The Foreboding of Calpernia, Wife of Caesar, Doomed Tyrant

Moonlight wove a lambent tapestry through the atrium, each silvered thread whispering omens in Calpernia's ear.

Visions, stark and terrible, bled into her dreams, painting Caesar's fate in hues of flashing iron and crimson. She awoke, heart a frantic bird against her ribs, tasting ashes on her tongue.

Calpernia wove the prophecy into a shroud of words. She spoke of shadows dancing with blades, of the Senate floor transformed into the coliseum, sand and death.

Caesar, draped in the armor of hubris, brushed her pleas aside. "Mere vapors," he scoffed, mistaking her anguish for the whims of a woman's worrisome thoughts.

Calpernia watched as he left, a statue carved from sorrow, swallowed by the maw of the inescapable destiny.

The hours crawled by, each tick of the sundial a knell. Then, the raven's harsh caw split the silence, an echo of the murderous dagger's kiss, plunging her into an abyss of grief, the world tilted on its axis.

Sic semper tyranus, they cried. It had come to pass.