We are our own judges; juries; and executioners.

- UNKNOWN VICTOR, UNKNOWN TIME

“The dead sing no praises, but their children do.”

In the city of mountains, an executioner sharpened his knife. Where he would take it, he knew; but it, like most things, was a double-edged blade, and he would swear by it just as he would perish by it.

“The blind one here isn’t justice, but those who think themselves capable of delivering it.”

In the city of harbors, a judge stood and waited. She heard the Song of the silent jury, and saw the blindfold in front of her. There was a difference, she thought, between choosing to be blind and choosing to close your eyes.

“The die has been cast.”

In the city of honor, a guilty hanged stood, holding enough rope to hang one noose and ten thousand more. He was a traitor, but had stepped past the point of no return. His hands chained, he wept.

In the city of honor, a sound rippled through the buildings. Well, more accurately, it ripped. Like a beast of hunger—or, less dramatically and truer to its form, a loud sound—it crashed through people’s ears and struck a chord in their hearts; but, like most sounds did, it reached an end.

And with the end, it reached a silence.

And that silence was broken by screams.

The smoke reached heights in the sky that human hands could not, curling in miasmic shapes that painted the clouds obscene shades of grey instead of the traditional morning pale. It felt almost artistic, and so Julian immediately placed the scene inside a painting, reducing the sight to a work of art he could analyze within bronze frames, instead of destruction in the face of war.

The praetor turned his eyes towards the burning building, and after he gave himself a second of hesitation, he reflexively turned to call for his people—

But there was no one there.

Everyone had been stationed inside the building or around it for the Senate meeting, but if he ran through the military posts in Honos…

His father had been there. Even though he wanted nothing more than to say good riddance, there was a strange feeling in his head. Cogs were whirring, and bits of the result were slipping in the cracks—but he couldn’t stay still, could he?

That wasn’t honorable. To House Roma, to the Republic, to— himself.

The Hero’s blood was bubbling in his veins, the blood of Romulus and Romus, and he waited for another second, listening to the screams, before diving into the building.

There were people under the debris, some dead and some alive, and he led the riskier ones out first before ducking in the ruin again, ripping the cloak off his body to travel lighter. The smouldering beams around him had fused with the ground in a way that concealed most of the bodies, the unlucky ones wedged under the formerly grandiose pillars of the building.

He crawled and climbed at the direction of voices, ripping apart simmering remains and helping out those he could, before—

“Julian!” A command in the form of a familiar, rang out. “Don’t focus on the civilians,” Marcellus rasped from under a pillar. “Help will come, but first—” he coughed “—get Cecilia out. Evander—he is gone. We cannot replace her.”

For the first time, Julian considered the order—as if he had a choice.

“This is not a time for hesitating, Marius!” barked the Consul. “Get Cecilia out!”

The praetor’s father was wedged under a pillar, the explosion leaving a bloody patch in lieu of the Consul’s right eye as scarlet honeycomb married surprisingly proud features. He wasn’t the self-sacrificing type, Julian knew. Even to the end—and they were now at the end, technically—the old monster would still think of his country.

But he was just a man.

Marcellus’ eyes were steady as they always were, but filled with an almost mortal urgency instead of that impassive inhumanity.

Evander is gone.

There was a pause, as the boy looked at his father for the entirety of what he was and not the story behind him, before the King of the Battlefield moved.

He ignored the cries of other limp patricians, calling out for Cecilia and pushing the pillar off the now-bloodied woman when she answered.

She coughed. Her leg seemed to be twisted beyond recognition, but she still spoke. “They detonated it from the cellar,” she managed before shakily leaning on Julian’s shoulder.

She hobbled and the praetor supported her.

“Direct the people outside to call for reinforcements,” Julian responded, quietly. “Don’t walk. I’ll go in again.” The initial flames were gone, cooling into ashes as they burned themselves into the ground, but Julian was no one-man army. Even if he didn’t have to walk through fire, this was still—

He didn’t even know what this was.

The praetor deposited the other on the ground brusquely before heading back in, returning to Marcellus.

