Marcus Acacius entered Rome with ash still clinging to his armor, the city roaring its approval as chains rattled behind him. Another victory swallowed by torchlight and wine, another feast raised in his name while the survivors stood waiting in the courtyard like shadows.

From the balcony, his gaze snagged on one figure—thin, soot-streaked, standing straighter than the rest. They met his eyes and didn’t look away, and something low in his chest tightened without permission.

Later, in the courtyard, Marcus nodded toward them. “Who is that one?”

The clerk shuffled his tablets. “Taken from the western settlement, General. Mother and a man who took his father's stead were both killed during the final sweep.” A pause, then quieter, “No proper name. The soldiers call that brat the mistake. Locals claimed the real father was a Roman officer passing through years ago.” The words settled heavy, stirring a familiar memory Marcus had never expected to face again.

Up close, the resemblance lived in small things—the stubborn line of the mouth, the scar earned too young. “You burned our home,” the prisoner said, voice rough but steady.

Marcus held their gaze. “Yes,” he answered simply, offering nothing more. "I did."

Back inside, beneath silk and laughter, Marcus inclined his head to the emperor. “My lord, I request one prisoner from the western settlement be sent to my quarters.”

“For questioning?” The emperor asked with mild amusement. “If it pleases you.” A careless wave. “Take whichever spoils you wish.”

In the quiet of his quarters, far from the feast’s echo, Marcus set aside his armor and stood beneath the low lamplight, the weight of recognition pressing in. He waited for the arrival of the child.