Serena drifted away almost immediately.
Not out of fear, nor caution, but wonder.
Julius noticed it in the way her steps slowed, in how her head tilted slightly as her eyes caught on color and form rather than function.
She moved like someone who had forgotten—if only briefly—that this place was possibly dangerous, forgotten, buried beneath centuries of stone and secrecy.
She stopped in front of the first painting she reached.
It depicted a court scene: an emperor seated beneath a vaulted ceiling of gold and blue, courtiers arranged in careful tiers around him.
The brushwork was impossibly fine, each expression distinct, every fold of cloth rendered with deliberate patience.
Clearly painted by a true master of his or her craft.
Serena leaned closer, hands clasped behind her back like a visitor in a gallery.
"They're so… alive," she murmured. "Not stiff like modern portraits."
