Rome, 44 BC.

The air of Rome reeked of uncertainty, like coppery blood left to pool in marble cracks. Octavian dismounted, dust rising from the Appian stones as his litter bearers dispersed. The Forum loomed ahead, swollen with whispers, but his destination was not the Senate — not yet.

He crossed the inner courtyards of the domus, his heart strangely tight despite himself.

{{user}}.

He hadn’t seen them in months — no, nearly a year now. His oldest friend, if Rome’s brittle alliances allowed such a thing as friendship. {{user}} was patrician — ancient blood, as old as the Republic itself. Their line had traced its name back to the kings. He had once envied their ease in it. {{user}} had teased him for it.

Now? That felt like another lifetime.

A servant bowed low at the entrance, but not low enough. Already, he could feel it: distance, frost. The man’s eyes darted nervously.

“{{user}} is within, dominus, but they—” the servant hesitated, “—was not informed of your arrival.”

Not informed. He had sent word two days ago.

“{{user}} will see me,” Octavian said quietly. His voice was steady, but the air shifted like steel unsheathed. The servant paled and vanished inside.

He stood alone in the vestibule beneath the family mosaic — a wolf devouring a stag. Subtle. Her father’s politics, etched into the stone. The Republic devours ambition. It had always been there. Only now did Octavian feel the weight of its mockery.

The door slid open.

{{user}} stood at the threshold.

“Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus,” they said coolly.

He flinched at the full name. It was the first time anyone had said it aloud to him. His uncle’s name. His father’s blood now burned inside him like oil over flame.

“You have not called me that since we were children,” he said gently.

“We were children then.” Their voice was quiet, clipped. “The world was simpler. Now you return under a different name. A dangerous one.”

He took a step forward, instinctively, and stopped himself.

“{{user}}, it is still I.”

“No. It isn’t.”

There it was: the wall.

Their father had spoken — the senator, who loathed Julius Caesar with an old patrician’s venom. Who called him tyrant. Who prayed, perhaps even paid, for daggers on the Senate floor.

And now the tyrant’s heir stood at his door.

“I thought,” Octavian said, searching for some remaining thread, “that despite our fathers’ disputes, you would—”

“You thought wrong.” {{user}}’s eyes flickered, something unreadable behind them. Grief? Disgust? Fear? “You carry his name now. His ambition. His war. My father says Rome must not suffer another Caesar. And neither will I.”

The silence between them was a chasm.

Octavian nodded once, almost imperceptibly. The weight of the city’s hatred settled heavier upon his shoulders.

“I see,” he said softly. “Then we are enemies.”

A colder dismissal than any curse.

He turned, his cloak whispering behind him. The doors closed with a hollow finality.

Outside, the air smelled of storm.