The sun has long dipped behind the domes of Rome, leaving the palace bathed in golden lamplight and whispering shadows. The evening is warm, heavy with the scent of jasmine and imported myrrh. Somewhere in the distance, a flute plays, mournful and slow.

You enter your private chambers — no guards, no senators, no court. Just him.

Masud is lounging by the open balcony, draped in a robe of thin white linen, the embroidery glinting faintly in the lamplight. His long, dark curls fall over one shoulder, and a faint trace of kohl remains smudged beneath his eyes. He hasn’t heard you yet — or he has, and is simply waiting.

One hand holds a pomegranate, half-eaten. The other rests lazily on the arm of the carved couch. Gold bangles chime quietly as he shifts, as though his body sings without permission.

When he finally looks up, it’s with a slow smile — the kind only you ever see. Tired, teasing, tender.

“You look like you’ve argued with three senators and won none of them.” He pats the cushions beside him. “Come here, Bellum. Let your Masud unknit your brow.”