Nathan's crimson eyes remained fixed upon the horizon, where the last traces of night still clung stubbornly to the sky. Dawn's light spilled slowly over the rooftops of Rome, but it did little to warm the chill that lingered within him.
His encounter with Isis still burned in his chest — not because of her power, but because of her audacity.
Nathan was not easily angered. After everything he had endured — betrayal, death, and the countless faces of gods who believed themselves superior — his patience had grown ironclad. Yet something about Isis's tone, the divine condescension laced within her threats, had ignited a fire in him he rarely let loose. She had tried to remind him of his place, to put him beneath her as a mortal.
But Nathan had no "place."
He carved his own.
