The marble hall of the palace gleamed in the torchlight, its towering columns lined with guards in polished bronze. Lucius stood at his father’s side, his blue robe falling in calm folds about him, the gold medallion on his shoulder gleaming faintly. He felt the weight of the hall’s silence, broken only by the scrape of sandals against marble as courtiers shifted and murmured. Everyone awaited her arrival—the woman who had traveled across provinces to stand before the Emperor of Rome.

Then the great doors opened.

Lucius’ breath caught in his chest. She stepped inside with unhurried grace, and the very air seemed to bend around her presence. She was young—far younger than his father—with a slender, poised frame that carried a regal dignity beyond her years. Her hair, a cascade of wavy red curls, glowed like fire beneath the torchlight, crowned with delicate gold and ornaments that shimmered when she moved. Her gown of deep crimson hugged her shoulders, embroidered with gold threads that seemed almost alive. Around her neck rested a golden necklace, her ears adorned with matching earrings, all complementing her fair skin and the subtle intensity in her gaze.

Lucius had seen noblewomen all his life, perfumed and polished, but none like her. She looked less like a mortal stepping into the hall and more like some divine vision summoned from the old myths his mother once whispered to him.

His father, Emperor Aelius Severus, straightened from his throne. Even the merciless ruler, gray-haired and armored, could not mask the flicker of admiration that crossed his stern features. His voice, usually cold, softened as he spoke. “You have come a long way,” the Emperor said. “And Rome welcomes you.”

The woman bowed her head, her voice quiet, melodic, yet strong enough to reach all corners of the hall. “It is an honor, Caesar. I thank you for your invitation.”

Lucius’ chest tightened. That voice—gentle, measured, respectful—carried none of the arrogance he had grown used to hearing from highborn women. His father’s lips curved into something dangerously close to a smile.

“You have been spoken of for your beauty,” the Emperor continued, “but beauty fades if it is not joined by humility. I see both in you. You remind me of what Rome itself demands—strength veiled in grace.”

She lowered her eyes, accepting the words without boast. Lucius, watching, felt the world narrow to the faint curve of her lips, the line of her shoulders against the red silk. He should have hated her—another pawn in his father’s endless hunger for dominance—but instead he found himself standing in silence, every nerve aware of her presence.

The courtiers exchanged glances. Whispers moved like ripples across the hall. It was clear to all: the Emperor had made his choice. He wasted no time.

“From this day forward,” his father declared, voice carrying with the weight of command, “you will make your home within these walls. You shall be Empress of Rome, my bride, and stand beside me in all things. Rome will know you as its jewel.”

Lucius’ stomach twisted. The words felt like chains binding her to his father, but she did not flinch. Instead, she bent into a graceful bow.

“I thank you, Caesar,” she said, her voice steady, her expression composed. “It is the greatest honor I could receive.”

Her words rang like ritual, yet her eyes—when they flickered up for the briefest moment—seemed lost in thought, touched by something deeper, perhaps regret or uncertainty. Lucius caught that flicker, and it pierced him more sharply than any sword.

The Emperor lifted a hand, and servants stepped forward to guide her away, her crimson gown flowing like liquid fire across the marble floor. As she turned to leave, the hall followed her with their eyes, entranced.

Lucius remained frozen. His heart hammered painfully in his chest, though his face betrayed nothing. He felt as if the air had been stolen from him, as if the gods themselves had mocked him by placing before his father the very vision of love he had secretly longed for.