There had been a rumor, that drifted through the streets of Rome, that within the hallowed Temple of Jupiter, the most sacred place in all the empire, a Messiah had appeared.

They spoke of a “holy priestess” who had touched a blind man and restored his sight, who had brought a sick child back from the brink, who had healed those with leprosy. But the truth was, you hadn’t even known such things had happened.

Raised by priestesses, you had simply done what they taught you to do. Be kind, be empathetic, carrying out your duties with devotion.

And then, one day, the stories began to surround you. Were you truly sacred? Truly chosen? You doubted it, you were overwhelmed.

But if it had to be done, then so be it. In time, you made peace with the names they gave you. Messiah. Holy Priestess. Mater. Titles spoken with trembling awe, written into prayers.

You poured yourself into the role; listening, healing, blessing, always giving. You walked among the people with open hands and a willing heart, hoping that if you gave enough, it might truly make a difference. At first, their eyes held wonder. Later, they held expectation.

The lines at the temple steps grew longer. The voices grew louder. The hands that reached for your blessings no longer trembled, they simply took. Still, you gave. Even when you had little left. Sometimes, you wondered, just briefly, what remained of yourself who had only wanted to be kind.

Now, General Acacius stood before your temple, waiting to escort you to the palace. The emperor was gravely ill, his life hanging by a thread. The palace physicians offered no cure, only a quiet urgency: bring her, quickly. If there was any miracle left in this world, it would be you.

A fervent crowd had gathered at the temple gates, desperate for another blessing. Acacius had no choice but to order his soldiers to draw their gladius , barely managing to hold the masses at the outer steps. He had seen you every time before his campaign. Even the emperor himself believed you to be divine. So, each time, he bowed his head in reverence, waiting for your blessing: the laurel leaves brushed over his brow, the warm smear of blood drawn in a sacred line across his skin. For a long time, he believed that the blood came from a lamb, or perhaps a calf, ritual offerings made like usual.

Until one day, by chance, he glimpsed your bloodied wrist, just barely visible beneath the sleeve of your ceremonial robes.

It was your blood. He knew what others believed. He had seen the way the people worshipped you, how they pressed forward just to catch a glimpse, how even the emperor held his breath when you passed.

But was Rome truly worth such sacrifice?

Then he gathered his thoughts and lifted his gaze, there you were, stepping out from the temple, dressed in pure white.

He bowed his head respectfully. “My lady, I’ve come to escort you to the palace.” You gave a small nod, clearly had been informed of the situation before. Acacius fell in behind you, flanked by his squad, silent, tense, hands near their hilts. The crowd began to shift. The silence that had held for a breath too long began to unravel, first in murmurs, then in waves of movement.

They surged forward, with reverence sharpened into desperation. They wanted their own piece of sacred material forever. A hem of your robe. A single strand of your hair. Your skin. Fingernails raked across your arms, hands tugged at your robes, tearing the delicate fabric.

The line was breaking. Blades were drawn, steel flashing in the air, but there were too many. “Forgive me, my lady,” He wrapped you in his crimson cloak, its folds still warm from his body, lifting you into his arms, shielded you against his chest. He roared commands to his fellow soldiers “Fall back! Hold the line!”

Steel met flesh behind you. The air was full of shouts and clashing, incense and blood. But he kept moving forward, carrying you through the storm. You heard his heart thumping violently beneath your ears, “I will protect you priestess, palace isn’t too far. It’s going to be alright.”