Before they were stationed in the outskirts, three hopeful men had met up in the imperial garden to partake in one last night of revelry. 

The Imperial Garden was off limits to most people for many reasons: first, Emperor Silvana loved his gardens – as evidenced with the gaudy yellow roses, tansies, and hydrangeas blooming all-year long. The grass was carefully maintained, the bushes masterfully crafted and pruned each season, while the walkways and verandas were inlaid with nothing less but gold. 

The third, yet most important reason, was the number of dead bodies buried in this same garden – from foreigners who poked their noses too far into the Imperial Court’s business, courtiers who pissed off the wrong person at the wrong time, and several members of the Imperial family themselves who dared to speak above their station. 

All three men knew this. Yet they couldn’t possibly count as ‘most people’, with one of them being the empire’s prized general, the other his trusted lieutenant, and the last being the emperor’s newest pet – the doe-eyed imperial scribe.  

The moon was high and so was their spirits; the general had taken their family’s most prized wine from the cellar, while the lieutenant had knocked out the guards surrounding the garden. 

“He’ll kill us if he finds out about this,” the scribe groaned. ‘He’ was none other than His Highness the Emperor, Narcisse of the Silvanno bloodline. Famous for burying his enemies with a smile. 

“He’s already killing us, anyway,” the lieutenant shot back. “He should be thankful that trespassing is all we’re doing. If it were up to me, I'd piss all over the flowers.” 

“Be careful, you might piss all over His Highness’ cousin,” the general quipped. 

Marzio slapped his knees and howled with laughter. “That’s even better! That fucker was probably the only valid kill that His Highness made.” 

Naturally, no one was supposed to know that His Highness’ cousin was disposed of by the emperor himself. But Florence was there when His Highness poisoned his kin, Percival was there when the Imperial Guard buried the body, and Marzio was tasked to deal with the aftermath. 

Percival threw an arm over Marzio’s shoulders and joined him. 

But Florence, ever the leashed pet, couldn’t laugh out loud for the life of him. To the scribe, the ground has ears, and the flowers have eyes. The guards could wake up anytime soon, and even if Percival and Marzio were able to get rid of all of them, the emperor would find a way to spin this innocent blunder into a coup de etat.

“Both of you, please pipe down!” He hissed. “You’ll wake up the guards—” 

“So? Let them wake up. You think they can arrest us?” The lieutenant raised an eyebrow, challenging Florence. He’d thrown away his cup somewhere in a patch of tansies, and never looked back ever since. Instead, he chugged straight from the bottle, much to Florence’s dismay.  

Then the general drank from the bottle too, and at that point, Florence had no room to complain. He could only pretend that he’d thrown away his cup too. 

The general took another swig of the bottle, face flushed under the moonlight. He offered what remained of the wine to the scribe. “Don’t worry so much, Florence. If we get caught, I’ll take care of it.” 

Florence stared at the bottle in front of him. Tomorrow, the three of them would depart for the north, and who knows if they would make it back alive, complete, or in one piece. 

The general smiled at him, and truthfully, Florence wouldn’t have minded dying right then and there. 

He took the bottle from the general’s hands, almost angrily. He took a huge swig, milking the bottle down to the last drop. 

“Speak for yourself,” he snapped at the general. “You’re the one betrothed to the princess.” 

Marzio choked on his spit. 

“And you’re the emperor’s lapdog,” Percival shot back. 

Stormy grey eyes met Florence’s blood-red ones. The general and the scribe had always shared a strange relationship, one that oscillated between tension and affection. One some days, the general would use his power to intimidate anyone threatening to cause the scribe harm. In return, Florence would make sure that the general had everything he needed and more, and that no courtier would speak ill of him in the court. 

Then there were days like this, when they spar with words and the world falls away around them. Being the emperor’s lapdog was a compliment until the general spits it out like an accusation. Towards exactly what – Florence had no idea. 

Marzio let out a pointed cough, effectively bringing the two back to reality. “I get it, both of you have prospects. But you know, if I had at least a degree of influence that you idiots have, I’ll be gunning for the crown.” 

Now that’s a joke, if Florence had ever heard one. This is what sent him laughing, unable to bear the hilarity of it all. “What kind of work do you think I do? You think I have any say with what His Highness does?” 

