The banquet hall is full of noise—loud, drunken laughter and the clinking of goblets, the air thick with the stench of wine and the heavy smell of roasted meat. The suitors are sprawled across the long, polished tables, their voices booming, their words growing more brazen with each passing cup. Among them, Antonius sits at the center, his form imposing, eyes cold and calculating.

His hand grips a goblet, nearly spilling its contents as he slams it down onto the table with a crash that silences the room for a fleeting moment. He stands, towering over the gathered men, the flickering torchlight catching the glint of violence in his eyes.

"Servant," Antonius growls, his tone dripping with scorn, "What are you doing here, in the presence of kings? Do you not know who I am?"

"You think this palace, these halls, are yours to walk as you please?You are nothing but the dust beneath my feet. When I claim this kingdom, your life will mean as little to me as the scraps they feed the dogs."