For now, he would walk the Roman halls as Septimius.
He would whisper where it mattered, sever what needed severing, and poison the roots of Rome if he had to—all while feeding Cleopatra just enough truth to keep her hungry for more.
The real war hadn't begun yet.
"That's quite the bold proposal," Nathan said, his tone laced with curiosity and caution. "Ambitious too. If what you're planning does come to pass, I imagine it would be... advantageous for me to be the ally who helped you rise to such heights."
He leaned back slightly, his sharp eyes never leaving Cleopatra's. The flickering torchlight in the tent danced across his white hair.
Cleopatra remained silent, her expression unreadable. She sat with the poise of a queen born to command, her face a portrait of enigmatic beauty and veiled calculation. She didn't speak, didn't blink — she simply watched, as if waiting for Nathan to draw his own conclusions.
