'Nothing is too heavy for those who have wings,' they said to me.

Was it a condemnation or a false hope, I do not know to this day.

The former says, 'I scorn thee,' the latter says, 'I cannot save thee,

So pray to the heavens to forgive your sins, be as it may.'

Do I pray, I ask myself, for forgiveness or divine redemption? The former

Is freely given, freely taken, out of human benevolence; but is the latter not

Because my sins were too heavy for a mortal to forgive?

—PROMETHEUS GAVE US THE HUMAN SOUL, PIECE OF VISAVAN LITERATURE

JULIAN'S MOTHER DIDN'T LOOK A BIT LIKE HIM, I THOUGHT. Or a bit like anyone I’d ever seen before.

She was pale, almost too pale for the Visavan sun—with unblinking eyes that were almost too big for her face, she reminded me of an older, sallower Greta. Or even a greyer Cecilia. Pale hair, the color of silver flax, rolled down her neck as she regarded the man across from her—harboring hard features and a straight nose that greatly resembled Julian’s—without a care.

“Claudia, I’m giving you a chance to earn back your name,” said the man, very carefully, as if he was coaxing a wild animal. “After you were…defiled by your abductors, Branch Hadrianus sought a deal with Marcellus in order to protect you. It might’ve seemed like we abandoned you, but it was your father’s own foolish decision to part from you. Please, listen to reason. If we manage to take young Marius in hand, we can rise again and win this war. You—”

Her detached gaze passed over the pillars and instead landed on us. I could feel her eyes on my back, even though the discussion was happening a good few paces away.

I made sure not to stiffen, and Naxy didn’t, too—we were already a good few paces away, close enough to hear but not enough to stand out, but it seemed it was inevitable that we’d get caught.

Thought was right.

Still, we walked, before my Ability alerted me to the patrician following his daughter’s gaze.

“Claudia,” he said, warningly. “Their presence is likely excused. Don’t go digging up graves where there aren’t any.”

We were in the middle of the winding path, my pail tucked beneath my hand and a confiscated shawl tightly drawn over most of my head. The dress was too tight around the waist, and itchy near my neck, but the exit—that was sparsely populated, with dwindling legionaries that Anaxeres would need to deal with—was a minute away.

My feet kept moving, and they admittedly felt like iron in the maid’s tight shoes. I forced myself to walk briskly (but not too briskly), folding myself in an Imperial servant’s posture, crumpled and demure. I wasn’t sure whether to talk to seem more natural or not, but Anaxeres kept looking forward silently, as if contemplative, facing away like an actual legionary; so I followed his lead.

Claudia was still watching us. That didn’t bode well.

After a few more excruciating seconds, sweat threatening to bead on my hands, she called out.

“Hello! You two! The guard and the maid! Come here, won’t you?”

Even though I’d already known this would happen, panic flared in my chest as I stilled, but turned around.

The two servants around Claudia had their heads lowered, so they wouldn’t be likely to recognize us, but the Hadrianus guards were already looking at us in suspicion. We could incapitate them, I thought, but, one, we lacked the element of surprise; and, two, we’d cause a scene that’d draw the exit legionaries here. They were all likely trained, somewhat competent, and it would be a very, very hard battle that would end me back in a sticky situation.

The best bet would be to deal with this quietly—I’d been encouraged to keep my mouth shut as soon as possible.

Anaxeres walked forward confidently—and then immediately kneeled in an official position. I followed, bowing, before Claudia clicked her tongue.

“No, no. No formalities. Come, I want to see your faces.”

Hadrianus sighed, in a “not this again” type of way, and immediately relief bloomed inside.

She isn't doing this to just us.

Naxy rose from his bow and hesitatingly met Claudia’s eyes. I watched as she stood up and reached out her hands, putting them on his face like she was examining a particularly pretty vase. The Duke, to his credit, played the part of the uneasy legionary—Claudia tutted as he blinked, withdrawing her touch.

“‘Vice and virtue, virtue and vice,’” she quoted, smiling. “You seem like a very smart man.” And then she leaned in and whispered something that was too quiet for me to catch—something that ominously caused a flicker of surprise in the gambler’s eyes (shock—acknowledgement—calculation) and then disappeared.

“I am honored, Lady Claudia.”

Claudia tittered. “Well, I’m sure stereotypes would beg to differ.”

