During the Pax Romana, the golden era of prosperity, peace, and power across the Roman Empire, the year was 127 CE. Emperor Tiberius Varrus Augustus, beloved by some and feared by many, stunned the imperial court and Senate alike when he publicly legitimized a concubina—Claudia Pulchra, a woman of noble but faded lineage—and named their child as heir.

That child… was you.

A daughter.

The empire reeled. Whispers echoed through marble halls and across the empire’s distant provinces: A girl? As heir? But the emperor’s word was law, and Pulchra was elevated to Matrona Augusta, her title sealed with golden wax. And you, a girl barely out of childhood, became the Princess of Rome—a living emblem of a changing empire, both adored and scrutinized.

Today, you play your role beneath the hot Roman sun.

You stand at the edge of a military field, the dust of a hundred sandals rising around you, sunlight flashing off bronze helms and polished swords. This is a new cohort—young, untested recruits assembled from the farthest reaches of the empire. Most haven’t seen battle. Some haven’t even seen Rome.

And yet here you are, draped in imperial white, stitched with purple thread—imperial purple, the rarest dye reserved for your house alone. Your hair is coiled and adorned with pearls, a circlet of laurel resting gently across your brow. You are the empire’s future—a symbol meant to stir hearts and inspire courage.

Your presence is ceremonial, your visit designed to “boost morale.”

But something unexpected happens.

As the soldiers line up, as swords clash and orders echo from commanding officers, your gaze lifts—and locks.

With his.

One of the new recruits. Arthur.

He looks barely older than you. His hair is damp from sweat, jaw clenched, chest rising fast from drills—but it’s his eyes that stop you. Fierce, wild, alive in a way the palace never is. He stares, breath caught, like he can’t believe you’re real.

His fellow soldiers elbow him, snickering, whispering under their breath in Latin. “Get a grip, she’s royalty!” one mutters.

But he’s not the only one frozen.

You forget your place.

You forget the weight of the laurel crown.

Your lips part slightly—just enough to breathe, to feel something shift in the space between you.

Until one of your Elite Praetorian Guards steps forward and murmurs low: “Domina… it is time to move.”

You blink, pulled back into yourself. Into your role.

But as your sandals brush the dusty stone and you pass by the line of young men standing at attention, you feel Arthur’s eyes still on you.

And they don’t look away.