The Consul didn’t even question whether the boy’d finished the first order, beginning again. “Get one or two severely injured patricians out—preferably one of Evander’s ilk, and preferably one non-extremist. Then you could focus on civilians. Use your own judgement.”

Marcellus coughed again, spitting what looked dangerously like blood on the ground.

Julian wordlessly lifted the pillar off his father, the beam rolling with a heave to reveal—

Uncle Evander. Valerius. The body was twisted beyond recognition, fractured and broken and grotesque, blood dripping down the Consul’s uniform as the Romus descendant laid both below and beside Marcellus. The form was at an angle that suggested the unthinkable: Julian’s father had protected Valerius from the pillar, which meant that Marcellus’ back—

How—

No, he didn’t have time for those thoughts. Julian’s eyes flickered to Marcellus’ legs—they were more scarlet than skin, now crushed and likely rendered useless—in an unspoken question.

“Go,” his father spat, and that was all Julian needed.

He went.

A serving girl who went blind from the explosion. A patrician’s concubine whose face had been scarred permanently. A ward of a patrician’s secretary who would likely be crippled forever. The faces blurred together, even when more and more people were pulled out of the rubble as reinforcements came.

A boy with callused fingers and a crushed throat. A woman who’d complained loudly but fearfully about not being able to hear him, about an endless ringing in her ears.

Julian had seen casualties on the battlefield, soldiers killed and maimed with the same injuries standing before him today. But they were not civilians, innocents. Most of the veterans had killed, just like he had, and some of them had even enjoyed it. The people he saved today weren’t all innocent, the praetor knew, but—

They would be remembered as a necessary sacrifice, or a tragedy—a number, which was a role they hadn’t chosen.

More and more corpses, as Julian saved the patricians that he could, old men that selfishly moaned about not being saved first.

“Oh, fuck you,” he wished he could say. He wished he could spit in their faces—all of their faces, with their empty values and empty words and empty promises. If he reached into their souls, Julian thought, what would he find? Emptiness once again, likely. Grains of sand, falling through his fingers.

Cecilia looked at his face from her position on the ground, Healers tending to her leg, and evidently what she found led her to command him to rest.

“How long?” he finally asked her, after he laid down on the rubble and watched the rest of the soldiers in the capital clear the corpses from it. How long was I in there?

“Five hours,” she said, evenly.

She looked at the ruins.

“Rest, Julian. And never forget.”

The secrets of the Imperial aristocracy were limited into open ones (kept amongst the aristocracy), trade secrets (kept amongst members of a noble House), Head secrets (kept only among the Heads of each House, whether multiple or singular), and personal secrets.

Who was cheating on whom, who was marrying whom, who was having a secret business deal with whom—Josephine knew it all. Of course, she wasn’t omniscient—could anyone be, really? Well, the more pertinent question was, could any mortal survive being omniscient?

“Timaios,” she greeted, smiling.

The Dragon King—now Marquis Drakos—wordlessly slid a file across the table with little but a trained smile.

“Josephine.”

The man was beautiful, and enunciated his words with the same beauty, delicate syllables all spun and lilted. This was Timaios, not the Timaios you could see when you opened a door to the room in the palace, but the king of the social circles Timaios—

The one who she’d toppled.

Josephine’s grin grew wider, taking the file in hand and opening it like a book as she scanned it. Secrets atop of secrets, dates and times and pictures and confessions, records layered on documents and papers. Exactly what she needed. She hummed, before looking up. “Is this the only piece you’ve given someone, Marquis?”

“No,” the other returned, smoothly. “I’ve dealt with your younger sister—she’s seen the same files.”

Seraphina.

“A copy, I’m guessing,” responded Josie, looking back down to finish perusing the last page. “And these are the originals?”

The other smiled, dryly. “Would there be a use lying to you?” Avoiding the question, leaving the topic open to discussion. He hadn’t claimed them as a copy or original, so there was no lie to be deemed useless.

