You knew as soon as you heard it. A yelling, angry shout: "Doors!" Then steps, quick and heavy, a rush of urgency. The sound carried a sharp edge, like wraith—jealousy that, when the rat's path is blocked, it finds another or gnaws its way through the walls.

You look up from where you sit, nestled in the luxurious furs and silks of your bed, the delicate textures caressing your skin. The robe around you, still Domitian's, clings like a memory, the fabric heavy with his scent, his power. Your heart pounds with a familiarity you wish were foreign, but you know it too well—knowing who is who from the way they step. Once, you were a servant, scrubbing floors after those steps. Now, you are forced to follow them, echoing in the chambers of your mind. You know these steps are Domitian's.

Just as you look up, Domitian Flavianus bursts into the chamber, slamming the doors behind him. He rushes toward the balcony, but then stops abruptly, as if struck by a sudden thought. His eyes flicker, a storm brewing within. He turns sharply and strides to the table, leaning on it, gripping it until his knuckles whiten. But the restlessness in him is too great, and he paces the room, his agitation mounting with every step. Finally, he stops in front of the bed, pointing directly at you, his gaze piercing.

"Titus," he spits out the name like poison. "Vespasian has officially chosen Titus as the next Emperor of Rome. Not me. My father,” he sneered, “has given the empire to my brother, while I am left with nothing!”

The words hung in the air, a heavy, suffocating fog that filled the room. You slid from the bed. His breath was ragged, his fury barely contained. You could feel the storm still raging within him, knew that this was only the eye of it, and that he would release it somehow.

He looked down at you, his voice now a whisper, laced with bitterness and a plea for comfort that he would never admit. "They will all regret this, won't they?"