What is

Freely given, freely shared,

Freely torn to disrepair,

Freely twisted, freely bared,

Freely kept, they swear.*

- FORSAKEN RIDDLE

*Answer: a secret.

UNDER THE MOON, TWO PLAYED A GAME.

There was silence, before one spoke up.

“Hero, or villain.” Mockery stretched the Chosen’s lips. “Villain, or hero. Cowardly or brave, flighty or stalwart, false or true. Don’t we, humanity as a whole, love our little boxes? Our little adjectives and labels, our lines and limits?” The question hung in the air. “We define others in words, but words cannot even begin to define what humans are.” Arathis’ eyes glinted. “Or, more importantly, what they could be.”

“Potential?” Josephine raised an eyebrow.

“Fate is but a limit on it,” Arathis agreed. “But how far would a person go? If they wanted to remove the boot on the Empire’s neck? Would they then chop off the foot? Kill the offender? There will be no end.”

A beat.

“For who?” asked the other.

“For what,” corrected the prince. “There will be no end to the Empire’s greed—and that is the only form of eternity we can achieve.”

A piece moved.

“They say that a hero would rather save the world over you, while a villain would burn the world to save you. The truth isn’t as poetic of a romantic fantasy, really. Villains die only for themselves—that it is what makes them villains, after all.”

A laugh, from the other.

Arathis’ finger landed on the piece in the Circle. “That crown the Queen wears—it is not a shield.” He laughed. “The protection of the devil themselves? Nothing more than an empty promise. Eternity itself is nothing more than a false hope.” He leaned back. “Whether peasant or noble, hero or villain, no matter how many tyrants are slain or overthrown—no matter how many kingdoms are united or divided—everyone dances the dance of death.”

Josephine laughed again.

“The word ‘dance’ makes it sound like a choice, dear brother,” she responded, moving forward a piece. “You can put it simply—we’re all puppets. Ugly, tiny puppets on our thick and ugly strings.” She placed her fingers against the Queen, measuring its size before raising it against the sky. Through the space between, her golden eyes peered at a glassy silver.

“Doesn’t the moon look tiny from here?” Aphrodite’s Chosen asked, smiling.

Both fingertips came crashing down.

“Like you could crush it,” remarked the Princess, mildly.

Arathis chuckled. “Then should I bring you the sky?” A piece moved.

The other’s lips twitched. “But I asked for the moon.” Another piece moved

“Pah. The moon’s hardly interesting.” The Forsaken waved a hand dismissively as his piece advanced. “Now, the sky? The sky’s where it’s at. Has the moon, the sun, and the stars.”

A lilting laugh. “Is it the sky you’re talking about, brother?” She leaned forward, whispering conspiratally. “Or the Sky?”

A silence, with twin smiles under the night. Only a click broke the silence, as the Princess tipped her own Queen and winked.

Arathis spoke.

“We only live once, dear sister, so we might as well live well and live long.”

The Forsaken elegantly stretched out a hand across the board in a gesture resembling both a handshake and an offer, his grin gleaming silver as the moon rose behind him.

“Let us dance,” the Fifth Prince said.

I arrived within a day and a night, the horses and drivers travelling nonstop as they dropped us off, bleary-eyed, at a secure drop point.

And then we edged closer to the city, ready to carry out our entrance plan.

Azareth, for lack of a better term, a gem of stone and carved cliff that gleamed bright against the sun. Strips of dock branched off the Stronghold and floated above cerulean waters—it was surprisingly idyllic, all things considered. If it weren’t for the soldiers positioned outside the walls and the strangely strategic palisade around the city, I would’ve never thought it was in the middle of a war.

Mercy strolled right to the gates and shouted in rough Republica like I’d taught her. “I seek entrance!”

Immediately, of course, she was faced with knives, arrows, and the occasional gun pointed at her face.

It was barely seconds after that a soldier—a centurion—climbed down and did that stoic frown that Republica legionaries seemed to be fond of, a few paces away from the usual stab-you-in-the-gut distance.

“We are on lockdown, citizen,” he said gruffly in Republica. “Travelling merchants are not welcome here.” His eyes flickered over Mercy’s features. “Especially those of Imperial descent. Turn back immediately, or you will be recognized as a hostile and be executed according to Republica protocol.”

