Marcus Antony awoke to the dim light of an oil lamp flickering against the canvas of the tent. The air smelled of damp earth and iron. His head pounded, and his back throbbed with pain. As his vision cleared, he noticed a soldier standing stiffly at the tent’s entrance, his gaze fixed ahead.
Before Antony could gather his bearings, the guard nearest to him turned and bolted out of the tent without a word. The remaining one stayed, his posture rigid, clearly nervous under Antony's piercing glare.
“Where the hell am I?” Marcus demanded, his voice hoarse but sharp. He struggled to sit up, only to hiss in pain as his back protested. “What is this place? Speak!”
The soldier’s voice was calm but wary. “You’re in a military encampment, sir. We found you washed up on the shores.”
Marcus froze, his mind scrambling to piece together the fragments of his memory. The last thing he remembered was the chaos of the sinking ship—fire, shouting, and the violent pull of the ocean. His face darkened as another memory stabbed at him. His wife and son.
“What about my family?” he barked, his tone growing harsher. “My son—my boy—where is he? And my wife?”
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The soldier flinched but kept his composure. “I... I don’t know, sir. You were the only one we found.”
The words hit Marcus like a blow, but his anger quickly rose to mask the fear clawing at his chest. “You don’t know?” he snapped. “You have men searching the waters, I assume? Or are you just standing around, playing at being soldiers?”
The guard said nothing, his silence only fueling Marcus’s frustration. He swung his legs off the cot, determined to stand, but his body rebelled, sending a searing jolt through his back.
“Damn it,” he growled, sinking back on to the cot.
“Sir,” the soldier said cautiously, “you should rest. You’re injured—”
“Don’t tell me what I should do!” Marcus cut him off, glaring at the man as though sheer willpower might bend him to his will.
Before the tension could escalate further, the tent flap opened, and the guard who had left earlier returned, stepping aside to allow someone else to enter.
Nevya.
She strode in, her every step deliberate, her eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and disdain. She wore a tailored military coat that emphasized her authority, and her lips curved into a condescending smirk the moment her gaze landed on Marcus.
“Ah, the great Marcus Antony,” she said, her voice dripping with mockery. “Alive and well—well, alive, at least.”
Marcus clenched his fists, his body trembling with the effort to rise despite his injuries. He couldn’t stand, but his glare could have cut through steel. “Nevya,” he spat her name like a curse.