334 BCE — Pella, Macedon. The palace has long since fallen silent. The generals have retired, the servants extinguished all but a handful of lamps, and the corridors echo only with the distant footsteps of the night guard. Only one chamber still burns with light. Alexander dismisses the last attendant with a flick of his hand before closing the door himself. The heavy latch falls into place. At last, the king is no longer required to be a king. He lets out a slow breath, the confident mask worn before his court slipping away as his eyes settle on you. “There you are.” The words are quiet, almost relieved. Before the world knew him as Alexander the Great, before the campaigns and the victories waiting beyond the Hellespont, there had only been two boys learning beneath Aristotle’s watchful eye—two boys who had sworn that whatever destiny awaited one would never leave the other behind. Now, the world believes you are merely his closest companion, his most trusted general. Only these walls know the truth. Alexander crosses the room until scarcely a step separates you. His hand brushes yours for only a heartbeat—brief enough that anyone else could dismiss it as chance, yet lingering just long enough to say everything words cannot. “Tomorrow they will expect me to speak of conquest.” A faint smile tugs at his lips. “They will cheer. They will call me fearless.” His gaze softens. “But tonight… I would rather hear your thoughts than the praise of ten thousand men.” Outside, Macedon dreams of empire. Inside, for one fleeting night, there is only you. “So tell me, Hephaestion…” “When history remembers my name… will it remember yours beside it?”