“There would be no use,” she conceded, setting down the files to meet the other’s eyes, “when I could easily force the truth out of you.” That was how she’d taken over his influence when she’d set her mind on it—she’d charmed all of the nobles, one by one, before setting up one last spar (that Timaios had lost). It was only the position he’d lost, technically; and a number of his contacts; but the man was still in the game.

He was just operating on a smaller scale.

Timaios smiled, and it reached his eyes, but his lips were full of careful genuinity. “But that wouldn’t be fun at all, would it?”

Josephine snorted, amused. “Fun? You must be confusing me with Arathis, Timaios. If I wanted to take your allegiance from you right now, I could. And I would. Fun has nothing to do with our conversation.”

The Marquis’ tone was even and dancing. “It’s always necessity that drives us, yes. But different forms of it, no?”

But she was curious.

“I must admit,” she said, “I have a particularly burning question.” She leaned forward, tainting her voice with a bit of her Ability. “Why did you accept it? Your place in the marquessate?” Why?

Why, did the socialite who prized his position so much, go back to his father who he hated? The Dragon King, after all, hated his family—that she knew, from deductions and sharings of secrets under darkness.

It was a perfectly innocent question, she thought to herself, smiling.

She had asked people things far worse.

Timaios’ eyes twinkled. “You used it, didn’t you?” he asked. “Your power— ‘Ability,’ I suppose.”

Josie winked in response. “If you answer my question, I’ll answer yours. That’s the way these things go.”

That was the way the noble circles worked—an illusion of trade, a balance that always managed to tip in the favor of the person with more power. The one who knew more people, who could cash in the right favors at the right times, who everyone owed debts and feared late payments—that was the one who won.

Was she cheating, by using her Ability?

If anyone thought it was unfair, they could come and take it from her.

Josephine slept with a knife under her pillow—the very knife that she had killed the last Chosen with, just to remind herself that she had been given the choice to not choose, and had lied to herself that she would have to do, or die.

She had never been too keen on dying.

“Then I’ll go first.” After he provided the courtesy, Timaios spoke. “You already overthrew me. I would say I moved on because it would be bad sport to keep clinging to a title that wasn’t mine, but—” he shrugged. “We both know that’s not the reason.”

Josephine raised her eyebrows. “Then what is?” she asked.

Green eyes gleamed. “I wanted it back,” he replied. “So I took something that was the same weight.”

“Iron can never be gold, though,” Josephine returned.

“But you can make it so,” he countered. “And I will.”

“You can only make it so,” she corrected, “by stealing someone else’s gold and replacing it with iron. And how long will it be, before they notice?”

Timaios looked at her. “It’s not the crown I’m going for, Josephine,” he said, his smile fading from his lips. “I don’t want the Throne’s leftovers. I’ll make what I have mine, and defend it to the end. I don’t want any more.”

The Princess turned her golden eyes towards him. “Make sure to keep it that way, then,” she said after a while, lips curling. “I may be magnanimous, but I won’t accept this turning out to be a lie.”

They had all lied to her.

She had heard the same sentence—

I don’t want any more, Josie.

I don’t need to escape the Cage.

I just need you.

Pah.

“I won’t,” the Chosen repeated, “be lied to again.”

In Azareth, I saw the docks glisten with blood. Well, I couldn’t smell—or see—the blood from here, or feel it in the air (I wasn’t a shark, for one), but it was there. The Harbor City was, of course, known for its harbors that paved a connection with the Empire from the east; and I’d known we’d have to conquer it, sooner or later; but the whole concept itself was strange.

Domestic administration was a strange thing. You had to keep a city fed and alive, and even then you had to keep them divided and united at the same time. Political infighting was political infighting, but there would be no government if there were no people to govern over.

It was a fact that people tended to ignore at the worst of times.

Inside me was a sense of foreboding. Some way—some how—something was going to happen today

I sighed, and spoke into the night.

Or, well, for Mercy.

“I feel like someone’s chasing me. Always have, in fact.” The words rolled out of my mouth. “It started after the Cage, in fact. You know what people say, about the wheel of fate turning its turns, and bad people getting what they deserve and good people getting sent good things their way? When you act like a hero, you become one—when you act like a villain, you become one. I’m not a hero, so technically I must be the villain, don’t I?”

