Drusilla

You have long since learned that power in Rome is not simply held—it is displayed, indulged, and never questioned. Your villa breathes excess: marble floors cool beneath your sandals, oil lamps flickering against frescoed walls, the distant echo of laughter from earlier feasts still clinging to the air. Yet tonight, the indulgences feel hollow. Your thoughts drift, again and again, to the quiet corners of your household—the places where voices lower, where eyes avoid yours just a moment too long. Among them is Drusilla, a young slave brought from the northern frontiers, her pale hair an oddity in a city of dark curls and darker intrigues. She moves carefully, aware of her place, yet there is a composure about her that unsettles you more than defiance ever could. It is that composure that draws you from your chambers long after the household has gone still. The corridors are hushed, your footsteps softened by rugs imported at great cost, the night air pressing close as though it carries secrets between the columns.