She would not be his weakness.
The thought was a shard of ice in Marcia's heart. She pulled her hand back from the heavy door, turned away from the sound of her lover's laughter, and walked back into the silent corridors of the palace. The dead bird in its silk wrapping felt heavier with every step.
He needed to be the Emperor. He needed this victory. She would not be the anchor that dragged him down into fear.
But she would not be a victim, either.
Lucilla wanted to play a game of shadows and fear. Fine. Marcia would learn the rules.
She bypassed her own chambers and descended once more to the bustling lower levels. She knew she couldn't fight a lioness with force. But even a lioness could be undone by a thousand tiny wounds.
She found the palace steward in his small, cluttered office. He was an old, overlooked man named Cassian, with eyes that saw everything and a mouth that said nothing. He managed the vast, invisible network of servants, cooks, and stable hands that kept the heart of the Empire beating.
Years ago, Marcia had used a sliver of her influence to get Cassian's bright young nephew a coveted position as a scribe in the Imperial Library. It was a small kindness, given freely. Now, she was here to call in the debt.
He rose when she entered, his face a mask of polite deference. "My lady. How may I serve you?"
Marcia didn't waste time. She unwrapped the silk cloth and placed the silver cage on his desk. The dead bird lay on its side, a tiny, broken effigy.
Cassian's eyes widened for a fraction of a second. He understood instantly. He had survived in the palace for forty years. He knew the language of threats.
"I need information," Marcia said, her voice low and steady. She didn't ask for protection. She asked for a weapon. "I need to know about the Lady Lucilla's handmaidens. Who is new? Who has a brother with gambling debts? Who is unhappy with her station?"
The old steward looked from the cage to Marcia's face, his own pale with a deep, weary fear. "My lady," he whispered, his voice raspy. "This is a dangerous game you are playing."
"I am already playing it," Marcia replied, her gaze unwavering. "The only choice I have is whether I play to win."
Lucilla's attack, when it came, was not a dagger in the dark. It was a plague of whispers.
It began the next day. A thousand tiny poisons, released into the bloodstream of the palace. The source was untraceable, a rumor started by a handmaiden, overheard by a guard, passed to a cook, and served up with the evening meal.
Did you hear? The concubine Marcia was seen leaving the quarters of the Parthian ambassador's aide. A pouch of gold exchanged hands.
My cousin in the kitchens saw her. She puts a powder in the Emperor's wine every night. To keep him besotted.
She meets with Chaldean astrologers in secret. They say she is casting spells to cloud the Emperor's mind.
The lies were simple, vicious, and impossible to disprove. They were tailored to the superstitions of the court. Magic, treason, and seduction. The holy trinity of a woman's downfall.
The effect was immediate and brutal.
Her world began to shrink. The serving girls who once greeted her with smiles now averted their eyes and scurried away. The Praetorian guards, who had respected her as the Emperor's confidante, now watched her with a new, cold suspicion. Her few allies among the court ladies fell silent, afraid to be tainted by the scandal.
The palace, once a home, had become a prison. Every hallway was a gauntlet of judging eyes. Every friendly face had become a potential spy.
The most painful blow came unexpectedly. She was walking down a familiar marble hall to fetch a cool drink from a fountain. Two maids she had known for years, girls she had shared jokes with, were talking in hushed tones.
They saw her coming.
The conversation stopped instantly. They turned their backs to her, a gesture of social execution more brutal and final than any blade. They didn't have to say a word. She was an outcast. Unclean.
That evening, the rumors claimed their prize. They had grown so loud, so persistent, that they could no longer be ignored. They required an official response.
It came in the form of Titus, the new Praetorian Prefect.
He was a mountain of a man, brutally efficient and incorruptible. Marcus had appointed him for that very reason. His loyalty was to the office of the Emperor, a cold, hard thing devoid of personal feeling.
He intercepted her in the main colonnade as she was returning to her chambers. The space was public, filled with senators in their white togas and courtiers drifting like brightly colored fish. It was a deliberate, public spectacle.
"Lady Marcia," Titus said, his voice a low rumble. He did not shout. He was not aggressive. Which somehow made it so much worse. He was formal, by-the-book, a machine of Imperial security doing its job.
The nearby conversations faltered and died. Everyone stopped to watch.
"For the security of the Emperor," Titus continued, his gaze impassive, "I must ask you to account for your movements last night. There have been… reports."
Her humiliation was complete. This wasn't an arrest. It was an unofficial, public interrogation designed to strip her of her dignity, to brand her as a suspect in the eyes of the entire court. She stood alone in a circle of silence, the focus of a hundred curious, merciless eyes.
Her chin was high. Her hands were clasped at her waist to stop them from shaking. She was cornered, her honor and her name being systematically dismantled. This was Lucilla's true genius. Not murder, but a slow, public execution of the soul.
And then, he was there.
Marcus strode into the colonnade from the direction of the war room, his face alight with energy. He had clearly just come from a successful session with Galen. He was moving with the confident stride of an emperor who was winning his war.
He stopped dead.
He took in the scene in an instant. Marcia, pale and surrounded. His own Prefect, doing his duty with cold, implacable efficiency. The silent, watching crowd of courtiers.
And on a nearby balcony, half-hidden by a marble pillar, he saw her. His sister, Lucilla, watching the show with a look of serene, victorious piety.
The pieces clicked into place. The trap. The target. The architect.
JARVIS was silent in his mind. There was no data for this. No optimized solution. This was a war of emotion and perception, a battlefield of whispers and loyalty.
His mind fractured into two warring impulses.
The Emperor's choice was clear. Support his Prefect. Show the court that no one, not even his favorite, was above scrutiny. To intervene would be to show favoritism, to confirm the very rumors that she held undue influence over him. It was the move of a strong, impartial ruler.
But the man's choice—Marcus Holt's choice—was a primal scream. Defend her. Crush the rumors and the man speaking them. Protect the one person in this entire damned world he trusted, the woman who had saved him more times than he could count. But it would be seen as weakness. As tyranny. As proof positive that he was a puppet, bewitched and controlled.
The entire court held its breath. They were all watching. Waiting.
Titus, oblivious to the storm raging behind the Emperor's eyes, turned to him. His face was a mask of dutiful stone.
"Caesar," he said, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. "There are troubling rumors that threaten the stability of your court and the perception of your authority. What are your orders?"
The question hung in the air, a blade pressed to his throat. Marcus looked from Marcia's terrified, pleading eyes to Lucilla's smug, triumphant smile across the colonnade.
Save the woman, or save the Emperor?