I turned towards the sky.

“The wheel hasn’t turned—or maybe it has, I don’t know. But it’s turning, and all these good things that I’ve been getting—everything I’ve wanted, I’ve gotten. Ever since those bars opened, the rug I’ve been standing on hasn’t been pulled out from under me once. No one has taken anything from me in the way that, well—I haven’t lost everything, like villains deserve to.”

I laughed.

Mercy looked, not for the first time, genuinely concerned.

“‘Deserve,’” I continued. “That’s such a strange word, isn’t it? If a villain truly regrets their actions, if they repent and repent and repent, who forgives them but the hero?” I turned. “It’s always a question of whether or not they deserve redemption, but never whether or not they’ll take it. The villain isn’t given a choice, on whether they’ll take the easy way out or the hard way—and, even if they are, it’s never a choice. The easy way’s never easy, and the hard way’s never a way.”

A laugh broke free from the cages of my throat.

Didn’t that sum up my choices.

I shook my head, self-mockingly. “I chose, but I didn’t. Sometimes, I go out there and make my choices and expect someone to jump me—I’ve got it all planned out, actually. They’ll take me by the shoulders and yell real loud, ‘Seraphina Queenscage, I’ve come to absolve you of all your crimes!’ and then they’ll just chop off my head, and I’ll die. Real painless, preferably.”

And then I wouldn’t hear the ticking. Or feel the Ability in my system, feel that weight on my shoulders.

The words just didn’t stop coming.

“You’d think, at least once, I would’ve looked at the blood on my hands and thought to myself, ‘What have I done?’ And I have, I’ve looked at the blood on my hands but I’ve never thought anything like that.” I laughed, strangled and twisted. “If I had the choice,” I said in a lower voice, more a whisper than a confession, “if I could do everything all over again, I don’t think I would change a thing.”

I threw my hands up in the air.

“But we’ll never know, will we? We’ll never know, if Seraphina Queenscage ever deserves redemption—because there’s no one to give it to her.”

Poor, little Seraphina—a wretched little thing, a bad person and an even worse Harbinger, a girl who faced the supposed best of the best and came out Victorious, becoming the worst of the worst.

Would that be what I would be remembered for?

“So many questions,” I said, my voice ragged.

Who was I?

What did I want?

Would I ever be satisfied?

Another laugh, at the sheer unbelievability and theatricality of everything. “Seraphina,” I said with a snort, my eyes dry and lips even dryer, “a poor, wretched little girl with too many questions and not enough answers.”

A girl who wanted to change it all.

But couldn’t even change herself.

The Mountain City had a splendid view of the Draconian Peaks, the Prince thought. The peaks themselves weren’t mist-ridden mountains, full of frost and curving slopes—more craggy, jagged pieces of rock jabbed into the soil like broken, bloodied swords. They were draconian, Cyrus supposed—fitting for their name. The pillars towered in the distance, looming like a regime, faraway yet closer still.

He’d been to Bellum before, back when he was a Halgrove scion and Hortensia had made it mandatory for him to “get to know” fellow patrician families.

(He’d barely dodged an engagement bullet there, really.)

Now, his former potential-fiance looked at him with incomprehension.

“‘How are you’? You literally took over my city in a day, you asshole,” said Cedric, but with none of the venom Cyrus had expected.

“Your city? I’d have thought a stuck-up like you knew nothing about handing one.” An almost familiar dynamic came unbidden to Cyrus’ lips, and the Prince smiled. “Long time no see, Ceddy Ced.”

Cedric scowled. “You left me hanging for fifteen years, and now you decide to show up—asshole.” He held his tied wrists up. “You come only when you need me? I’m sure you have pretty people all lining up to be your friend in the Empire. What’s their name?”

“The only friend I have,” Cyrus said, “is you, my dearest friend.”

The other scoffed in return, before pausing. “But, you’re taking my city? Forever?” He emphasized the words with a raised eyebrow, but he looked surprisingly nonchalant.

