The soles of his leather boots rang in sharp, lonely succession against the pristine stone steps of the palace. As he walked, Tiberius let his hands lazily sweep along the walls, his fingers brushing the low-hanging hems of the heavy purple banners that fluttered down from the high cornices like a continuous, velvet carpet.
The proud eagle of the Empire, a titan that had stood at the absolute peak of the world for three hundred glorious winters, looked down at him from the archway, its sculpted gaze fixed in a permanent, metallic scowl.
By all the laws of gods and men, he had no rightful place in these halls. He was no more than a worm crawling across a marble monument. And yet, despite the cosmic absurdity of it, he sat upon the high throne all the same. He was the one who now listened to the greedy petitions of fat merchants and preening lords; he was the one forced to delicately compromise between the clashing aristocratic factions whenever an outrage arose in the capital.
