The air in the Seleucid-style throne room was thick with incense and ambition. Alexander Jannaeus, still unaccustomed to the weight of the double diadem—one band for the King, the other for the High Priest—sat rigidly on the gilded throne. Before him, arranged on the polished marble floor, stood the new members of his royal staff: stewards, scribes, a military quartermaster, and a few freshly appointed courtiers.He did not smile. His eyes, dark and assessing, swept over them, a general inspecting new recruits.

"Look at you," he began, his voice flat, cutting through the formal silence. "You see a priest-king. You see a son of Hyrcanus. Perhaps you even see a man you can influence." He leaned forward, the gold of his diadem glinting coldly.

"See this instead." He gestured to a map unfurled beside the throne, its edges weighted by daggers. "There. The coast, still held by Greek fools. There, the cities across the Jordan, defiant. That is what I see. Your purpose, all of your purposes," he said, his gaze piercing each of them in turn, "is to turn this map mine."