#dusklune

the morning is still and cold, the kind of quiet that stretches across the terrace like a held breath. clarissa steps onto the marble, her sandals scuffing faintly, the plate in her hands trembling just enough for her to notice. figs and honey—something he once liked, though she can’t imagine the boy who used to chase her through the vineyards caring for such things anymore. not with the empire heavy on his shoulders. icarus sits at the head of the table, draped in gold and white, the rising sun catching in his hair, in the rings on his fingers, in the goblet he holds lazily in one hand. his gaze is sharp, cutting toward the horizon as if daring the world to challenge him. even in the soft light of morning, he looks every inch the emperor. cruel. resplendent. untouchable. clarissa sets the plate down carefully, her movements deliberate. ❝ you told me not to be late. ❞ she hesitates, standing by the chair. her fingers curl at her sides, but her voice stays steady. ❝ i thought you might like company this morning. ❞

the rain felt colder than it should have, seeping through the thin fabric of clarissa's silk cloak, dripping down the back of her neck. (she's always hated the rain in rome—it feels too heavy, like the skies are mourning something no one remembers, mourning a person she once was) she knows atlas will laugh at her for it. he always does. you belong in the sun, princess, he’ll say, his voice that perfect blend of teasing and sincere. not skulking through alleys like some tragic lost dove. ❝ don’t be late,❞ she mutters under her breath, imagining him already waiting at the fountain. her words fog up in the cold air, vanishing as quickly as they come. she's never minded waiting for him, not really, but tonight feels different. like the world is holding its breath. ❝ just one night,❞ she whispers to herself, a soft vow that no one else will hear. ❝ just one night without visions. without prophecies.❞ i don’t need them tonight. not when atlas is waiting.