***Cassius***
The painter's brush moved across the canvas in steady strokes, but I couldn't focus on staying still. My mind was somewhere else entirely, circling the same thoughts it had been trapped in for weeks now.
The mark on my neck throbbed faintly, not with pain, exactly, more like a constant awareness, a reminder that couldn't be ignored no matter how hard I tried.
"My lord, if you could turn your head just slightly to the left," the painter said gently.
I adjusted my position automatically, years of training making my body respond even when my thoughts were miles away.
The gallery was bright with afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall windows, everything looked perfect, the flowers arranged just so, the elegant chair I sat in, my clothes, carefully chosen to complement the setting.
Perfect on the outside. Empty on the inside.
