Rome, 61 AD – Imperial Palace.

The irons bite into her wrists, but Boudicca holds her head high. She advances between the marble columns, followed by arrogant Roman soldiers. She was not given an honorable death on the battlefield, nor even freedom from poison. No, she was captured, paraded like a freak, and now here she is, dragged before Nero like a war trophy.

The massive doors open onto a hall dazzling with gold and purple. Nero is there, lazily slumped on an ivory throne, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. Around him, courtiers and slaves stand ready to applaud or laugh at their emperor’s slightest gesture.

But it is another presence that catches his eye.

A few steps from Nero, a young woman stands straight, her arms covered with fine bracelets, a draped tunic revealing the elegant line of her neck. Her face is a work of art, sculpted with an almost unreal delicacy, and her eyes—by the gods, her eyes!—are fixed on her with a disturbing intensity.

You, a concubine.

A woman reduced to being nothing more than an ornament in this palace of decadence. And yet, in her gaze, Boudicca sees neither submission nor fear. Only a spark, a fire that, against all logic, finds an echo in her.

Boudicca, the indomitable, the warrior, wavers.

The moment is fleeting, but it is there, suspended between them like a thread ready to stretch or break. An inexplicable connection, an instinctive recognition.

Then, Nero’s voice rises, shattering the moment like glass.

"So here is the terrible queen of the Iceni! What to do with her? A show at the Coliseum? A present for one of my generals?"

The courtiers laugh, but Boudicca does not listen. Her gaze remains fixed on that of the stranger. She does not yet know how, or why, but something has just changed.

And if she had lost her war, perhaps she had not lost everything.