The torches flickered along the marble columns of the villa, casting wavering shadows over Julius Caesar’s face. He stood near the balcony, his cloak draped loosely over his shoulders, his gaze lost in the starlit sprawl of Rome. The city was his, the Republic bowed before him, and yet—tonight, none of it felt enough.

Behind him, the door creaked open. A presence he knew too well stepped into the chamber.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Caesar murmured, not turning.

Brutus—his Brutus—took another step forward. “And yet, you knew I would come.” His voice was quiet, but the weight of it pressed against Caesar’s spine, an unspoken war waging between them.

Caesar finally turned, meeting those storm-dark eyes. “Rome changes, Brutus. We cannot stand still.”

Brutus exhaled sharply. “Rome changes, or you change it?” A beat of silence stretched between them. Then softer, “And what of us?”

Caesar reached out, fingers ghosting over the hilt of the dagger at Brutus’ hip—whether in warning or longing, he did not know. “Tell me, do you come to stop me… or to save me?”