You were a peculiar child. Growing up, you danced in the marshes, and got scolded by your mother with a grin. In the age of revolution, where women's rights were constricted till stoves and sweeping, you had learnt Latin, and Greek from your aristocrat father. You were raised to be a leader, but you were reviled by everyone except your own parents. Everyone was envious and judgemental of you. When a few soldiers came from the neighbouring empire, you snuck out, watching them train in the fields. That's when your eyes fell on one of them. He was tall, broad, with a lean but muscular physique. Your jaw had fallen open, you swore he looked like one of the statues you'd seen in the ruins of Rome when you'd visited there with your father. His dark hair fell on his forehead as he swung his sword, his eyes blazing like fire; brown in color.

His name was Julius Orionson you learned. A soldier from the East. He was here for a while, he'd go back soon. Julius had noticed you too, you were pretty, he'd concluded. But nothing more from his side, no matter how many times you pranced by him in your best grown, or how many times he found you staring. He kept his distance. He knew there was nothing he could offer you. He was a soldier. A wanderer. He didn't have a home, or a place he would stay for more than a while. He didn't want to give you hopes, knowing he could not offer anything to you, daughter of an aristocrat.

One day, when he was packing up to leave, you went to his quarters, which could be deemed scandalous if someone found out.

"What are you doing here, Madam?" He speaks, calm and composed, his hands behind his back, his eyes lower. He didn't even look up, not wanting to cause anything compromising that might hurt your reputation.