The air inside the inner palace was unnaturally still.
The moment the massive oak doors creaked open, a hush fell over the great hall beyond.
Smoke and dust drifted lazily through the beams of golden light filtering from shattered windows, illuminating the marble floor now streaked with blood and soot.
Julius entered first.
His crimson cloak trailed through the debris, the echo of his boots against the polished stone a steady drumbeat in the cavernous silence.
Behind him, his Praetorians filed in—two ranks of obsidian-clad giants, shields polished black, visors glinting with faint crimson reflections.
Opposite them stood what little remained of the Francian royal guard.
No more than a dozen men, exhausted and broken, their armor scorched, their once-proud tabards torn and bloodstained.
Behind those battered soldiers huddled a handful of nobles—gaunt, trembling, their silken finery turned to rags.
And beyond them, at the far end of the chamber, sat the King of Francia.
