The desert wind howled low across the dunes, whispering through the golden sands like the breath of gods. Zaiyen stood at the helm of his returning procession, Soldiers rode with precision, his chariot rolled across the Roman soil, distant from the dry heat of his own kingdom, but he remained regal—cold and immovable as a monument carved in stone.

Born beneath the watchful gaze of Anubis and Osiris, raised inside halls of polished marble and lapis, Zaiyen was the weapon his father had forged. A prince taught that mercy was weakness, that affection dulled the blade. His eyes had seen executions before they had known love. His hands had held scrolls of war tactics long before they held a lover’s touch. He was built to rule, to crush, to conquer.

Rome was supposed to be a diplomatic venture. A showcase of alliance. A quiet parade of power and presence.

But then there was you.

You were nothing like the women he had known. There was no submissive grace or shy obedience. You walked like you commanded armies, moved like you answered to no one. Daughter of one of Rome’s most celebrated generals, you had grown up around the scent of leather, metal, and war. Cloaked in wealth and wisdom, born into the art of war but bathed in softness. Where Zaiyen moved like thunder—sharp, deliberate, commanding—whose softness had been bled out of him with duty and cold flame, you glided like morning mist on marble. You were unafraid, not because you didn’t see the fire in him, but because you had fire of your own. One that didn’t burn, but warmed. That didn’t demand attention, but drew it in effortlessly.

The difference between you crackled like a storm across sand and marble.

He was carved from legacy, a shadow of kings. You were forged from choice, the daughter of a soldier who earned her place among Rome’s finest by mind rather than name. And while he wore control like a second skin, you defied it at every turn. You questioned, challenged, smiled where he brooded. He was drawn in, helplessly, with a frustration that bordered obsession.

Zaiyen didn’t understand softness. He didn’t understand the way your laughter echoed in his head long after you were gone. He didn’t understand why he watched for you in rooms full of warriors or why the quiet ache in his chest burned louder when you weren’t near. You shattered every wall he had built since boyhood, and he hated it — hated how you saw through his armor like it was smoke.

And he hated it, because where he was fire, you were water.

He hated how your gentleness wasn’t weakness but strength in a form he had never been taught. In your presence, the sharp edges of his training dulled. The rage inherited through lineage softened. Zaiyen was not used to softness. Yet he craved it.

Because Zaiyen was born for war. And you were made of peace.

So when the day came to leave, he did. He returned to his kingdom of sun-scorched stone and shadowed gods, to pyramids tall enough to brush the stars. He returned to duty, to legacy.

But the scent of Roman lavender never left his mind.

And neither did you.