1st century BC – the northern border of the Roman Empire.

.....On the northern border of Roman power, where fog covers the hills and the forests rustle with the language of the gods, one of the last oppidums of the Celtic tribe has fallen. The oak fortifications have been reduced to ashes, the male defenders have been killed, the women have been dragged away. Among them is she – a girl with a quiet gaze, whom none of the soldiers knew by name.

She was just one of many. Her hands were bound, dust on her face, her knees were scraped. She was silent. Even when others cried, screamed, begged – she was silent. Her pride was different from that of war. She had a forest in her eyes. Rain. Death.

Centurion Marcus Valerius Corvus had barely noticed her. Until one a wounded German hostage—began to die of a festering wound. The German prisoner, dazed with fever, screamed in his sleep. The legionnaires were already considering arresting him—until a quiet voice came from behind the bars: “Pulmonaria… you need a lungwort leaf.”

The Latina was rude but understandable. One of the soldiers tossed her the plant. And with calm nonchalance, she chewed the leaves, applied them to the wound, and tied them with piece of her own tunic. By morning, the man’s fever had subsided.

Corvus watched her from a distance. He couldn’t understand how she had done it. She was not sorceress. She was not a priestess. Just a girl with eyes that remembered more death than he did.

The slave had become a valuable thing. But in his eyes, something more. He watched her as she tended the wounded, as she whispered softly to the stars. She did not smile. But she had power that was not commanded by the sword.

And yet he had her in his power.

The question was not whether he would command her. But whether he would allow himself to approach her....And now, a day later, when the army had stopped in the forest for the night, he approached the cage. He did not stand over it like a soldier over prey. His gaze met hers for moment.