She knew.

It was a twisting feeling, and one I couldn’t completely discern, because this was the first time I was meeting the woman in person. I knew about her, but Naxy likely had more interactions with her, what with using her as an in for the Curia explosion, but—if she’s this smart, what if she knew about the explosion before it happened? My Ability was whirring, but this wasn’t the time or place.

Next, the noble looked to me, pulling me from my bow and putting her cold, cold hands on my face. They were freezing compared to Julian’s dry ones, moist like sno. The dread already coalescing at the pit of my stomach heaved as her face neared mine.

“Your eyes look like blue rhododendrons,” she whispered, before turning her head. “Don’t they, Father?”

Danger, beware. Or, beware, I am dangerous.

As if unaware of the symbolism, she looked at her father as Patrician Hadrianus sighed tiredly. He hadn’t looked carefully at my face, thank the Gods.

“Consider my argument and get your hands off the poor maid, Claudia.”

She didn’t, but Julian’s mother hummed as she met my eyes again.

She knew.

“You’re the one,” she whispered, very quietly so only the two of us could hear, inching closer. “That my son was angry at. But you only did what you had to, didn’t you? You aren’t a monster.” I almost flinched at that. Cold hands and cold eyes. Fractural, glassy eyes.

And then Claudia’s hands fell away.

“Monsters deserve to die,” she said, aloud to the curiosity of her father and Anaxeres, “but you aren’t a monster, no—not yet, anyway. But you are the seed, and the seed hasn’t been sown. The roots have grown, but the branches have not. You aren’t a monster yet.”

And then Claudia smiled, brilliantly, if she’d just delivered incredible news, clutching my hands as her face transformed. The flowers consumed the trellis behind her, but they were equally blinding and beautiful as her smile.

“I want to use you as an inner chamber maid! What’s your name?”

Her father’s gaze suddenly came up, and I hoped the shawl covered most of my face. I’d never been particularly devout, but I was praying.

“C-Cara, L-Lady Claudia,” I forced out, in rough Republica, trying to mimic the Tianyan-porcelain guard (the only reference I had). One of the servants frowned, others trying to place the name by mouthing it questioningly. Yeah, this isn’t a good sign.

“Cara.” Claudia was still smiling. “That’s a beautiful name. Look, Cara, how about I give you a day off right now? Come here again tomorrow. You and your cousin, yes?”

She withdrew, then, but not before whispering something else in my ear, something, again, that no one else could hear.

“You should work on your heartbeat, yes? Regular servants are at least nervous when these things happen.”

And then we were off.

The guards, who’d seen the scene and assumed our identity as verified, let us pass.

We escaped, surprisingly.

Anaxeres walked with the girl, and ran when she ran. He’d stashed a cane and two coats across the street, near the site of destruction that was the Curia. A stark, scowling mosaic loomed over the two as the girl tucked most of her locks inside a shawl that she wrapped around her neck, a fashionable knot above the coat.

She changed her surprisingly uneasy expression into a comfortable one; and they walked along the Honos streets arm in arm—as changed people, ones that belonged there. The streets were populated, but in clumps: everyone eyed each other with suspicion and tense paranoia, as if the ones walking near them weren’t Imperial spies.

Honos almost seemed like the Eternal City on a good day.

“Xandros and your assassin have been worried,” said the Duke. The words from before, with the praetor—no, Consul’s mother, echoed in his ears. You seem like a very smart man, Claudia had whispered, before leaning closer. Smart enough to come up with that plan to unsettle the city, yes? It was a gamble. One bullet, one chamber?

A monster.

He felt the blood at the back of his head, from that one night—a miracle, a gamble—dry under the sun. Guilt made people mess up, Anaxeres thought, when going under.

Guilt of deception, or the burden of uneasiness. Of being out of place. What would happen if I get caught? they asked themselves. Then they would sabotage themselves. The anxiety would get to their heads.

He was a gentleman on a walk with his younger cousin.

It was the truth.

“I’m sure they had more pressing matters to worry about,” replied Seraphina. “And will continue to have, when Mari finds out I’ve escaped. Have there been any more reports from Greta?”

Anaxeres hummed. “She’s in quite a pickle, really—I mean, you were the one who was involved in that Zephyr scandal, weren’t you, so I’m sure you know more about it than I do.”

