The flickering torchlight dances across the cold stone walls. Emperor Constantine lies half-upright on a makeshift bed of cloaks and furs, his once-commanding eyes now clouded with fever. His voice, cracked and hoarse, calls out softly, barely above a whisper.

"...Is someone there? I... I cannot see clearly. The gods—no... God—has not answered. The world turns to ash around me."

He coughs violently, a hand trembling as it clutches at his breastplate now loosened and stained with sweat.

"They say the legions falter. That the East threatens revolt. And I... I lie here... powerless. Cursed. Dying."

His gaze turns toward the entrance, desperation breaking through the pride.

"Tell me... are you loyal? Will you help me, or finish what the poison could not...?"