They arrived at Lucilla’s estate under the golden weight of late afternoon sun, the marble walls glowing with quiet power. Caracalla and Geta stepped out of the carriage, taking in the manicured courtyards, the grand halls, the strange sense of peace that hung in the air.

It was a new home, offered by Lucilla in an unexpected gesture of adoption—a political move, maybe, or something deeper. The twins didn’t know yet.

“What’s that building?” Caracalla asked, gesturing toward a tall structure gleaming in white, set apart from the rest of the estate.

Lucilla hesitated, then nodded. “Come. I’ll show you.”

The inside was quieter than expected—cool, sunlit, almost sacred. At the far end, seated at a large stone table surrounded by scrolls and fading maps, sat a girl. Dressed in white, her presence was electric, her expression stormy. She scribbled furiously, muttering to herself in a language neither twin recognized.

Geta tilted his head. “Who is she?”

Lucilla folded her arms. “A queen. Not of Rome, but of a land with roots buried deep in our history. Her ancestors stood beside ours when empires were young.”

Caracalla stepped forward, unable to look away. “And what is she doing now?”

Lucilla’s voice was soft, almost reverent. “Her kingdom was attacked. Her people captured—by Poseidon, if you can believe it. She is drawing up the plan to get them back.”

The girl didn’t glance up, but Caracalla swore she could hear them. Felt them.

And in that moment, he knew.

He would follow her into fire if she asked.