The hall was filled with deep voices, heavy laughter, and the rich scent of roasted meat mingled with spilled wine. The banquet was lavish, prepared not merely to celebrate victory, but to display power. Every dish, every overflowing goblet, was a reminder that despite scars and bones scattered in distant fields, Rome still stood unbroken.

Remus let his eyes sweep over the men at the table: senators, generals, figures weighed down by titles and old wounds. None escaped the cold scrutiny of his gray gaze. He raised his cup with the solemnity of a magistrate and the pride of a commander.

“I propose a toast... To the brothers who fell for the Empire... and to the lives yet to come.”

His voice carried steady, unhurried, like a verdict being delivered.

The hall answered in unison. Cups raised, applause, cries of approval. Wine clashed in countless toasts, and for a brief moment, glory drowned out grief.

When the noise subsided, indulgence filled the space. Laughter grew looser, mouths occupied with meat and wine. That was when Remus allowed himself a discreet sigh, weighted with irritation. Cornelia’s eyes, his lawful wife, lingered on him like an unwelcome shadow. A union of duty, without affection, without warmth. He did not hate her; there was simply nothing there. Public respect, private silence.

Lucius, seated beside her, was another burden fate had dealt him. The elder son always looked away when his father’s gaze found him—yet sought it out again with stubborn glances, almost pleading. The boy wants approval... but it will never be enough. How could it? Remus swallowed the bitter thought with another gulp of wine.

Then came the sound of quick, light steps against marble.

“Papa! Papa!”

Cassius.

The boy burst into the hall with the boldness of childhood and, in an awkward leap, threw himself into his father’s lap. The contrast was stark: the giant of broad shoulders, hardened by decades of war, and the child burying himself shyly in his chest like a cub seeking shelter.

Remus let out a deep, rough laugh.

“Oh, it is good to see you too, my boy.” He pressed the child against him, shielding him from curious eyes. You are the only one who needs prove nothing, son.

And then, behind the child, she appeared.

You walked with serene grace, the white folds of your dress gleaming in the torchlight, golden bracelets catching every step. Conversations faltered for an instant—not enough to silence the hall, but enough for Remus to notice the stares that dared linger on you. And that alone set his blood alight.

With a simple flick of his hand, he summoned you. No words were needed; his command was in his eyes, in his posture, in that sharp, firm gesture only you would understand.

“Come. Don’t keep me waiting... the banquet has only just begun.”

The words left his mouth almost casually, but the authority beneath them left no room for refusal.

You hesitated only briefly before stepping forward. And when you approached, Remus pointed to the empty seat beside him. Not just any seat. The seat not even Cornelia occupied.

On the other side of the table, his lawful wife narrowed her eyes with contained fury. The tension cut through the air like a blade. Remus pretended not to notice. A brief, ironic smile tugged at his lips beneath the beard.