He didn’t immediately bring her in on suspicion of being a spy.

That...was interesting.

Xandros gestured randomly and spoke Imperial words—blue, sky, green—like he was translating (it was a gamble on whether the legionary could speak Imperi). He put hands to his mouth and tapped me on the shoulder, and I spoke in Republica finally. “We cannot enter?”

The centurion’s eyebrows edged up, just a bit. “You speak?”

I nodded enthusiastically. “S-she—” I gestured to Mercy “—doesn’t speak, or understand. H-he understands, but can’t speak. I can speak, and understand, but s-she’s the leader, so I g-g-gave her entrance appeal rights.” I deliberately spoke fast, as if I was nervous, letting my gaze flicker to the weapons every now and then.

“She’s the leader?” The centurion jutted a chin towards Mercy.

“Y-yeah,” I said, slowly. “P-p-please. Can we enter? Y-y-you can take her, I promise.” At this, Xandros’ gestures and speech slowed, forcing uncertainty before he picked it up again. Mercy looked pleased at that, making the false dynamic obvious: we both didn’t like our leader.

The centurion was sharp.

Mercy reached out. I deliberately flinched.

The soldier frowned.

“I-I’m a bagel merchant,” I continued, weakly. “Cato. C-Cato Nola. He’s—Marcus, my t-twin brother. She’s our younger sister, A-Augusta. But she’s—a s-s-sellsword. And she— k-killed our parents over an argument, before the war began. We were a w-w-wandering troupe. Travelling merchants. P-p-please don’t tell her. P-p-please let us in.”

Naturally, he was suspicious.

I cried, letting tears roll down my cheeks, cueing Mercy’s hand to twitch. I flinched and instantly ran towards the centurion....and, after an hour or two of sob story acting, I was in—

—a prison cell.

But I was in.

Woohoo!

“A sellsword,” said the centurion, in that bland tone that somehow conveyed more incredulity than any dry remark could.

“Yeah,” I said slowly. “L-L-Look, we’ve been at it for hours. C-C-Can I p-p-please have a drink?” I made a show of my trembling hands. I’d been repeating my story like a broken record for the past hour, and I was starting to contemplate holding the centurion hostage. I doubted Xandros and Mercy were faring better. “P-p-please?” I repeated. “I-I promise, on my h-honor—”

“Honor is not something to be gambled away so easily,” he returned, as calm as ever. “We will wait. For our advisor.”

“A-a-advisor?”

He looked at me grimly. “Yes, an advisor. Seems like you won’t crack.” He leaned towards the door and opened it in a deft swing. “Bring in the loon!”

We sat in silence, before the loon in question spoke.

He was old, older than old, fit for being a grandfather or a great one. Matted pale hair decorated his tanned scalp, worn leathery skin tight over his seemingly ancient skull. Interestingly enough, he wore a leopard over his chest like a skinned brigandine, but shifted it over his shoulders every now and then (but he didn’t let his obvious physical discomfort taint his serene face, which was strange).

A grape wreath was perched on his head, poetically solitary in all its miserable glory—a sorry excuse of a costume, I supposed.

The man had an unusual melancholy in his eyes, as if someone had killed his favorite dog but he needed to find the heart to forgive them. Peace amidst silence, his expression was. He invoked all types of negative emotion—pity, mostly; but I had no doubt he’d weathered his fair share of anger.

But he spoke.

“They say you see someone’s true self after they have lost, not gained. Some argue the opposite, and say that you see who someone really is by giving them power, and watching what they do with it. I seem to be torn between the two, so I ask of you—what have you lost, girl, and what have you gained?”

My lips curled, wryly. A strange question to be asked by an advisor.

But I had the feeling he knew something he shouldn’t.

So I answered honestly.

“Everything,” I said. “And nothing.”

A sad smile glimmered on the old man’s lips. “I asked what you have lost,” he chided, “not what you stand to gain.”

He seemed to be lost in thought for a few seconds, before he rephrased the question.

“Who are you, girl?” he asked. An unreadable melancholy occupied his eyes, and the sheer volume of the pity in it made me want to claw his gaze out. No. That was a reflex.

