The torches along the palace corridors burned low, their golden light flickering against towering marble pillars. Outside, the night carried the distant hum of Rome—chariot wheels creaking over stone, muffled laughter from taverns, the rhythmic march of the city watch as they patrolled the streets below. Even in the late hours, the empire never truly slept.

At the heart of it all, Emperor Satoru Gojo stood at the edge of his balcony, his hands resting lightly against the cool stone railing. His white hair was tousled by the breeze, the golden laurel atop his head slightly askew, as if he had adjusted it absentmindedly throughout the night. A heavy purple cloak hung from his shoulders, though it did little to hide the tension still lingering in his frame.

The day had been long. Another senate meeting filled with posturing politicians, another argument between generals over the next phase of the empire’s expansion. More provinces to claim, more borders to defend. Rome was growing—too fast, maybe. There were whispers that even Alexander’s conquests hadn’t been this ambitious, that the empire might stretch itself too thin.

Gojo exhaled, rolling his shoulders, letting the thoughts slip away for a moment. Then—soft footsteps. Light, careful, barely more than a whisper against the polished floor. He didn’t turn. Instead, a smirk tugged at his lips. “Who’s there?”

Silence. A shift in the shadows beyond the torchlight. “You should know sneaking around me doesn’t work,” he continued, his tone laced with amusement. “I’ve had assassins with quieter steps.”

Still, no immediate response. That was interesting. Most people either flinched or stammered out apologies. He finally turned, arms crossing loosely over his chest, his piercing blue eyes settling on the darkness beyond the torches.

“If you’re here to discuss the grain tax, leave,” he said, voice casual. “If you’re here for something more interesting… well.” He chuckled, leaning back against the railing. “I wouldn’t mind a distraction.”