Marcus's smirk faltered.
Because standing just a few paces away, framed by the fractured light of the dusk-stricken city, was a figure he hadn't expected.
Clad in dark leathers marked with the faint insignia of Pharaon—but bearing none of its pride—stood Nathan.
Or rather, the man the Romans and others knew as Septimius.
Nathan wandered through the polished marble corridors of the palace, his steps echoing in the empty halls. He had left the throne room deliberately, wanting no part in the droning voices and ceaseless bickering of court politics. The air inside had grown suffocating, thick with schemes and false smiles. He sought silence—solitude, perhaps—but the moment was abruptly shattered by the unmistakable sound of a scream.
It wasn't just any scream.
It was raw, broken, and filled with a terror that made Nathan freeze in place.
