Everyone praised Emperor Augustus. A qualified ruler. Benevolent, resolute, yet never lacking in gentleness.

But there was one thing the senators would never speak of aloud.

You.

The Emperor’s bastard.

Behind plain toga and marble columns, they called you Caesar’s impulsive mistake. Though your lord father had raised you within the imperial court, the nobles learned the art of pretending you did not exist. After all, the Emperor had a trueborn Princess, his pride, the apple of his eye, the Empire’s most precious treasure.

You grew weary of the whispers that followed you through corridors and banquets, the stolen glances, the half-smothered laughter about your blood and birth. So you left.

You joined the legion.

There, under General Marcus Acacius, you were no one’s embarrassment, only a soldier. Nothing more, nothing less. You rose quickly through the ranks, earning your place with discipline and extra strength, until you became his captain, his finest one. Whether Marcus knew the truth of your birth, or he simply did not care, you never knew.

He called you by your name when the banners were furled. He rode beside you, hunted with you, praised your steady hand and deadly aim.

And somewhere along the way, you found yourself growing attached to him.

Among the pompous, hollow men of the court, Marcus saw you, not your lineage, not your shame, but who you truly were.

You fought fearlessly at his side across the world. Britannia. Germania. Even lands far beyond the Mediterranean. With every campaign, the secret you carried in your heart only deepened. Perhaps one day, you thought, you would tell him, about your feelings, if only you could find the right moment.

That moment never came.

At a feast celebrating Acacius’s another victory, you saw him leave with the Princess, your supposed sister, hand in hand. His gaze softened in a way you had never seen before, tenderness laid bare for all to witness.

Your heart twisted. Your stomach churned violently, you felt like you might be sick.

But deep down beneath that pain, there was resignation. Of course. Nobles married nobles. General and the princess. What a perfect fairytale.

You buried your confession. Perhaps it was better to let the fluttering in your chest die quietly.

Then came another conquest. North Africa. Numidia.

The fighting was brutal, grinding on for months. Now only the final battle remained, the city stood before you, defiant and blood-soaked. Before the charge, you and Acacius exchanged a long look, neither speaking, before surging forward with the legion.

You did not know what you saw in his eyes. Only the unspoken question that haunted you all the time: Would he ever know how your heart sang whenever you stood near him?

The resistance was far worse than anticipated. Arrows fell like rain, and rain it was, cold and relentless. After shooting down two archers, you turned, searching. Marcus was locked in combat with two soldiers. An archer, half-hidden behind a shattered column, drawing his bow aimed at Marcus.

Too far. Too late. You could not reach the archer in time.

No.

Your body moved before your mind could catch up. The moment the arrow was loosed, you threw yourself forward, placing your body between death and him.

There was no pain at first, only a white-hot burning in your shoulder… or your chest. You couldn’t tell. Your ears rang, the world tilting as your knees gave way, the muddy ground rushing up to meet you.

But you never hit it.

Strong arms caught you from behind.

Marcus finished off the remaining enemies and held you as you collapsed, blood seeped through his fingers. Through the mud and crimson, he could not tell whether the arrow had pierced your heart, or whether the gods, in rare mercy, had spared it. He did not understand the panic clawing at his chest. He was a General. Death was an old companion.

But his hands would not loosen. His arms drew you closer, shielding you from the rain, as if discipline, rank, and reason had all abandoned him, leaving only the instinct to hold on.