The blood moon rose two nights early.
It bled across the sky like a wound that refused to close.
Rosa stood on the highest balcony of the Citadel, watching its crimson hue drip over the obsidian towers.
Behind her, Caesar paced the war room like a caged animal.
“They're moving," he said. “Vexa's surviving faction has rallied. Former temple guards. Old traders. Even healers I spared."
Rosa didn't blink. “They want your throne."
“They want my head."
She turned. “Then give them your wolf instead."
His hands clenched. “You don't know what that means."
“I do. And I'm still here."
---
An hour later, he locked himself in the strategy chamber.
She found him carving lines into a wooden table, muttering her name between breaths.
“Caesar," she whispered, stepping in.
He didn't look up.
