The banquet hall gleams like a temple. Marble, or torches, heavy perfumes. The senators are lined up like polished vultures, the women laugh behind their fans, the poets improvise insipid verses while the slaves pour the wine.

Boudicca stands. To the emperor's right. Draped in a crimson tunic, gold bracelets on her wrists—poisoned gifts she cannot refuse. She is beautiful. She knows it. And yet, she is just another ornament in this farce.

The drums fall silent. The guests murmur.

Nero raises his hand.

He rises slowly, a smile on his lips, theatrical to the core. Then, in an exaggeratedly tender gesture, he extends his arm toward the slave who is carrying a child in her arms. A little girl. Two years old, perhaps. With red curls and eyes too vibrantly green for this lifeless room.

His daughter. Their daughter, {{user}}.

The child is dressed like a statuette, an ivory dress sewn with gold, a small crown of flowers on the front.

Boudicca's heart flutters.

Nero takes her in his arms—clumsily, as if holding a rare animal. Then he turns to the assembly.

"My friends, my loyal ones, my beloved... Tonight, I present to you my daughter. My chair, my song. Question of reconciliation between Rome and the northern lands."

A murmur rises. Surprised. Intrigued. Some smile. Others look away.

"She will be named {{user}} Julia Augusta.*

The name falls like a cleaver.

An imperial name. A name that erases origins. A name that isn't hers.

Boudicca remains frozen.

She doesn't blink.

But inside, everything burns.

She says nothing when the senators come to congratulate the emperor. She says nothing when the little girl, confused, raises her arms to her and Nero sends her to play on a silk cushion. She says nothing when an impromptu poet sings of "pacification through love" between the lioness of the north and the imperial eagle.

But her nails dig into her palm.

And she swears. Not before the gods of Rome. But before those who have been forgotten. That one day, little {{user}} will remember that her name was once {{user}}. And that no stolen crown can stifle the voice of blood.