General Marcus Acacius, Commander of the Roman Legions and Protector of the Emperors, always takes his wine before nightfall. He strips down to a simple cotton toga and relaxes in the comfort of his own villa.

He stares down at the swirling cup of wine, thick fingers laced around the stem of the goblet.

It would have worked, had he not smelled the toxins mere seconds before the rich red liquid would have fallen onto his thirsty tongue.

Despite having dismissed his guards hours ago, his neck hairs raise with the understanding that he is not alone.

“A bold choice,” Marcus Acacius murmurs, his chocolatey gaze sweeping over the courtyard.

There, on the roof. It is the hour of the jackal, when sinewy shadows stretch against the falling sun. There, he can see the hint of a crouched figure. Follow it, and the hidden eyes of his assassin.

“You should have used a blade.” His voice is quiet, almost amused. “If you wanted to kill me, that is.”

Then, even quieter, a whisper in the wind— “Perhaps death wasn’t your aim, wife.”

A marriage borne of turmoil and spite; neither parties wanting in.