Why should I feel angry?

He was, after all, just asking me a question.

“I don’t know, old man,” I admitted, before laughing. “The better question would be, who do I hope to be?”

“Then?” he pressed, although lightly. “What do you want to be?”

“Hope to be,” I corrected. Wording was everything. “I hope—to be enough.” I smiled, a bit wryly. “I will answer one last question, old man. Then we will talk. You can...advise me.” I sneered, but that didn't stop him.

This time, he was the one to correct me. “I will ask one last question, girl—do you think you can kill the Gods?”

A sudden question that made my head jerk up, a question that came in the voice of— a God.

The old man’s countenance ever-so-slightly shifted into a man with dead eyes and a jovial smile, a far cry from the sad old man who had questioned me just now. This man—this God—leaned back in his chair if he owned it, and peered at me as if he knew me by seemingly unrelated. He looked perfectly normal, yes; but the telltale mark of his sclera swallowed whole by ink made the sight seem—

—Jarring.

Like a statue upside down.

Or a God who was where he wasn’t supposed to be.

Suddenly the grape wreath around his neck seemed less strange, the leopard skin draped around the old man’s body more fitting.

“Taurokeros,” I felt myself speak. The one worshipped as the Bull-Horned—

My oldest sister’s Liege.

The old man’s lips twisted into a grin. It has been a long time since someone has called me by that name, he mused. I’d think centuries—my bacchantes, yes. He leaned a bit closer. Who told you? The voice or the Song?

“I—”

Don’t know.

The God inspected me.

It doesn’t matter, he conceded, names can die, just as ages and eras. Far from it for me to stop them. He held up three fingers. You may ask three questions.

“Three...questions.”

My mind was afire—the Gods had never before descended below, had they? Why would they, now? Were they in danger? Was the Empire in danger? I had too many questions, and here the God was, offering me answers. Would the answers be cryptic? Specific? What kind of God was Dionysus, and how much could I pry out of him—

No.

I was thinking incorrectly. This wasn’t a human I was dealing with.

This was a God.

A God who had seen empires rise and fall, eras end and begin, and a history of heroes and villains far braver than me.

What did I want to hear?

What did I need to hear?

“What story are we in, Taurokeros?” I asked, quietly.

Dionysus laughed. A good question. Not the right question, but a good one. He tilted his head. A story of life and death, I suppose, the God said after a while, casually running a hand through his hair (a youthful gesture on an aged man). Of freedom and servitude, as well...but, most of all— he smiled, as if he’d thought of the most amusing thing on the planet —one of redemption.

Redemption.

I blinked.

“I’ll answer your other question,” I said slowly, after a while.

Ah, yes. Would you like me to repeat it?

“Thank you, but there’s no need.” Would I need to use manners when talking to a God? This wasn’t like when I was talking to Athena, where everything came naturally and the relationship was set in stone—servant and liege, the Goddess and I were, but with this God…

“I don’t think I can,” I answered. “Or particularly want to.”

That’s very contradictory, replied the other. He smirked. For a Harbinger.

I blinked.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

You heard me, chuckled Dionysus. His dark eyes flickered. Herald.

He continued, as if he hadn’t said anything special: For all humans say, ‘don’t shoot the messenger,’ they tend to do it quite often. Of course, the concept of ‘Harbingers’ isn’t very public, but still—it isn’t the title’s fault that most Harbingers turn out to be more ‘bringers of death’ than ‘heralds,’ like they were meant to be.

He raised a hand.

Angelo the Avenger, the conqueror.

A finger was folded.

Lysimachos the Insane, the slaughterer.

Another finger folded.

Cesas the Coward, the fool.

The hand was tucked away.

And you, dear Seraphina the Insatiable, the liar.

Dionysus smiled.

You are the last, dear Sera, of a very long line. And you will witness the fall of Olympus.

The words slammed into me like a sword.

“Who,” I said, quietly, “will kill the Gods?”

