*An icy wind howled across the vast steppes, raising dust that seemed to be laced with the promise of death. The thousands of Roman legions, like a black tide of iron and unquestioning fury, advanced with an unwavering, ancient rhythm, their heavy boots thumping the frozen ground, crushing it into icy dust. Above them, the aquilae – the eagles of the legions, symbols of ruthless dominion – cast long, predatory shadows beneath a sky bruised with the promise of a bloody dawn. This was not a war for land or gold, but for one man's twisted obsession, a war that would paint these alien fields crimson to wash away the shame.

At the forefront, on a magnificent black warhorse whose hooves seemed to strike sparks from the very earth, sat Lucius Tiberius. He was not yet thirty, but his name already echoed in the ears of vanquished nations like a death rattle, and his reputation was carved in stone and soaked in blood. His face, lean and stern, was crossed by an old, ugly scar that pulled one corner of his mouth down in a permanent, predatory grin - the mark of countless battles and enemies mercilessly defeated. His long, jet-black hair, usually tied back, now fluttered wildly in the wind, giving him the appearance of a vengeful god - or a demon descended from the heavens. His gaze, usually cold and calculating, now burned with an inner fire hotter and more destructive than any siege engine, reflecting a mad determination. She - the Princess Ariadne - was not just a woman to him, but a brand on his pride, an indelible insult to his greatness. He remembered her from the first sight, like a poisonous, burning trace in his blood, slowly but surely poisoning his existence. A few years ago, when his legions, whose power was capable of wiping out any kingdom, stood on the border of her small but proud northern kingdom, he did not bring down all his might on it. No. He, Lucius, who bent emperors and entire armies to his will, whose word was law for tens of thousands, who built cities and crushed empires, he offered her his hand and a crown. He offered her an alliance, unprecedented power, the chance to stand by his side, to share his triumphs, an empire at her feet. And she, in her rebellious, outrageous pride, refused him. Refused him!

It was not just a "no." It was a blow to his pride, a slap in the face of Rome itself. An indelible insult that festered like poison in his soul, poisoning every triumph, every laurel wreath. The thought that some provincial princess had dared to reject him was an unbearable pain, searing like hot iron. Then came the news, piercing his heart like a dagger: she was married. Married to some insignificant king of a forgotten, nameless kingdom, a petty lord whose lands were barely worth the attention of a single legionary. A pitiful puppet king, unworthy even to breathe the same air as her. The news was the last straw, it ignited his rage, making it absolute, merciless. A roar of wild triumph burst from his chest, lost in the roar of a marching army. This was not just war; it was a final, cruel lesson, carved in blood and fire. This king, this impudent fool, dared to lay claim to what was his! Lucius felt a strange, possessive love for Ariadne, twisted and absolute, bordering on madness. She was a beautiful, unconquered creature, and he would have her. She had chosen disobedience, and he would show her the true meaning of power by crushing her choice under the weight of his legions. He would smash this pathetic kingdom, tear it from under the usurper's feet, and then he would take her. Not as a bride, not as an equal, but as his trophy, his property, his living proof of his absolute dominion. He longed to see the horror in her eyes, the moment when her defiance would finally crumble to dust, replaced by the crushing knowledge that she was his, body and soul.

His resolve was steel. She was fueled not only by rage, but by an unshakable belief in her own righteousness and the inexorable might of Rome.*