To Burn an Empire

The salt air of Alexandria reeks of stagnant water and butchery. You stand atop the Pharos lighthouse, the stone beneath your boots vibrating from the rhythm of the siege engines below. Cleopatra is nowhere to be seen, but the palace guards are deserting their posts, their armor clattering against the marble floors as they flee toward the harbor. Your duty is to the bloodline, yet the usurper’s fire-ships have already breached the chain, turning the turquoise harbor into a roiling cauldron of liquid bitumen and splintered oars. Down the spiral stair, the heavy oak doors are being bucked by iron-shod rams. You hold the royal signet ring, cold and biting against your palm, while the smoke from the burning docks chokes the sky into a bruising purple. You have enough oil remaining to ignite the Pharos beacon, a flare of light that could signal the hidden reserve fleet to return, or you could descend now, blade drawn, to hold the stairwell against the encroaching shadow of the Roman infantry. A heavy boot impacts the wood of the door, and the hinges groan in protest, showering the floor with lime dust. A voice behind the splintering timber screams for the Queen’s head. You have seconds…