The old man leaned forward. Most mosaics and art pieces, although long fallen to dust and disrepair, depicted the God of Wine and Revelry as forever young and celebratory. I couldn’t deny that the God had summoned life into the hollow husk of a human, but I couldn’t say that it was celebratory youth I saw staring back at me. It was a dead sort of spark, like ashes after a bonfire—but still alive all the same, embers amidst the coal.

Greta’s Liege.

Many do not know, he said, that I used to be a god of freedom.

I did, somehow.

“Eleutherios,” I said.

Another old name.

Dionysus laughed. Yes, he agreed, they used to call me Liberator. His gaze tore through me, as if he was looking at me but something else at the same time. My wine, my song, and my dance freed the citizens from their chains—albeit just for a minute, just for an eternity. He smiled. I used to be a bridge as well, you know—between the living and the dead. Suffering and joy. Life, the divine madness. Death, the mortal sanity.

His eyes weren’t dead, not really, I thought.

If I looked closer, I could see that his gaze was the only sane thing about it.

Life is a wine, he said. It drunkens. Death sobers. Too much of one is poison, too little is not enough. He leaned back in the chair. It is different, to be drunk and to be mad—you would know the difference, wouldn’t you? Harbinger?

I blinked.

After all, Dionysus continued, you hear my Song. He grinned, baring his crumbling yellow teeth. But you haven’t taken a sip of wine in your life, have you?

Mad.

He was calling me mad.

Yes, the God said, in response to my silent thought.

A silence.

Some think that war is the most human value, he mused. Ares and Athena are the most human Gods, they say. Others insist it is death. Yet I am the one talking to you, and I am—and always was—the only God who walked this world for most of my youth.

The Song I heard—it was his.

I will answer your question. Dark eyes gleamed. ‘Who will kill the Gods?’ you ask. Well, for that question you will have to ask another. ‘What keeps us alive?’

What kept a God alive?

“Epiphany,” I recalled. “You are a God of Epiphany, as well. This—this is a theophany.” Names brimmed in my head, names I shouldn’t know. Dimetor, “twice born.” Cittophorus, “basket-bearer.” Semeleios, “son of Semele.” Dendrites, “he of the trees.” Oeneus, “flesh-eater.”

But they call me Dionysus, the God said. All Gods have many names, many figures, many portraits and personifications and Plays, but I was always one. He held up a crooked finger. I was the God of Madness. But I will be no more.

“You will die,” I realized. “The Gods will fall, and as will the Sky.”

Atlas is long dead, Dionysus responded. But why are we still here? What is keeping us alive?

Something that was going to be destroyed, soon.

“The Cage.” The words were quiet, even. “The Cage is Olympus’ Legacy.”

A wine glass was suddenly in his hand, and the God toasted my epiphany. Let us drink, Harbinger.

An ancient chalice appeared on the table, in the cell with salty air and sea-tainted sunlight.

I picked it up, and asked my last question.

“Why?” My voice was thin and fragile as I took a swig. The wine tasted strange, sour and tangy like moustalevria but sweet like the candies I’d eaten. “Why me? Why?” I repeated, my throat hoarse but my head raised. I looked the God in the eye and saw a strange form of sadness, a sadness that was overturned by something far older.

Dionysus moved closer and clinked his glass with mine.

Why ever the not? the God of Insanity answered.

And then he unceremoniously passed out, spilling wine all over the table as the possession ended.

I’d looked like I’d seen a ghost by the time the interrogations were over, and Mercy and Xandros were concerned. They always seemed concerned these days.

I tasted the salt in the air and the sunshine as I stepped out of the building with a heavy weight on my chest and something far heavier on my shoulders.

The former handed me a handkerchief while the latter patted me on the back awkwardly as I cried hard and long for the first time in my life.

I twisted the ring on my left hand as my minions pretended nothing was wrong (which was all well and good, since it was rather embarrassing). “Report on the current balance of power in Azareth?” I asked lazily, closing my eyes while leaning back on my bed.

I could hear Xandros shift uneasily, but Mercy’s tone was as professional as ever.

“The centurion we met was the head of the Fifth Cohort of the Romus Army,” she said. “It is likely he has been stationed here after his First and Second Cohorts were sent to the border, and the Third and Fourth were given to the Republica effort in the east. He is currently the highest authority in the City, although that might change sometime soon.”