“If you’ll have me,” returned the Lightning Prince.

Cedric snorted.

“I always do, dumbass,” he murmured. “You were always better at this city stuff. Just don’t destroy it, alright?”

“I always do, dumbass,” he murmured. “You were always better at this city stuff. Just don’t destroy it, alright?” The Prince’s former lover looked at the Galani guards surrounding them. “Isn’t this kind of, you know, invasive? I’m tied up, I genuinely can’t kill you.”

Cyrus shrugged. “Precautions. You know the drill.”

“I do. Just think that this would need some privacy.” Cedric’s ease didn’t melt away as he paused, not hesitating but rearranging his words. “Are you still going back to them, Cy?” was the final question.

“Going back?” Cyrus raised his eyebrows. Cedric was still the same as ever, “I’m returning to destroy them, not to re-join their family.” He didn’t swear, or convey heat in his tone, but the other’s eyes were strange.

They were always clear, those eyes.

“They deserve to die,” repeated Cyrus.

Cedric shrugged—or at least, tried to. “I never said they didn’t. You know best. It’s your life.” Those damn eyes— “But you didn’t answer my question.”

The air turned electric.

“Do I have to?” asked the Prince, quietly. “I could pluck your eyes out in an instant, not to mention your tongue. Why should I heed your words?”

He was angry.

But why was he angry? There was no reason to be angry. He was always angry, these days—but anger was the only thing that drove him, the only thing that was left. Cyrus had nothing—arguably everything, but nothing. But that anger was what had driven him to pick up that first piece, set down that first brick, think of that first plan.

He made foolish deals, he did foolish things.

He was a fool, really, for thinking that his anger was more warranted, deserved—better—than others’.

“Do it,” Cedric replied, softly. “You always liked my eyes, didn’t you? Take them.”

So clear.

The Lightning he could call in an instant, incinerated his past.

But it clung to him still.

“But what use would it have?” murmured Cyrus quietly, his own voice such a whisper he barely felt the words pass through his lips.

Somehow, Cedric caught it.

“I don’t know,” admitted the other. “But you must think I’m weak, don’t you? That’s why you didn’t take any further interest in me, even though my mother’s Patrician of Bellum—because you didn’t think we would balance each other out. Back then, you told me you thought you were weak, for feeling kindness. Empathy.”

The truth felt almost embarrassing, Cyrus thought. Such a far yet near cry from the present.

“I knew,” Cedric continued, “that when I heard the news—that you were whipped and exiled, for rescuing an exile—you were weak. I was weak—I still am, now. But you stood to the last breath, to the last stroke, didn’t you? Back then I knew you as the guy who I was nearly engaged to, and slept with on occasion—a boy I shared a similarity with, because everyone called us both weak. But that was where the comparison ended, for me.”

“Are you going to call me weak, for going back to them?” the Prince asked.

“Yes,” Cedric said. “But if you forgave them, you would be even weaker.”

The words burst open. “Then what? Why are you all so obsessed with telling me what to do? Why are you all— not giving me a choice?” His voice caught, at those last words. His eyes burned, and the Lightning sang as it was about to descend. “I never had a choice—you all never gave me a choice. They attacked first, they—you all— just didn’t leave me alone.”

Cyrus shook his head. “Choosing not to choose? Forging your own path?” His voice cracked. “All lies. There’s never a third choice. They never leave you alone. It’s always two paths—to fight, or to flee. To win, or to lose. You can’t stop once you’ve started, and you can’t finish what you’ve begun.”

“Forgive yourself, Cyrus,” replied the other, quietly.

“I am not sorry,” spat the Lightning Prince, “because there’s nothing to seek forgiveness for.”

His old friend just shook his head.

"Forgive me, then."

The rope around his friend's wrists snapped, and the Galani guards yelled as those clear eyes shot close to Cyrus' own, and hands were wrapped around the Prince's neck.

The Lightning, for once, wasn't fast enough.

Two bodies were scorched to cinders.