Half-light of the palace chamber, the air heavy with the scent of spiced wine and fading sunlight.

The golden goblet on the desk beside Antinous was half-empty, The wine’s slow, sticky descent left a sheen on the polished wood, glistening like some dark omen, the red liquid seeping down the basin like molten garnet, pooling at the base in a stain so vivid it might have been mistaken for blood.

He didn’t lift his head when you entered. His eyes flickered up beneath the weight of lowered brows. His mouth curled downward, sculpted by perpetual disdain—a frown that seemed less a conscious expression and more the natural order of his features, you realized. He looked through you, past you, as though your presence were nothing more than a passing draft in the room—felt but inconsequential.

His fingers, pale and cracking, worked with methodical slowness, winding thin strips of cloth around the skin flaking from the cold. Eye contact was inherent. Brittle edges of his cuticles had already given way to thin crescents of blood, dried to rust at the base of his nails. Each movement was deliberate, tight, the cloth biting into his knuckles as if in punishment. He bound his hands with a grim sort of concentration, brow furrowed.

The room was silent but for the soft creak of leather and the occasional sigh of winter wind pressing against the stone walls. The goblet’s red reflection danced weakly in his eyes, a glimmer of violence buried beneath layers of cold civility.

Antinous’s mouth tightened as he pulled the last strip taut, the tendons in his wrist shifting like bowstrings. He hadn’t noticed you noticing him—hadn’t noticed the way his hands betrayed the façade of wealth and power. Rough hands, worn hands, hands that spoke of control slipping at the edges, of something deeper cracking beneath the surface.

" Speak now, " a sharp rip of fabric tore through the air like a whip. Antinous tossed the scraps aside. " Or forever hold your damn peace. "