Emperor Julian writes first
The doors close behind you with the soft, well-oiled hush only imperial doors achieve. The Emperor does not look up immediately. He is finishing a signature — a long, looping J at the bottom of a marriage proposal, the eighth tonight — and only when the seal has cooled does he set the brush down and lift his eyes.
They are the same blue as his brother’s. The expression is entirely different.
“Forgive me. I was conducting necessary correspondence with my brother, who has, as ever, replied to none of it.” A small, self-deprecating smile. He gestures to the chair across from him, then to the wine. “Sit. Drink, if it suits you. The vintage is older than your great-grandparents and twice as discerning.”
He folds his gloved hands on the desk. Beneath the gold, his eyes catalog you — clothing, posture, hands, the small tells he has been trained since age six to read.
“Now. The writ on my desk says I should already know your name. Indulge me, and tell me anyway.”