“I do.” The Princess tilted her head. “There is a way she can settle it, though I’m sure it’ll make everyone happy. But what else? Any attempted coups while I was away? Any whispers in the ground?” Her eyes were curious, but subdued, as if still considering remaining in the Romanus Estate; but she was remarking on her being held hostage as some picnic that’d lasted a while.

What was it Anaxeres had said? She had the steel for it.

“That’s what I should be asking you, dear Princess,” he chided as he scanned his surroundings, squat buildings stacking atop of each other in stark whites and browns. “Have you heard any options on how to win this war?”

She laughed, her eyes twinkling. Both of them hadn’t answered the other’s question, and both of them had noticed the fact.

“Sensitive conversation is best reserved for behind closed doors then,” she amended, shifting her gaze to the right, eyeing two young boys rolling dice on the street. “Or when not on the run.”

There were only a couple more corners until they reached the safehouse, and no one had glanced at them long enough to remember them. Anaxeres would let out a sigh of relief, but he was still holding his breath. (It hadn’t been easy to make the safehouse, in the first place: even in “peacetime” he had planted some spiders in Honos, invested in them, laid them cold and bare for long-standing identities. Why would he expect anything less than a sudden gust of wind to topple his plans whole?)

He’d taken a day to plan the escape, and had burned bridges in the process, but the Princess was a valuable asset. Her newfound Ability that she’d pulled back in the curtain…when things stabilized, she’d be a formidable political rival. And it was when, not if.

There were very few things that Anaxeres of Tyche believed in, but this war had to be won.

Seraphina walked by his side and whispered nonsensical jokes that he pretended to laugh at, both of them cautiously observing their surroundings.

“One more corner,” she said aloud, smiling. “I still have that feeling that guards’ll be waiting when we get back. I believe it’s called ‘unwarranted paranoia,’ yes?”

The gambler laughed.

The cobbles of the city felt rough under his feet, the sky wide and open like a gaping maw, waiting to swallow the unsuspecting people under it whole.

“Nothing’s unwarranted when everything’s fair game,” replied the Duke. “You have to consider every possibility when playing the Game, so that winning’s a pleasant surprise. ‘Consider running before you consider fighting,’ as the saying goes.”

“It’s ‘consider losing before you consider winning,’” Seraphina corrected, amused. “But I suppose both works.”

They were both tense, their casual conversation needing minimal participation as the building was a few paces away from them. Even Anaxeres felt the walk was excruciating. But running would draw attention, and so the two walked through the entrance and went along the passageway to meet Seraphina’s awaiting subordinates.

The Princess, to the Duke’s surprise, accepted wordless embraces from the two of them; before flopping to a space on the floor and immediately going to sleep. And, as if this was a repeatedly recurring experience, the Princess’ assassin began to stand to attention at her left; her aide sat on the right, scrawling what looked like a battle plan down on ragged parchment.

And Anaxeres of Tyche went to write a report and deal with the consequences.

Espionage was a tiring affair.

Especially missions that were easy to execute on the surface, but in reality were anything but.

#19293700239

ITEM DECLARED UNFIT FOR PUBLIC DISTRIBUTION, IMPERIAL CENSOR OFFICE

Reason: Public Incitement

Location: HYACINTH, ZEPHYR

Author: [REDACTED]

The State of Affairs in the Trade Cities, In Relation to Current Events

It is not enough to deem the Duchy of Inevita and the military Marquessates as strictly “combat” Strongholds; the same way it is not enough to simply label Doxa, Zephyr, and Tyche as “trade cities.” Although the geographical positions of both Doxa and Zephyr are optimal to establish naval trading routes with the Republic, it is important to consider one statement, which will be established through two specific examples:

The movement of platin (both Republic— and Rhianite-sourced) throughout the Empire; The movement of Tianyan porcelain throughout the Empire.

Zephyr, Doxa, and Platin:

Platin comes from the Rhianite word “plata”, also used to refer to a silvery metal that is mainly used for its malleability in industrial and other applications. Considering the fact that platin deposits are only found in specific areas of the Republic (in Visava), and commonly in Victoria, a Rhianite state; Anthinon is a source of intercontinental trade even with its cold climate because of both its geographical location, and convenient across-ground access.

