The imperial war chamber was a place of quiet pressure.
There were no windows.
No finery.
Only stone, steel, and shadow—a sanctum beneath the palace where the burdens of empire were measured, weighed, and commanded into motion.
Julius sat at the apex of the horseshoe-shaped war table, his cloak drawn over one shoulder, a single golden laurel clasped to his brow.
Around him sat twelve of his highest advisors—ministers, generals, scholars, and spymasters—all waiting for the words that would shape the next chapter of Romanus's will.
At his right stood Serena, his chancellor and de facto executor during his planned absence.
He did not begin with ceremony.
There was no need.
"We begin,"
he said, his voice calm, direct, and final.
