The Emperor’s smile didn't falter, but his grip on the chariot’s rail tightened. He looked at the vast monuments built in his name—stone and marble designed to last forever.
As the chariot reached the palace, the Emperor stepped down, no longer feeling like a god, but like a man. He turned to the slave. "And tomorrow?" Pro Memoria
The slave bowed low, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. "Tomorrow, I will whisper it again." Ghost - Pro Memoria The Emperor’s smile didn't falter, but his grip
The Emperor rode his golden chariot through the gates of Rome, the air thick with the scent of crushed laurel and the roar of a thousand cheering voices. He stood tall, invincible, his armor gleaming like a second sun. He turned to the slave
"Don't you forget about dying," the slave whispered, his voice a dry rasp that cut through the thunder of the crowd. "Don't you forget about your friend death."
"Look at this," the Emperor muttered, gesturing to the eternal city. "My legacy is written in granite."