On the other hand, Azareth is the Empire’s main source of platin — mercantile ships go back and forth from Azareth to Doxa, due to the main barrier of the Epivolous Range obstructing Zephyr (the closest city). However, said platin is usually received through an arduous process, mainly a trip going around the Epivolous Range from Azareth to Doxa. Zephyrean merchants, if in need of platin, also have to transport Republica platin from Doxa to Zephyr at an already-exorbitant cost. This originally high cost to procure the imported metal, coupled with the high platin possession costs in Zephyr, has been a point of much friction between Zephyrean merchants and the Hyacinth Duchy, leading to the establishment of the “Merchant” title.

Only “Merchants” (capitalized) that are recognized by the Duchy and the Empire can trade under reduced tariffs and transportation taxes due to “economical contributions to the Empire”, leading to the rise of the “Merchant” class. This has led Merchants in Zephyr to form a very tight-knit relationship, both relying on the other for growth.

In light of recent events, with the ban on Republica imports and the use of mercantile ships in the Azarethian blockade, this tension has risen again. There have been rumors of a deal between the Hyacinth Duchy and the Zephyrean Merchants backed by the Empire, which could potentially create tensions the more it prolongs. From a trusted source, said Merchants are Oathsworn to not reveal the price, but it is a heavy one. “Believe me or not, it’s not even just the Duchess that chained us. It was a [REDACTED], making the deals,” reports the anonymous source. “The Empress on the throne is pulling out all the stops to win us this war, but that leaves a pretty mess for the Duchess to clean up. We’re not saying we’ll rebel, but Hyacinth will never go back to the same way it was before the war. This war's only been fought for what, two Daycycles? You can't seen it on the surface, but [the Empire's] changing...[this war is] more of a Queen's War than an Imperial [war] if you ask me: it's being fought more by the Queenscages, for the Queenscages, and shedding Imperial blood in the process.”

When questioned whether the offer was optional or coerced, the Merchant declined to comment.

Josephine had spent all of five minutes in Inevita, and already she hated it.

And—surprise surprise—it wasn’t just the horrendous weather.

“You both make horrid company,” she told the people in the boat with her. “Absolutely terrible conversationalists. It’s a wonder someone hasn’t tried to shoot you at a banquet.”

The one who’d introduced himself as Ajax smiled uneasily. “Thank you, Your Highness. I, too, like to think my only saving grace is the fact that I’m not dead yet.”

Alright, that remark was passable.

But everything else?

“I swear to the Gods, if it rains on top of having to travel with you both and see my parents,” remarked the Princess darkly, looking at the stormy sky with disdain, “you’ll have to bury my corpse after I drown myself in the lake and my own tears. Make sure to ask Sister for my Arachne’s silk while you’re at it, though—I refuse to be buried in anything but the best material.”

Lazarus, that brooding terror of a man, spoke up. “My mother was buried in a burlap sack,” he said, as if it was a comment on the weather.

A beat.

Josie threw her hands up in the air. “See? This is what I mean! I’ve met smugglers with better manners! You don’t talk about personal tragedies until after the life-threatening event, you uncultured—”

The other soldier coughed politely, cutting in. “My condolences, Your Excellency.” And then the grizzled man changed the subject, because at least he had some sense of etiquette, deep, deep down under that unshaved beard and unwashed military uniform. “Is it really going to rain, you think?”

Cutting off Lazarus, Josephine spoke. “It shouldn’t. If it does, it wouldn’t be more than a light drizzle—we’re approaching Armistice waters soon, and the only good thing about our territory is the weather. Not rainy enough to be the Second Isle, not scorching enough to be Eurus.”

Ajax blinked curiously at that. “Do you nobles call it the Armistice, too?”

A flicker of amusement danced across Josephine’s face. “Of course we do. Referring to the ‘military marquessates’ every single time would be a mouthful—besides, it’s catchy and it’s accurate.”

The strip of land between Tyche and Eurus that contained Drakos and Williams did contain most of the Empire’s blacksmiths, weaponsmiths, and weapons manufacturers—it was accurate to say that only an “armistice” stood in the way of the precarious balance between the two. That, and politics, Josephine thought to herself as she gazed out at the view from the boat.

