The next day arrived, quietly yet heavy with intent.
T
he first light of dawn swept across the marble rooftops of Crassus's estate, gilding them in gold. The city of Rome lay beneath, tranquil and unsuspecting, bathed in the soft glow of morning. Atop the highest roof, Nathan sat cross-legged in silence, his posture still and measured like a monk in meditation. The cold wind tugged at his white hair, making it shimmer faintly beneath the sun's newborn rays.
He had not slept.
The entire night had passed in relentless focus and quiet exertion. The rooftop around him bore faint traces of his work — the ground slightly scorched, thin black cracks forming a spiderweb beneath where he sat. Aphrodite had long since left, her presence fading like a dream at dawn. Before departing, she had offered him her guidance, her voice soft yet commanding, teaching him how to draw out the essence of the black stone — the cursed relic that pulsed faintly in his palm.
Ten hours.
