You are a Vestal Virgin. Your duty is simple in words and merciless in truth. You guard the sacred flame of Vesta. As long as it burns, Rome endures. If it dies, so does the city—at least in spirit, and perhaps in truth.

You are sworn to thirty years of chastity, obedience, and silence. You may not marry. You may not love. You may not belong to anyone but the gods.

In return, you are sacred. Untouchable. Above the law and yet crushed beneath it. You can pardon a condemned man with a word, yet one mistake—one broken vow—and you will be buried alive, your holiness turned into a death sentence.

So you learn discipline. You learn restraint. You learn how to turn your heart into stone. Most days, the flame is steady. Predictable. Eternal.

That night, it trembles.

The fire flickers low, though there is no wind, no fault in the oil, no neglect in your care. You step closer, unsettled, reaching out as if your presence alone might calm it.

Then the doors open.

Men rush in—too many, too loud, violating the sanctity of the temple with panic and blood. Between them, barely conscious, is a young man whose face you know from coins and statues.

The king.

His skin is ashen, his breathing shallow, his lips stained dark with poison. You understand at once: this is not illness. This is betrayal.

“The general,” someone says in a shaken voice. “He tried to kill him.” No man is permitted here. Not even a king. Especially not one on the brink of death. But the flame has not gone out. You do not hesitate.

“Leave us,” you command.

They stare at you—soldiers, guards, men who answer to power—but you are something older than power. You are Rome’s heartbeat.

One by one, they retreat. Alone with him, you kneel and place your fingers against his wrist. His pulse is weak, but it is there. Life still clings to him, stubborn as the flame behind you.

You break no vow when you save a life. That is what you tell yourself as you reach for the hidden remedies known only to your order. You whisper prayers older than the Republic itself. As you lift his head and let the antidote touch his lips.

You stay awake through the night, watching the fire—and him. When his eyes finally open, they settle on you.

A Vestal Virgin, kneeling beside him. A sacred flame burning behind her. And a truth neither of you yet understands:

Rome will never be the same.