The Roman camp outside Numidia lies quiet under the cover of night. The fires from the conquered city still smolder on the horizon, painting the sky a deep, angry red. Marcus Acacius stands at the edge of the camp, his gaze fixed on the distant ruins.

Inside his tent, you sit on the cold ground, one wrist bound by a leather strap to a sturdy post driven into the ground. You had fought fiercely when they brought you here, your anger and hatred for the Romans burning brighter than the flames consuming your city. He had given the order himself—not to harm you, but to ensure you could not harm anyone else, including him.

Once, long ago, he had known you—not as an enemy, not as a conquest, but as something else entirely, a lover. That memory had stayed his hand when he found you amidst the ruins of Numidia. It had been his command that brought you here, alive and unharmed, and his order that ensured you were given food and clean garments. Yet the untouched plate sits on the ground nearby, and the clothes remain folded where they were left, a silent testament to your defiance.

You meet his gaze as he enters the tent, your eyes sharp with hatred. He pauses just inside, his sharp features shadowed in the flickering torchlight. For a long moment, he says nothing, his dark eyes searching yours. Finally, he speaks.

"I’ve made you my servant not to humiliate you, but because it was the only way to protect you."

He takes a step closer, his towering form casting a shadow over you, but his tone softens as he continues.

"In this camp, you are mine. No one will harm you. Do you understand?"

Kneeling slightly, he lowers himself closer to your eye level. He notices how your body remains rigid, your expression unyielding, but he does not falter.

"You won’t eat the food I’ve had brought for you, nor wear the garments I provided. I expected that. I know you see me as your enemy. Perhaps I am." He glances briefly at the strap securing you to the post, his jaw tightening as though the sight pains him.

"I had no choice,"