“How so?”

The assassin cleared her throat. “Xandros asked around. Since he couldn’t speak, they were more liberal with information around him, even though most of them were aware he could understand, they assumed he could do so only vaguely. He can explain further.”

Xandros stepped forward (even though I couldn’t see him, I could hear his step). “Ya, well— ever since ya got rid of the First and Second Cohort of Romulus at Notus, everything’s been a bit woozy. Doesn’t seem like the victory at Eurus has been widespread, but I’d bet the news’ll come pretty soon, ‘cause the Fourth and Fifth of Romulus—the ones switched out with Romus’ First and Second—are apparently going to rest at Azareth. They’re expecting an attack here, too, apparently.”

I sighed.

“Then we’ll have to move fast.”

I slowly got up and stretched.

“Do my eyes look red?” I asked them both.

Mercy gave a small nod as Alexandros hesitated.

“Good,” I said. “Now, who’s willing to buy me a drink?”

I didn’t know what pushed me to tell them both. It sure wasn’t the wine, because I hadn’t had even a sip—the Republica soldiers shadowing us should’ve ruined the mood, too. But I did. I asked them if they wanted to know, told them everything when both of them agreed, and all of us sat in silence for a good while.

“Boss,” Xandros said, his tone twisted and strange with his once-again-emerging rough accent.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t feel bad for crying. If I were ya, I think I would’ve pissed my pants.”

Mercy was silent, but didn’t offer a rebuke, which was, of course, her own version of agreement. She remained hostile-looking, in her sellsword persona, as we drank.

I hummed, and sighed (demurely, of course, we were still being watched). “But we have more pressing matters, don’t we?”

Xandros shook his head. “No.” After being stared at, he shook his head again, this time vehemently. “I mean that not in a disrespectful way—wait, that’s not grammatically correct or whatever, but ya get what I mean! Ya feelings are important, Boss!” (Yep, he was drunk. He’d only had one cup, though, interestingly enough, but that had flushed his cheeks cherry red.)

“But we’re in the middle of a war,” I pointed out, amused but letting it show with my face turned away from the soldiers. “We need to finish this, and feel later.”

Alexandros shook his head a third time. “But what about that guy, then, Boss? The handsome one, the praetor? Ya went on a date with him, right? Does he make ya happy? Where’s he now?”

I blinked.

“I mean, we had cake,” I said, slowly, “but we’re in the middle of a war now, Xandros. He is—was—captured. By my brother. And he recently escaped, so I don’t know where he is—but making me happy would be somewhat of a stretch, even then.”

Xandros looked at me blearily. “But he gave ya that ring, didn’t he?”

Mercy’s eyes snapped in warning, now, but I let myself relax.

“Yes,” I responded, simply, “he did. He made me a promise, of sorts—but whether or not he’ll fulfill it, is up to him.” I smiled, but it was a small one. “I always give people choices, don’t I? That’s why I have you both, now.”

The boy inclined his head. “Ya, I guess. Thought ya seemed sleazy at first, though.”

I gave a snicker, before I redirected the conversation. “But, like I said, we have things to do. The reason I brought you here, Xandros, was because I need you to mingle. Laugh. Even though you don’t speak their language, just flutter around. How many days will there be, before the Fourth and Fifth Cohorts come?”

“Two,” said Mercy.

What a coincidence.

“We either need to delay them, or kill them, then,” I said. “Since we don’t have the advantage of bombs or territory, we’ll have to gather all the information we can to imbalance Azareth before the blockade comes.”

A pause.

“And we have to write a report by today. Damn, I forgot about that.”

Bureaucracy. Pah.

As I thought alone in my inn room at night, I heard a knock at the door as a pale paper was slid the door.

Written in Imperi code. I smiled.

They sure were efficient.

My smile flickered as I saw another letter, stamped on it with a familiar ivy-wreath seal.

Greta. How—

No, I didn’t need to ask that question.

I tore it apart and set a candle aflame, burning the envelope it came in as I read.

A writ.

A chain.

“Grand Duchess Seraphina Inevita Queenscage.” I spoke my new title aloud.

The Song crescendoed again.

I laughed so hard I cried.