked, frowning.

“What, transporting the ballistae via ship?” I asked. “I mean, it is risky—if the ‘Pubs get ahold of our plans and use their weapons to sink our blockade, all of our precious ballistae are going to go bye-bye.”

I stretched. “No, if you want to use the ballistae in your proposal, your best bet’s going to be sneaking it in with Anaxeres’ spies—they’re headed for Honos, but sneaking them in with some Imperial Merchants’ illegal shipments would be better.”

Xandros blinked. “Is that why the financial partnership with the Merchants was brought up?” he questioned, quizzically. I’d told him about it, of course.

“Technically not—but you could always use it as an advantage. We can discuss it later—oh, you’re done?” Receiving a nod from Mercy, I accepted the half-eaten bowl of pudding, shovelling a spoon in my mouth before turning to Xandros. “Practicality, adaptability, and benefit in both the short and long term—that’s what they’re looking for,” I informed him. That’s what Greta’s looking for.

Xandros blinked. “So what are we doing here, though, Boss? I mean, I get it, we have to scope out the Princeblood’s navy, but—”

I shook my head. “That’s not what we’re doing,” I corrected him, before correcting myself. “It’s part of the main objective, yes; but we’re testing the depths of other waters. Murkier waters.” The Epivolous Range was the barrier to nautical trade—if you took Greta’s objective as it was, you would be trying to find a way through or around it; because, after all, you couldn’t destroy a mountain.

But people—especially Merchants—were always skilled at finding loopholes.

Xandros caught my drift. “It would usually take more than a Dayhept to integrate yourself in any Stronghold’s underworld, Boss,” he warned. “We can’t just waltz in and take whatever we want.”

I smiled. “That’s why I’m doing the waltzing, aren’t I?” I handed the pudding back to Mercy, who took it gracefully.

The Zephyr docks weren’t really docks—that, I knew. It was more of a camp at the edge of the Stronghold, at a location where it was around a Dayhept’s walk through a valley between thinning mountains to reach the left Oceanus (where there would likely be actual ports waiting).

But Merchants were still milling in the area, bustling, angrily chastising their cargo ship captains with a flurry of documents. The ban on Imperial-Republica trade due to escalating hostilities likely hadn’t gone over well—perhaps a phenomenon of the same kind was spreading at Doxa, as well; but based on the sheer amount of platin that Zephyr got from the ‘Pubs, this particular fight was quite a worrisome one.

At least, for the Merchants.

There were merchants and there were Merchants, the distinguishing capital letter being the result of being officially recognized by the Empire. Mercantile families—those with long-dating lineages—were usually those who had the best shot at landing themselves a writ and a barony (if sponsored by a mercantile county, who was usually in turn sponsored by a duchy).

I went over to the wealthiest, angriest Merchant I saw, and tapped him in the shoulder.

“Pardon, monsieur—” I laid a Rhianite accent to my words, widening my blue eyes as he whirled around, face already red from yelling at his cargo ship captain.

“Who are you?” he demanded. He turned to his aide. “Who is she?”

I yelped, as if startled. “No—monsieur; I have money, yes? Do you want de l'argent—money?”

The aide looked mildly irritated, and I was drawing attention. “My apologies, but he—”

But already the Merchant had perked up at the prospect of a rich foreigner, although still angry. “How much?” he demanded. “Can you make me the loss of a year’s worth of platin?”

I tilted my head. “I do not know what this platin is, monsieur,” I said, scratching my head, “but—I have gold. My father gave me—les mille? Yes, more than a thousand drachmas.”

The Merchant frowned. “A thousand silver?”

“No, monsieur,” I corrected, reaching for the pouch inside my robes. I drew it out, and opened it, and the Merchant stared at it reverently. “More than a thousand gold.” I tilted my head again. “Can we talk now, monsieur? I have more gold, if you want.” The Imperial Treasury did have much more gold, but—

The Merchant chewed his lips. “We can talk,” he agreed, the red from his face dissipating as a smooth smile appeared almost magically. He stretched out his hand. “My name is Horatio—Horatio Pséftis.” Liar, deceiver, storyteller. What a fitting surname.

I inclined my head. “It is nice to meet you, monsieur Pséftis. I am Sarah Orguiel—let us, how do you say, make deal?”

Horatio smiled greedily. “Yes, let us make deals.”

“I am a comtesse,” I lied, “under the High King. That would be equivalent to an Imperial countess, I think?” I pretended to look to my ‘translator’ for confirmation, to which Mercy nodded. “Yes, a countess.”

Horatio didn’t let eagerness eclipse his face, but his aide did. “Ah,” he said, casually. “I understand—it’s a sticky situation under the current…” His lips puckered with the slightest distaste.

“War,” I provided.

“War,” he agreed.

The angry mercher was gone, replaced by a smooth, silver-tongued Merchant who was going to con me out of all my money. I smiled.

“I do not understand the situation much,” I confessed. “This...edict?”

“Imperial Order,” Mercy corrected, in persona.

“Yes, Imperial Order—this Imperial Order has seemed to affect your populace,” I probed. “Could you explain it, monsieur? I’m afraid I’m a bit...confused.”

Horatio didn’t miss a beat.

“Ah, you see,” he explained, “the Imperial Order was quite well-written—well, it must be, to make it past the Censors—but there’s dissent. Not in the people, but in the merchants, and marquessates, the counties.”

I pretended to understand. “Ah—factions. I understand, yes.” He was trying to overwhelm me, but I didn’t need to dwell on that. “But I need a—navire, a ship. I need to go to the Republic—you see, my lover is there; and I—you will not suffer backlash from the High King, I promise, my father is authorized—” I cut myself off, shaking my head.

Horatio looked mildly disconcerted, but he caught my implication. “A ship to the Republic?”

I nodded. “Azareth—ville portuaire de la république, yes. I have money—lots of it.” I pretended to widen my eyes in desperation.

Horatio saw the opportunity, and took it. “What you’re suggesting is treason,” he replied, shortly, “going against the Imperial Order. If it was another…” He stretched out the silence, before clearing his throat. “But, you are in luck. I have a way—at least, that was what I would say, if the Princeblood weren’t gathered outside the door.”

Pséftis shook his head. “I’m sorry, whoever you are—” he didn’t seem particularly remorseful “—but it’s quite obvious. I’m in over my head.”

He noticed.

I chuckled, slowly, reverting back to my usual Imperi as I gestured for Mercy to give me the pudding. “Well, Face Pséftis, you’re a very smart man,” I said, delicately spooning the second-last mouthful of pudding in my mouth. I swallowed before tilting my head. “It seems you’ve caught me.” I set down the bowl.

Horatio was watching, carefully.

I withdrew my Seal from my robes, and placed it next to the nearly-finished pudding bowl.

“How much do I have to pay,” I asked, lightly, “for all your money and connections?”

Delphine watched the Sixth Princess arrive with a smile on her face.

That hadn’t been her only pouch of dominoes—putting all of your dominoes in one pouch would be...comedic.

Under the evening light, the Duchess of the West set up her masks.

She really doesn’t know, why Greta went to such great lengths for her.

Or she doesn’t consider it a possibility.

Delphine Hyacinth fiddled with the first one, deliberating, before setting it down and tapping it lightly with the fan. It fell over, and so did the others—a uniform, neat line of plates and squares and conflicts, a unity in division.

War was a tragedy, and she loved watching them.

“She really doesn’t know,” marvelled Delphine out loud, “that she’s the last Harbinger.”