Currently, she and the Duke and the soldier—it somewhat did sound like the beginning of a bad joke, but she’d exchanged conversations with far stranger people in her lifetime—were floating in a rather luxurious boat somewhere in Lake Ichor, bobbing towards the Northeastern shoreline and the Armistice. The Duke himself had been assigned to the task, to the surprise of the Princess when Greta had told her; along with a representative from Anthinon, who’d undoubtedly been grievously wronged in the attempt at a coup.

Ajax had seemed very, very confused when he’d first been plopped in the boat with Josephine to fetch Lazarus Marksman. Apparently, he’d only been there at the capital to receive his title as a newly-instated Major in the Imperial Army. “Congratulations,” the Chosen had first greeted him with. “We’ll get along swimmingly.” Major Panthon, as he’d hesitatingly introduced himself as, had revealed that he had recently won the trust of the Duke Boreas and been sent as a political representative.

“Ah, that’s why,” the Princess had realized, before squealing. “You’re a new political scapegoat! How adorable!”

He had not seemed very happy with the revelation, choosing to sulk at the helm until Lazarus had boarded the boat and Ajax had seemed the tamer one.

The Duke Marksman resembled a socially inept Cyrus, except worse and with no sense of emotional propriety at all. Two hours into the boat ride, he’d recounted increasingly concerning amounts of emotional and physical trauma in an attempt to befriend the two. It might’ve worked on other people, Josephine thought—like overly excitable Imperial guards—but the Princess had seen far more wretched backstories.

The new Duke would get massacred at the next Imperial banquet.

“Wait,” Ajax suddenly came to a realization, “Princess, you’re related to the people we’re going to?”

Josephine raised an eyebrow. “Yes?” He really does know nothing, she noted with an internal snort. He would have a field day with her parents.

“Josephine Eleanora Williams,” said Lazarus, flatly, as if reciting something with a faraway look in his eyes. “Daughter of Marquis Williams and his wife, Marchioness Eleanora Williams, formerly of Cadmus. Granddaughter of Elexis Cadmus, the current Duchess of Eurus; also known as the Ninety-Eighth Victor, Aphrodite’s Chosen, and the Empress’ younger sister. Currently, First-in-line to the Chryselephantine Throne.”

His eyes weren’t blue, Josephine noticed, as he raised his head. Probably because of the lack of Galani descent in him. The inconsistency had made Eleanora’s eyes the Eurusan golden, as well as Aunt Theadora’s—only Uncle Leon, who remained in Eurus, had the Galani blue. The Princess wasn’t sure whether Seraphina had gotten lucky, or the opposite.

“Only if you calculate succession in terms of seniority,” she corrected, smiling. “And that isn’t the way these things work, do they?”

Seraphina, likely, was the one who made him memorize it.

Josephine missed her sister.

Ajax, now somewhat wide-eyed, cut in again. “But, wait, if you’re related to them, and we’re here to stop them from doing something, can’t you just—”

“Tell them to stop?” The Princess raised an eyebrow. “I ran away when I was twelve, and was struck from the family register soon after. They won’t listen to me if I tell them to stop, but they will listen if I talk to them.”

Ignoring the fact that Greta was dangling a chance at succeeding the Williams Marquessate in front of Josephine’s face, and the fact that the Empress wanted Josephine out of the city when enacting her and Timaios’ plan, it was a break. Not a nice one, but one still.

Negotiation.

Ajax tilted his head. “They came to Boreas with very persistent messengers.”

“The reason why they’re jumpy is because of the movement in the capital,” Lazarus provided blandly, again, as if regurgitating an analysis. “Marquis Williams sees weakness. The rest of the Empire is at war. The current Marquis Drakos is in the capital—”

“—And younger than him,” the Chosen cut in. “Much, much younger than him. That’s definitely a sore spot, besides the fact that Timmy is much more inclined to side with the Empress than the Armistice in a rebellion.”

“Rebellion? We’re quelling a rebellion?” the Major said, his eyes widening further.

Josephine patted the older man on the back. “Don’t worry. Scapegoats always get underestimated. I’ll make sure you get out of the place in one piece.” And then she stretched, eyes flickering to the north of the boat. A scraggy dock jutted into the sapphire waters, a very distant—but familiar—stone structure. The boatman cleared his throat to signal their arrival, and the Chosen made sure to sweep the shore again.

An arrival without armed forces greeting us.

That was always a good sign.

The runaway Princess was home.