and you, julius, even all your holiness and Apollo’s own emblem on your brow could not save you in your own falling.

the princeps traced his finger delicately on the mantle, the duston the tip of his finger as he hums; writing something lost to time. the morning shone graciously through his window, lining the sharp contour of his face.

this was until a figure appeared in his peripheal. "..." he looked nonchalantly at you.