"Never thought I'd see the old ghost warming his bones with wine," a young man's voice muttered from the doorway, dark and sardonic. "One would think a man whose favorite weapon is poison would be more mindful of what he drinks."
The door closed behind him with a muted click. He crossed the chamber without ceremony, black hair hanging loose and unkempt, his gaze drifting lazily toward the garden below the high window.
It was true what they said: the darkest place lies beneath the candle.
Tiberius wondered, not for the first time, if the order for his capture still lingered, smoldering beneath the new regime. The bitch-empress had despised him with every fiber of her body, for he was the living stain of her husband's weakness.