Percival and Marzio exchanged glances. A silent agreement seemed to pass between them, and in the end, it was Marzio who spoke up. 

“We’re soldiers, Flo. His Highness treats us like treasures now, but in the end, we’re just weapons.” He plopped down on the grass, eyes blending with the patch of green surrounding his face. “Being sent on Taratus is basically exile.” 

“You don’t have to come with us. There’s important work to be done in the capital, and if–no. When we don’t come back, he’ll be looking for another partner for the princess. And that’s where you come in–ow! What the fuck!” 

Florence loomed over Marzio, fresh from kicking the man on the shin. Beside him, the general wouldn’t look at the scribe, as if simply removing eye contact would remove him from the situation. 

“Is that true, Percival?” Florence called him out. “You want me to be your stand-in groom?” 

When Percival did look up, he didn’t say a word, yet the look on his eyes was enough for an answer. 

He plopped back down on the grass. 

None of them spoke a word for a solid moment, letting the wind and the rustle of leaves do the talking.  

After a while, Florence spoke up, “Why do I have to be the stand-in? Can’t Marzio do it?” 

Percival snickered. “He’s a spy, sure, but he can’t lie for shit.”  

Marzio: “Excuse you! You’d be dead if it wasn’t for me!” 

Paying him no mind, Percival added, “Besides, there’s no room for you in hell, scribe. You haven’t killed anyone.” 

“Yet,” Marzio supplied. 

“Ever,” Percival corrected. 

The night was young, and so were they. Come morning, the three men would head for the outskirts anyway, their grievances and their promises forgotten, buried along the wine-soaked garden. 

***

“You never change,” a voice said behind Florence. “Always a lapdog everywhere you go.” 

“And you’re a fucking liar,” Florence sneered. 

Hidden away in the darkness of his tent, Florence had no more reason to keep up pretence. He’d long stripped himself of this stupid costume that the commander insisted he don for the sake of their alliance – leaving jewellery, furs, and layers of fabric scattered across the floor. 

All that’s left was a body sprawled at the cot, tired and beaten down after a long day of being paraded around like some kind of ambassador. He didn’t even have the time to put himself together or look presentable. 

“Were you spying on me the whole day?” He accused, looking at the lieutenant underneath the tip of his nose. 

Marzio scowled. “There’s nothing that I already don’t know.” 

This prick. 

“If you already know everything, then there’s no reason for you to be here.” Florence turned to lay on his sides, putting both hands underneath his head. He closed his eyes. “Get the fuck out.” 

Somewhere in the room, Marzio let out a tired sigh. 

“I know you’re mad at me,” he began to say. “You have every right to be. But it can't be betrayal when we’re all just trying to do our job the best way we know how. Ask Percival – he agrees.” 

This made Florence jolt upwards from where he lay, taking great offence at the lieutenant's words. 

“Don’t you dare drag Percival in your delusions, Marzio! He sent me here to find you!” 

It should be unfair, the way the three of them held important positions and only work to serve their own interest and survival. But in the end, they were still human, with relationships and connections that can’t easily be severed in the name of duty. 

“He sent you to me,” Marzio whispered. “He wanted you to choose.” 

He remembered the general’s words in the emperor’s garden. There’s no room for you in hell. 

“I don’t want to choose,” Florence replied, voice weak. “Just come back with us. Please.” 

The lieutenant’s expression hardened. 

“Things have changed, Flo. You can’t just watch on the sidelines forever.” 

“I came with you all the way to the outskirts! How is that playing by the fences?” 

“You came for the general. The rest of us—we know we’re about to die. Percival and I wanted to make our deaths count for something. Why can’t you see that?” 

You can save your general as an enemy, or watch him die as an ally.

But what about the lieutenant? 

“What about you,” Florence asked. “Is there–no. Which choice saves the both of you.” 

A little bit of light returned in Marzio’s eyes. The hard line on his mouth finally relaxed, and all of a sudden, his gaze had dulled their edge. 

Almost as if he’d simply been waiting for Florence to ask that question all along. 

The corners of the lieutenant’s lips tugged into a smile. “Do you trust me?”