The sky was as beautiful as ever—serene and calm, like the surface of a still lake. The sun shone in all its radiance, as if attempting to cradle the child of its heart, allowing him to dream as he once did in his mother's arms. He never knew her name as no one would speak of her , nor could he recall her face, yet each time he drifted into sleep, he dreamt of long arms stretching over his curled-up body. He did not know if they were hers, but he liked to believe they were.
He had always been fond of poetry, letting lyrical words escape his lips whenever the mood struck him. He liked to think his mother had been a poetess, that her blood—rich with the ink of verses and the lineage of emperors—flowed in his veins.
"Day arrives as poetry and fades as the last words of a lullaby. Yet I sleep and sleep, and never dream… is that a curse, or a jest of the dread—"
He stopped abruptly as the door creaked open. There was only one person who would enter without knocking.
Claria had the brownest eyes he had ever seen. When he smiled at her, they seemed to light up, as if she carried the warmth of the sun within them. When he was with her, nothing else seemed to matter. He had always believed she saw him as a son. But did he see her as a mother? That, he did not know.
Her lips were thin, the top one curving into a perfect 'M.' Whenever she caught him brooding, she would mimic his expression—a ridiculous game, and yet, one he secretly loved. Her fingers were slender, nails neatly trimmed. Her skin was tanned, yet along her shoulders, small patches of pale skin stood out—like grains of salt scattered across a plate of brown mushrooms. His gaze followed the dark flow of her hair, trailing back up to her eyes.
Her eyes were what he liked best about her. He could have spent an entire day gazing into them and never tired of it.
She bowed gracefully, her ebony locks cascading down her back before she straightened, fixing him with that piercing stare.
"Tibianus, I suppose you know why I am here?" she asked, disappointment lacing her tone.
He feigned ignorance, attempting to lighten the mood. "I would like to say it was to admire the beautiful weather with me," he replied, lips curling into a wry smile.
But her gaze did not soften. The disappointment in her eyes cut through him.
"The priest made sure I knew what you did," she said plainly.
Tibianus clenched his jaw. That self-righteous, dung-eating bastard, he thought. He had always enjoyed running his mouth at the priest's expense, though it seemed the man had taken his complaints directly to Claria.
"Do you understand that what you did was wrong?" she asked, her voice gentle yet firm—the voice of a mother scolding a child.
"Perhaps…" he murmured, turning his gaze toward the window, unwilling to meet her eyes when they carried such disappointment.
With a sigh, Claria stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his head and drawing him into her embrace, just as she had when he was a child. Her warmth surrounded him, a silent promise of comfort and protection. He hadn't realized how much he needed it until now.
"I know why you did that," she murmured against his hair, her breath soft and steady.
His heart stilled for a moment before resuming its rhythm. He tilted his head up to meet her gaze. "You do?" he whispered.
"You don't want to enter the church, do you?" she asked, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, studying his expression with quiet understanding.
Tibianus swallowed and nodded. The weight of his fears eased just slightly now that he no longer had to pretend. "I don't," he admitted.
The path of faith was not for him. He shuddered at the thought of the sacrifices demanded by the church—the quiet, smothering life it would force upon him. There was a reason why the sons of rebellious nobles chose death over the cloth. And though he had considered that choice himself, he could not bring himself to embrace it. He wasn't brave enough. He knew it. He hated himself for it.
He did not want to become an eunuch
Claria said nothing. She understood his fears—perhaps more than he did—but also knew he had no choice. Bastards had only two fates: the church, or the battlefield. To be locked away in prayer or sent to die in a war they had no stake in. Everyone hated bastards. And yet, everyone seemed to have at least one.
He hated his mother's blood. But whenever such thoughts crossed his mind, he remembered those hands from his dreams. And with those memories always came pain.
"Do you want to walk with me?" Claria asked at last, sensing no other way to ease his torment.
He nodded, and together, they walked.
The halls of the palace stretched before them, vast and gleaming under the soft glow of chandeliers. The polished marble floors reflected their steps like ghosts trailing behind them. Portraits of emperors lined the walls, their painted eyes following him with a quiet scrutiny. Mocking him. Daring him to believe that their blood was the same as his.
Servants moved through the corridors with practiced efficiency. Some cast fleeting glances his way, their expressions unreadable before they turned back to their tasks. It was nothing new. Indifference, disdain—he had grown accustomed to both. He was a bastard, after all.
But as long as he had her, it did not matter.
At the end of the hallway, the usual quiet murmur of palace life was interrupted by something else. The sharp, ragged edge of a scream.
Tibianus froze.
The cries were not those of a heated argument or drunken quarrel. These were screams of pain, raw and unrelenting, slicing through the air like a blade.
His pulse quickened as he exchanged a glance with Claria. Her fingers tightened around his arm.
The sound came from the throne chamber, where the consort empress held court alongside the council of nobles.
The marble walls carried the echoes far, distorting them into something almost inhuman. But the agony in those screams was unmistakable.
Tibianus felt his stomach twist.
Something had happened.
Something terrible.
And whatever it was, it was waiting for them behind those doors.