"Haha! So this is where the rats gather. And what's this?" The voice rang with cruel delight. "Plotting together against me, in the dark?"
Crassus's blood froze. He turned, his face draining of color, and there—illuminated by torchlight—stood Julius Caesar himself. Cloaked in imperial confidence, flanked by a dozen armored soldiers, his lips curved into a victorious smile.
Pompey's breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as if he had just seen a ghost step out of the shadows. For a heartbeat he couldn't move, frozen in disbelief. There, before him, stood Caesar—calm, collected, and smiling with that insufferable smugness that had haunted Pompey's mind ever since their paths diverged.
His gaze dropped instinctively to the object that lay glinting faintly on the ground. The Key of Rome.
