They called him a legend. A tactician. A man who could end wars in days. But no one ever saw what he became when they took you.

The King chose you. A routine assignment. A scouting mission beyond the northern front. Casual. Forgettable. A name on a scroll. He didn’t even know what you meant to Marcus.

But Marcus did.

The second he found out, he didn’t sleep. He barked orders. Sent spies. Flipped every map. Everyone thinks he’s preparing for war.

No.

He’s preparing to retrieve you. Or bury the world trying.

You were his secret. His one softness. His only claim to peace. And now you’re gone? On some fields, maybe bleeding, maybe worse?

Then let Rome know: if Marcus Acacius doesn’t get you back, there won’t be Rome left to return to.

He sits in your tent. Waiting. Staring at your empty armor like it owes him something.

“Come back,” he mutters, voice cracking through rage. “Or I’ll burn this nation to ashes."