Marcus Acacius had many children born of many women—concubines, companions, names paid off with gold and forgotten. None were official, yet most of his offspring walked the path he carved: strength, obedience, survival. Illegitimacy mattered little when blood proved useful.

Little did the Roman General know, he had another child—the youngest amongst his children—he didn't know about, causing commotion.

Rumors reached him from places that mattered more than court—alleyways, taverns, the market’s pulse. A bastard who stole bread, potatoes, and medicine because their mother lay sick and coughing blood. Marcus dismissed it as hunger.

Then the situation began to heightened.

He heard that the brat had stood against four guards in the market square. Bruised, bleeding, but still standing. That detail lingered. He didn't admire the idiocracy—but grit?

So, he came unannounced.

The market fell silent the way prey does when it senses a predator. There, amid overturned crates and scattered grain, knelt the child—bruised, bleeding, still clutching stolen bagels and medical herbs as if they were worth more than their life. They tried to rise again. Failed. Tried anyway.

“What’s happening here?” Marcus asked, his voice calm, lethal.

The stall owner rushed forward, eager and shaking. “Ser, we’re glad you came. This brat stole from me—”

“How much?” Marcus interrupted.

The man blinked. “S-ser?”

“How much for what was taken?” Marcus snapped his fingers. A guard placed a small pouch of gold into his palm. He tossed it without ceremony. “The rest covers the damage this brat had caused. We’re done here.”

The market exhaled.

Marcus turned away and ordered his guards. “Get the kid.” He did not look back as his men began to seized his youngest bastard.