Epilogue #2
Laran set the cup down with deliberate calm, the glass ringing dully on the table. Shadows seemed to pool at his feet, as if the daylight feared to touch him. “I have given many of your soldiers Gifts. Why should I give more?”
Caius felt the probing in the god’s silence and tightened his smile. He smoothed his tebenna with a practised hand, buying himself a breath. “Because you cannot bring Andrasta into your realm, and I am the only mortal who can keep her safe.”
The grin vanished from Laran’s face, and with it, the air itself seemed to rupture. His presence crashed outwards, shaking the frescoed walls until flakes of paint rained down like ash. “If you touch a single hair on her head—”
Caius jerked back, palms raised, spine pressed flat to the wall.
“I have not touched her since I smuggled her from the arena into the palace.” The words tumbled out in a rush.
They weren’t lies. He had kept a wary distance, knowing Laran watched over her through means he couldn’t understand.
“I’ve looked after her, kept her under my roof.
Naming her Empress placated the Senate. But I cannot guard her forever if enemies encircle me. I need your strength at my back—now.”
The invisible pressure lingered, crushing, then withdrew like a blade sheathed. Laran’s presence retracted, but the smile that curved his lips was worse than his wrath. He tilted his head, eyes glinting, savouring Caius’ trembling restraint. A slow, amused click of his tongue broke the silence.
“So quick to cower,” Laran drawled, tone heavy with mockery.
“So quick to beg.” He prowled a step closer, shadows dragging with him like a living mantle, and the frescoes along the chamber’s walls seemed to lean away.
“You won the Rodanos River Battle. You captured the Westerners’ chief commander.
Why should I lift a finger for you now?”
Caius leaned into the opening, urgency sharpening his voice.
“The Achaean-Western alliance might be scattered for now, but they’ll regroup soon enough.
King Pandion’s son leads them, and he will return with more men.
The Achaeans have destroyed a legion already, and they can do so again.
If the Empire is to endure, if you want the people’s worship, they must see Laran’s hand protecting them.
The Black Helmets have thinned lately. I need six more Gifted before summer’s end. Six who can wield Laran’s Flame.”
Laran considered his words, lips quirking. “I will Gift six of your finest soldiers,” he said at last. “In return, you will stage a festival in my sister’s name. Since the attack on Velch, she is in hiding and in need of more sacrifice and worship to help her regain strength.”
“Done.” Caius’ throat tightened with the taste of victory. He would bleed every last dove and swan dry in Turan’s name if it bought him six Gifted.
Laran’s smile thinned. When he leaned closer, it was with the lazy amusement of a god who already knew how the game would end.
“Six more will not be enough, Tarquinius. Not against the Omega and the Achaean Gifted. The Twelve are awakening. There are rumblings in the east. Their true names are being spread once more, and the faith that was destroyed years ago is returning.”
The mention of the Twelve sat in Caius’ belly like ice. He forced strength into his voice. “Once I kill their precious Omega, it will be too late.”
“No one is invincible,” Laran purred, “not even the gods.”
His gaze flicked to Andrasta—her beauty untouched, hair a cascade of fire about her shoulders, though the light in her eyes had long since guttered out.
It was a shame, really. She’d fought so hard to hide her daughters from the Empire, and yet she’d failed.
The Omega would serve her purpose at his Triumph and die as planned, and as for the eldest—Laran had made her his Chosen and condemned her in the process.
She’d lost her mind, just like her mother…
Gods and their infatuations with mortals—it never ended well. Especially when the mortal wanted nothing to do with them. Caius nearly smiled at the irony. He knew better than most how desire could turn to ruin, and how ruin could be remade into power.
Laran fixed him with a look that was equal parts bargain and warning. “Keep her safe, and you shall have your Gifted.”
The words lingered like smoke even after the god vanished.
Andrasta began to wail at once from her bed, thin and broken, the sound clawing at his nerves. Avidia, her eldest handmaiden, rushed in, casting Caius a look of silent reproach, as though he’d wrought this misery himself.
Perhaps he had. He’d caged her like a jewel too dangerous to show the world, hidden for seventeen years so no one would suspect the truth of who she was. And in return, Laran had rewarded him with Gifted soldiers and victories in battle that exceeded even his most ambitious designs.
Caius turned away, swallowing the cold knot in his chest. Laran’s warning gnawed at him, and though he could crush panic with the practised cruelty that had built an empire, it lingered behind his ribs. He could not afford weakness. He would not allow a god’s contempt to unmake him.
“Prepare the Empress’ things,” he ordered Andrasta’s handmaidens. “She departs tomorrow for the summer palace.”
Better to keep her out of sight while he readied the next stage of his plans.
His jaw clenched as he left the chamber. Plans uncoiled in his mind. Twice he had underestimated the Achaeans—last summer, and again at the Rodanos River. They would return, and when they did, he would be ready.
He stepped into the library, the scent of ink sharp in his nostrils as the softer fragrance of flowers wafted through the open windows.
Slaves scurried at his command, unrolling the largest maps of the Empire across the marble floor, wooden blocks clattering as they marked legion positions around the Great Sea.
He would not be outmanoeuvred—by rebels, by the Twelve, or by Laran himself.
Years of hiding, scheming, and plotting had brought him here, to the very cusp of godhood. He might have the Omega in his grasp, but his enemies would strike again; he was sure of it.
The legions peppered the map, a tangible comfort to his restless mind. Each was poised to defend the Empire and strike at his command. The Achaeans had forgotten the full weight of his power. Soon, Caius would remind them why Rasenna always prevailed.
His gaze swept across the glittering expanse of the Great Sea to Kharkhedon, where his son and heir had just arrived—a conqueror in waiting.
The Kharkhedonians’ army rivalled his own, and he would bend it to his will.
Every legion, every ally, every weapon of war—all would serve the apex of his ambition.
It was time to call them to Rasenna. Time to bend the tides of war to his hand and show all who dared oppose him that no force, mortal or divine, could withstand the Empire.
And when the storm passed, when thousands worshipped him as their unchallenged beloved Emperor and deity, he would meet her again. She would understand that everything—the schemes, the wars, the conquests—had all been for her sake.
They would be reunited at last, and their little game of cat and mouse would end.
Alone in the library, Caius looked upon the Empire he had carved from blood and fire, and smiled.