The golden light of the afternoon had long since dimmed by the time Julius returned to his private quarters.
The great fanfare had died behind the high walls and echoing domes of the Eternal City, replaced now with only the faint, rhythmic murmurs of watchmen on the battlements and the crackle of torchlight in the halls.
Inside, the Emperor's chambers were quiet.
Not grand — not compared to the opulence the city might expect of its sovereign — but purposeful.
The walls were lined with maps, scrolls, and diagrams.
A vast window overlooked the northern plains, while a wide desk of dark oak stood at the room's heart, scattered with parchment, ink, and the scent of fresh wax, probably that was delivered this very day.
Julius entered alone.
Serena had retired to her adjoining suite with the promise of rest, though he suspected she would still be reviewing her own intelligence reports long into the night.
That was the way of rulers, after all — sleep was never real rest.
