Only one being ever visited the Empress in secret, and he was no man.
“I would’ve dismissed it as gossip,” Arruns continued, “except I’ve heard it, too. A man’s voice—low. I thought it was you when I visited her after dinner last week, but the servants swear you haven’t entered her chambers all month.”
Caius’ gaze hardened. “I’ve been busy.”
“Of course.”
“Now go entertain our guests.” He nodded towards the door. “Distract them with the feast the cooks prepared. I’ll be there shortly.”
Arruns inclined his head and left, the heavy door closing behind him.
Caius waited a few moments, staring at the spot where his heir had stood. Then, without another word, he rose and slipped out, his steps muffled on the marble.
He moved with purpose, his Tarquinian guards trailing at a respectful distance, sandals whispering against the floors. Torchlight flickered along the palace walls, casting shifting shadows as he strode towards the Empress’ wing.
At the end of the long corridor, Caius raised a hand. “Stay here. Don’t let anyone through.”
The walls ahead were lit in warm gold, the flames of the sconces dancing across polished columns and soft-painted frescoes—romantic scenes befitting the Empress’ quarters. His eyes lingered on one in particular: the mortal Anima, visited in the dead of night by a winged stranger. His scowl deepened.
He reached the tall cedar doors and paused, just short of the threshold, listening.
But the chamber beyond was still.
His jaw clenched. He had to be certain.
After a brief hesitation, he pushed open the door, which was never locked, and stepped into the silence.
Moonlight spilled through the balcony doors, draping the chamber in a cool silver sheen. The light pooled across the marble floor and the edge of the vast bed, where the Empress lay motionless beneath embroidered silks. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. In sleep, her face softened, half-hidden in shadow, the delicate lines of her braided hair catching the faint light.
She looked at peace.
Not the brittle, ghostly woman she was by day, snapping at servants, blank-eyed, and unreachable, but the woman he remembered from long ago, radiant and fierce on the battlefield.
And then—something moved.
In the far corner of the chamber, beyond the reach of moonlight, the shadows shifted. Not with the flutter of a curtain or a torch, but with deliberate weight. A presence.
Caius stilled.
There was no sound, but he glimpsed the darkness curling around the shape of a man, followed by a flash of white teeth.
The figure stepped forward, half-cloaked in shadow. Moonlight caught the edge of a deep crimson tebenna, as rich as spilled blood, its threads faintly gleaming with gold. The fabric clung to his broad frame as he moved with the unhurried grace of someone who’d never known fear. Each step was soundless. Measured. His presence seemed to thicken the air.
Laran had not yet acknowledged him. His attention lingered on the Empress, watching her sleep with an unreadable expression.
Then, at last, that gaze turned.
Caius felt as if he were being peeled open—layer by layer—exposed beneath a gaze that saw far too much. It took every ounce of his will not to flinch, not to bow. Not to fall to his knees as so many others had.
“Tarquinius,” Laran said at last, his voice a slow drawl.
Caius squared his shoulders, refusing to show weakness. “Where are the handmaidens?”
A smile curled Laran’s lips. “Sound asleep. In the next room. Don’t worry, they’re safe.”
“Where have you been?” Caius asked, his tone sharpened by months of silence. “I haven’t seen you in?—”
“Careful,” Laran cut in, the word striking with the finality of a blade. “You forget yourself.”
