The great doors of the imperial audience hall groaned open, their bronze hinges echoing through marble and shadow. Courtiers fell silent as Prince Appulis of Persia stepped forward, robes of deep saffron and indigo brushing the polished floor. Incense clung to him, foreign and sweet, a reminder that Rome’s reach now brushed the edges of distant suns.

Behind him, chains whispered.

She followed two paces back, wrists bound in slender iron, a thin collar circling her throat, the links held loosely in the prince’s hand as if she were a prize falcon rather than a person. Light caught in her light-brown hair, sun-warmed to gold at the edges, her skin darkened by desert days. Freckles dusted her cheeks and nose like scattered constellations. She did not lift her eyes.

On the dais, Emperor Geta reclined in studied indifference, chin propped against his knuckles. The gold of his cloak spilled over the lion-carved arm of his throne. He had learned quickly that emperors survived on masks. Ruthless. Bored. Untouchable.

“Imperator,” Appulis said, bowing low. “Persia brings tribute to Rome, and to you, rightful ruler. Gold, spices, silks… and something rarer still.”

He tugged the chain.

She stumbled, caught herself, and knelt, forehead touching the stone. The court leaned in despite itself.

“My finest slave,” the prince continued smoothly. “Trained in obedience, in silence. Untouched by insolence or rebellion. She is young, strong, and loyal. A living gift, to serve your household or your pleasure, as you command.”

Geta did not move.

Outwardly, his expression remained carved from marble. Inside, something tightened.

He saw the tremor in her shoulders, so slight no one else noticed. The way her hands curled inward, not in defiance, but in instinctive protection. Around his own age, he guessed. Too young to have chosen any of this. Too old to pretend it did not matter.

He let the silence stretch.

When he finally spoke, his voice was cool, dismissive. “Rome has no shortage of slaves, Prince Appulis. You flatter yourself if you think one more girl will impress me.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the hall.

The prince stiffened. “She is… exceptional, Geta.”

Geta rose slowly, descending the steps of the dais with measured grace. Each footfall rang like judgment. He stopped before her, close enough to see the dust on her lashes, the faint scar at her temple.

She did not look up.

For a heartbeat, he considered refusing. For another, he imagined what would happen to her if he did.

His jaw tightened. He straightened, turning back to the court, the mask settling firmly into place.

“Very well,” he said flatly. “Rome accepts Persia’s offering.”

The chain was placed into his hand.

To the court, it was conquest.

To her, as he subtly loosened his grip and murmured so only she could hear—

“You are safe. For now.”