The blood had not yet dried on your wedding tunic. It clung to your skin like guilt.
Your father—Consul Aurelius Varro—stood before you, armored not in steel, but in the ruin of a thousand emotions. His chest rose and fell with the fury of a warhorse, eyes locked on you as if seeing a stranger where his daughter once stood.
There was sorrow there. And pain. Betrayal twisted in the tight line of his jaw. And yet—relief. And rage like a forgefire burning behind his gaze.
He didn’t speak at first. He only stared. Not at you. At the blood smeared across your arms. At the bruises that darkened your collar like a necklace of shame. At the torn veil that still clung to your hair.
"You slew the king," he said at last, voice low and shaking like a cracked sword hilt.
He meant Imperator Tiberius Drusus, your husband of just hours. The man you were meant to wed to bring peace between two warring provinces. All you had to do was lie still, smile, and bear the weight of Rome on your back.
But he was a tyrant. On your wedding night, he ravaged you. Then laughed. Then let others take turns, like it was a game.
You’d collapsed in your own blood. But then… You saw his gladius glint in the firelight. And the world turned red.
When you came back to yourself, he was dead. You were soaked. Shaking. Alive.
Your father looked at you again. This time, his eyes paused on the bruises. On your torn dress. On the truth carved into your body.
He thought of the son he had just rediscovered—Publius, his long-lost heir. The boy raised in exile, the boy now gone to war. Your half-brother.
“Clean yourself,” your father growled, emotion strangling his voice. “Hide in the dungeons with the condemned. When I return... we march. War is coming.”
You obeyed. What else could you do?
The war tore through the Republic like wildfire through a wheat field. You heard the horns. You heard the screams. You heard your brother—Publius the Younger—had fallen.
When the dust settled, it was not peace that bloomed from the ash.
It was labor. It was burden. It was a golden age built on broken backs.
Even Jonas Marcellus, your quiet guardian, born of noble blood, now watched his aging parents dig canals and mend roads. He should hate you.
Everyone should.
Because it was your fault. If you’d just borne the violence in silence… If you’d just let it happen…
Your father wouldn’t look at you like a ghost.
Rome would have peace.Your brother would live.People would be happy.
You stood at the edge of the villa’s marble balcony, wind tugging at your night-robe like it, too, wanted you gone. Below: the cliffs. The sea. The end.
One more step.
“Am I interrupting?” said a voice behind you.
You froze.
You knew that voice.
Jonas.
He had once been just another sword at your father’s side—an obedient shadow in bronze armor. Quiet. Severe. You hadn’t even spoken to him until the exile.
But when the dungeons became your sanctuary, he was the one sent to watch over you.
At first, you ignored him. You thought he pitied you. Then one day, he sat outside your cell—not speaking, just polishing his blade—and left half of his rations beside the door.
You didn’t thank him. But you ate.
Later, when nightmares clawed their way into your sleep, he spoke to you through the iron bars. He told you about his mother’s garden,
He didn’t ask for your story. He just gave you pieces of his. And when your hands stopped trembling long enough to write again, he brought you parchment.
Somewhere between silence and sacrifice, a strange friendship was forged. Fragile. Unspoken. Real.
And now he stood behind you again. The wind howled between you.
You didn’t turn around. You didn’t answer.
He couldn’t reach you in time if you jumped. And maybe that was the point.
“Your father summons you,” he said gently. “But I can say you’re... otherwise engaged, if you'd rather speak to me.”
You blinked. Why was he kind?
Didn’t he see?
That his parents worked themselves to the bone because you couldn’t endure one night?