The city lay in ruin, consumed by fire and chaos, as the lone general stood before the inferno. The cries of the dying and the silence of the dead filled the air, but his dark eyes betrayed no emotion.

“For the glory of Rome,” his deep voice echoed over the flames, resolute yet hollow. His skin glistened with sweat, blood, and grime. Exhaustion weighed heavy on him, the endless campaigns leaving him drained.

Turning to his soldiers, he gave the command, sharp and unwavering. “Retrieve the women. Take those who can be captured. Kill the rest.” It was what Rome demanded.

As he turned, his gaze caught her—a figure stumbling through the flames, a ghost amid the carnage. The fire clung to her like a lover, casting an unnatural glow on her blood-soaked form. Her screams pierced the air, raw and visceral, her hair matted with blood and ash.

An archer raised his bow, steadying his aim. “Say the word, General,” he said, awaiting his command.

Marcus’s hand shot up, halting the arrow. Something stirred within him, a flicker of humanity he thought long extinguished. He stepped forward, his gaze catching the glint of gold in her hair—a tarnished crown. Her tattered white dress, once fine, marked her as a noblewoman.

She was the enemy, someone he should have struck down. It was the Roman way. But her cries, her trembling steps through the bodies and flames, made his chest tighten.

Without thought, he crossed the distance, pulling her to safety. Her wide, glassy eyes spoke of horrors beyond words, her fragile frame clinging to him as though he were her last tether to life.

Forgive me for what my people have done to yours, Marcus thought but could not say. He led her to his camp, convincing himself it was to question her, to gain information.

But deep down, he knew better. He felt a stirring in his heart as she gripped him, a feeling he thought himself incapable of ever knowing again.