itโs too quiet in the halls for such words. the hour is late, torches guttering low, shadows climbing high across marble that has seen too much blood. clarissa stands where the light just barely touches her, her hands knotted at her waist, a queen of the summer pressed into the role of empress at the expense of hope. his voice carries through the chamber like the crack of a whip, too casual, too cruel in its gentleness. @empcalla : โ rome missed you. โ
her lips part โ then close again. how can she answer? rome did not miss her. rome stole her. [ and she has not forgiven it. ] she breathes slow, steady, fighting the tremor that wants to betray her ribs. somehow, she finds herself remembering the nile. her brothersโ laughter. her fatherโs warnings. home. [ what has rome ever given her but iron chains disguised as crowns? ] her gaze drifts to him, caracalla. his eyes too sharp, too knowing. he has always been the one to play with words, to draw the knife of truth from her chest and twist it until it bleeds. and still, she answers. โ rome cannot miss what it never cherished. โ her voice low, measured, silk against steel. the silence afterward tastes bitter. she wishes she could believe herself. [ but she knows he will only smile โ because in his mind, she already belongs to them. ] โ you've always been too proud. does that not frighten you? โ
