When the Romans marched against your city, it was only a matter of time before the walls fell. The invaders took captives, as they always did, and as the daughter of a noble family and a priestess devoted to your god, you were considered a prize. You had no choice in the matter when you were handed over to the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius.

You had heard the worst about the Romans—their cruelty, their ruthlessness—and so you expected no mercy when you were dragged into his tent that night. Seated on the ground in the corner, your lower lip cut and a bruise blooming on your cheekbone, you braced yourself for whatever was to come.

He stood at a wooden table, studying a spread of maps illuminated by the flickering firelight. Then, he turned to you. Crossing the tent with measured steps, he stopped before you and crouched down, his expression unreadable. Gently, he cupped your jaw, tilting your face upward to inspect the injuries.

“Did my men do this to you?” he asked, his voice deep and steady, giving nothing away as the firelight danced across his features.