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“My son, you are of the gens Julii. Your ancestors looked to the night sky when there was nothing but drips of light in the darkness. Roads they built to stitch that light together. You are also of the gens Barca, guardians of the human race. You will be hated and you will hate. You will love and be loved. You will fall and you will rise. Never will you know peace, but you will know joy. You may even sail the dark seas in ships and lie beside nymphs in alien woods. You are your father’s son. Forever my boy. Forever our Ulysses.”
Homo bellicus,
Homo logicus.
Homo au...
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
He sneers at the gun. “No honor.” “No time.” I shoot Alexandar in the head.
“Legion!” Thraxa roars. All across the market, the infantry slam their heels together and raise their fists as we jog past. “Hail libertas! Hail Reaper!”
“The heir returned from the maw of chaos,” Cicero says. His knights stiffen to attention and salute me. “Hail Lune!”
The legends of our age die one by one, like autumn leaves; and when they are gone, will we be lesser for their absence? It seems cheap.
“Then I would wager all on the proposition that my head is more secure than yours, young Lune. After all, I am the best kind of hero—harmless. And you are the worst—young with a name.”
“Praetorians!” “Ad lucem!” “Lune!” “INVICTUS!”
She cannot sit upon the Morning Chair. She must not. She would burn the worlds so long as the ashes kneel.”
“You are the Sovereign, the last heir of Silenius, the last hope of Gold, and you are good. What are the chances? You can repair what Darrow and Octavia broke. Make all this horror be for something. Fix what is broken in our people, Lysander.
“Do your duty!” she says. “Do your duty or the worlds will burn.”
On Mars, I was born and rode horses at Ishtar. On Mars, my eldest brother bled to death on the Agean cobbles before Karnus au Bellona, my mother jumped off a cliff, my father and best friend were killed by my twin. On Mars, I met my husband. But only my son waits below.
Is it honorable to kill her for my mother? Honorable to thrust us into civil war? Honorable to fulfill my pledge to submit to her every whim? Honorable to be trapped between her legs night after night so that Gold might have unity?
I think, as with all things, honor is best appreciated in moderation.
Homo aureate,”
Phrygian Knot,
