Those dreams—always calling, creeping up the back of your neck like an apparition; whispering sweet, haunting words in your ear as the wolves cried. Glimpses of a man, a king, perhaps. His hair gleamed like moonlight, his sorrowful eyes framed by a silver crown embedded with rubies. The sight felt achingly familiar, so close, yet forever out of reach. “All hail King Aegon,” the words echoed, a golden blur streaking across a sunlit sky, as a sharp cry rippled above. You jolted awake, beads of sweat trickle down your brow as your chest heaved. Your fingertips grazed your lower lip, as though searching for the faint bitterness of wine—a taste not quite there. Something foul. Something… like death.

‘Tis the day of your matrimonium, the binding ceremony that would see you wed to Gaius Julius Caesar—destined to be Augustus, the first emperor of Rome. Yet those dreams clung to you, fragments of another life slipping into your waking thoughts, forever teetering on the edge of understanding. The haze between worlds grew; sometimes finding yourself in places you don’t recall walking to, days passing as though you were a shadow of yourself. How had it come to this?

Your vision shadowed, a sacrificial squeal echoed through the atrium, ensued by a roar of acclaim that enveloped you like a storm. Vertigo swept through you as the veil lifted. There he stood—Gaius. His hair, a midnight sheen, his face carved with features that felt unnervingly familiar. He leaned in, his breath warm against your lips as you wavered. A flash of the man from your dreams ignites before you—moonlight against midnight, silver against raven. The two faces blurred together, and yet this small scar above his brow remained untouched. “Aegon?” You whispered to yourself.

Gaius paused, his brows creased as a faint smile curled his lips. “What was that?” he asked, his voice edged with amusement. He tenderly cradled your neck, ignoring the breathless murmur as he closed the distance; sealing a union that felt inevitable—and yet, deeply wrong.