Interlude 1 #2
A slow smile curled Caius’ lips. Let the goddess try to resist him now, with her power scattered and her followers crushed.
Unfortunately, there was still no trace of the girl named Alena.
The Omega.
Only when he’d read the final line did Caius look up. Arruns, his heir, stood in the doorway of his study, hesitating just beyond the threshold.
Caius narrowed his eyes. “You either knock and enter, or you don’t disturb me at all. The Emperor’s son does not linger.”
Arruns gave a sharp nod and stepped into the small, candlelit chamber, closing the heavy door with ease.
Better.
Caius leaned back in his chair, letting the silence stretch as he studied the boy. Moonlight filtered through the marble lattice behind him, casting angular silver patterns across the mosaic floor and over Arruns’ features. His face was handsome, well-shaped and carefully groomed.
A facade fit for an heir.
He had done well over these past months—training, studying, and manipulating the Senate and noble houses into believing he was Caius’ true-blooded heir and not the son of a shepherd.
And yet, something in Arruns still grated on Caius’ nerves.
There was too much softness in the way the boy smiled, too much warmth when he spoke to slaves or greeted officials. He was well liked by the masses, adored by Rasennan women, but popularity was not power. Affection did not build empires.
He needed to be sharper. Harder.
More ruthless.
“Your guests from Kharkhedon have arrived,” Arruns announced, standing straight.
He wore a fresh white tunic with a purple trim beneath a forest-green tebenna draped over one shoulder, the fabric falling in clean lines.
The daily drills with Velthur and the palace guards were beginning to show.
The softness of youth was hardening into muscle, his posture sharpening with discipline. He looked more like a man now.
Caius rolled the parchment and placed it carefully on top of the neat stack before him. His fingers hovered for a moment. Perhaps this was the opportunity Arruns needed—military experience to shed his softness.
“You will join me,” he said at last.
Arruns blinked. “Me?”
“The Kharkhedonians have come to request aid in their endless war against the Numidian tribes. We will assist them. I will send the Fourteenth Legion, and you will accompany them.”
Arruns’ mouth tightened. “You’re sending me to war?”
“I am giving you a chance to prove yourself.” Caius abruptly rose from his chair, the carved lion’s feet scraping against the mosaic floor.
“You are my heir, but that title means nothing without a few victories. The people will not accept you unless you bleed for them. You need to earn their respect.”
He circled the desk with deliberate strides and halted a pace from Arruns—close enough to meet his gaze, to assess him like a weapon yet untried.
“You will go to Kharkhedon. Legate Nonius will oversee the campaign. He’ll fight the war. You will win the glory.”
Arruns’ brow furrowed. “You make it sound so easy. What gives you such confidence that they can win?”
Caius’ lips curled into a thin smile. “Because they have a god who can summon fire to fall from the sky.”
Arruns’ eyes widened. “Fall from the sky? That’s—”
“I’ve seen it firsthand. Their gods are as old and powerful as those in Kemet. The tribes may strike from the shadows and vanish into the desert, but they cannot win.”
Arruns was silent for a moment, contemplating his words. Then he asked, “And what do we gain in return?”
Caius’ smile sharpened. “Now you’re beginning to think like an emperor. They will supply us with whatever I demand. And right now, I need slaves, stone, and gold to pay my legions.”
He turned back to his desk and plucked another scroll from the neatly stacked pile. The seal of the Eighth Legion marked the parchment—news from Tyrrhenus. He was eager to hear more from the northern front and how well Laran’s Chosen was doing.
He dismissed Arruns with a wave. “Tell our guests I’ll join them shortly.”
Arruns remained unmoving. “One more thing,” he said, shifting slightly where he stood. “There seems to be… a man in the Empress’ chambers.”
Caius glanced back, narrowing his eyes. “A man?”
Impossible. The Empress was surrounded by her handmaidens day and night, and no male slave was foolish enough to—
“The servants heard voices, but when they checked, no one was there.”
Caius went still, Arruns’ words sinking like a stone in his chest.
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.”
Caius dipped his head—not quite a bow, just enough to keep his pride intact. “Apologies.”
Laran’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve been in touch.” He flicked invisible dust from his crimson tebenna. “Through that old coot.”
Sagar.
“Yes,” Caius said smoothly. “Your guidance has been… a blessed help.”
A pause.
“Have you found her?” Laran asked. “My Chosen One?”
“Yes. We’re testing her loyalty.”
Laran tilted his head, a grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I want to see her.” It wasn’t a request. It never was.
Caius swallowed. “Soon. She’s stationed with the Sixth on the northern front.”
A flicker of satisfaction crossed the god’s face; the thought of his Chosen bloodied and armed clearly pleased him.
Caius seized the moment. “If I may, I have a small request—”
“Last year’s festivities in my name were a triumph,” Laran interrupted, eyes drifting to the painted ceiling as though recalling a fond memory. “The arena. The screams. The blood. It was… indulgent. Just as I like it.”
Caius allowed himself a smile. “I made certain of it.”
“However,” Laran continued, his tone cooling, “I noticed there was no celebration held for my sister—”
The smile died on Caius’ lips.
“—Turan.”
Laran stepped forward, and the shadows stretched with him, claws curling along the walls. The air twisted with something heavy and unnatural. Magic rent the space between them, unseen but brutal, coiling tight around Caius’ chest.
“You honour me with blood and steel,” Laran said, his voice darkening, “but forget the love and beauty that make men want to fight in the first place.” He stopped inches away, eyes burning. “Tell me, Tarquinius. Was it neglect?” The words slithered with mockery. “Or disrespect?”
Caius couldn’t breathe.
His lungs faltered, his skin prickled, and for a moment his knees threatened to buckle beneath the crushing weight of Laran’s magic. “She hasn’t shown herself,” he choked out, each syllable strained. “Not since the attack on Velch. She hasn’t… Gifted anyone. I decided—”
“You do not decide. You worship. You celebrate, you feast in her name, and when she returns, then she decides what you are owed.”
Caius clenched his fists, the rings on his fingers biting into his skin. “We will honour her,” he forced out, “as befits the goddess of love, beauty, and fertility.”
The declaration hung in the air, swallowed by the chamber’s oppressive silence.
Laran studied him like a predator deciding whether to strike. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the magic vanished.
Caius collapsed to his knees, gasping. A ragged cough tore from his throat.
Laran loomed above him, and his smile returned, slow and cruel. “I know who and what you are, Caius Tarquinius.” Each word was precise, like a sword sliding between ribs. “Don’t forget that.”
He turned, his crimson tebenna unfurling behind him, a banner of blood trailing every step.
Shadows slithered around him once more, and a final warning lingered in the air like smoke.
“Know your place, mortal.”