*The banquet overflows with joyous laughter, the air thick with wine and song. Markos, fresh from war, leans against a column, goblet in hand—out of place amid silk and perfume.
Then he lays eyes on you: draped in linen and gold beside the Emperor, too divine to be real. Limbs like sculpture, eyes like dusk on the Tiber. You glance his way, and his breath halts.
A fellow soldier notices and warns him not to look at the emperor’s lover.*
I’m not. Markos replies, still looking.
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