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Gladiators fighting for their lives in the most savage of manners. The savagery does not startle you; you are accustomed to it. Your late husband often had to fight, quite literally, with tooth and nail to survive. He perished as he fought, dreaming that one day you both might escape. Left alone, hollow within, you were spared by General Acacius.

General Marcus Acacius delivered you from the fate of becoming a courtesan to Emperors Geta and Caracalla. In an act of calculated benevolence, he claimed you as his concubine (concubinatus), securing your liberty through this arrangement. For this, you harbor a profound sense of gratitude each day of your life. From that moment forth, you and the General Acacius have maintained the appearance of a romantic entanglement. He graciously granted you leave to serve as an attendant to Ravi, the steward responsible for tending to the wounded gladiators.

"I have heard that you are Macrinus' new gladiator. It seems the battlefield has taken its toll on you," you remark, approaching the gladiator. Hanno—that is what you heard him called. His blue eyes fix upon you, studying you as though he seeks to unravel your very essence.

"I belong to no one," the gladiator replies, his voice strained as he winces in pain. "But I do appreciate your company. Ravi may be a skilled healer, yet nothing compares to the presence of a beautiful woman." His words are accompanied by a grimace, his arm bearing a wound, likely inflicted by the blade of a sword. Positioning yourself before him, you reach for one of the tools Ravi uses to stitch the torn flesh of gladiators. With steady hands, you then lift a cup of wine laced with opium, offering it to the gladiator to ease his suffering.

The gladiator drinks the wine greedily, allowing the liquid to trickle down his lips. "If my appearance pleases you, I suggest you focus on that," you remark coolly. "For what I am about to do will bring you little satisfaction." Without hesitation, you begin stitching his wound, prompting him to release several groans of pain.

"You seem to take pleasure in causing me pain," he mutters between groans, a chuckle escaping him despite the agony etched across his face.

"Do not misinterpret me so gravely. I take pride in being of service to the recovery of gladiators," you reply while continuing to stitch his wound. "I lost my husband to one of the games orchestrated by Emperors Geta and Caracalla. So rest assured, my dedication lies entirely in aiding you." As you work, his expressions shift, the pain visibly dulling—likely the effects of the wine and opium taking hold. Yet, his hand from the uninjured arm suddenly grips your leg firmly, near your thigh. The gesture appears unintentional. You glance at him, startled.

"Forgive me," he murmurs, withdrawing his hand swiftly, your silent gaze alone conveying your disapproval. "I believe I lost control of my actions for a moment." You offer no verbal response, but the unspoken understanding in your exchange pleases you.

"There are rumors circulating that you have come in search of something," you say, your gaze lingering on the ring adorning the gladiator's finger. "I wonder if what you seek is vengeance—or perhaps a love lost." He lifts his eyes to meet yours, as though carefully crafting the right response.

"Vengeance for a lost love," he finally admits, his voice laden with the fury of grief. "My wife perished under the command of the General." The intensity of his words is mirrored in his eyes, now burning with a hunger that seems insatiable.

A fleeting discomfort stirs within you as his words settle. You owe much to General Acacius; your life, your freedom, and perhaps even a part of your heart are tied to him. He has been nothing but an honorable man in your eyes, despite his marriage to Lucilla. A genuine affection for him lingers within you, though you respect the boundaries of his union.

"Since you do not know me, I feel compelled to warn you—should your vengeance be aimed at General Acacius, you will find no ally in me. I am among the many who will not stand idly by should harm come to him," you declare, finishing your care for his wound.

"Ah, and we have only just met, yet I seem to have displeased you already," the gladiator replies, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "But allow me to ask—if you had the chance to kill the one responsible for your husband's death, would you not take it?"

His gaze is unwavering, piercing into yours. You avert your eyes, exhaling slowly before stepping closer to him. "When my husband died, vengeance had no place in my heart," you say firmly. "I was consumed with fear—wondering which emperor I would be forced to lay with to survive, or whose entertainment I would become. Fortunately, General Acacius spared me from all those fates and ensured I was kept far from the gladiator who killed my husband." Your eyes meet his with an intensity that demands understanding, your voice steady and resolute. He listens in silence, his focus unbroken.

"Then you are indebted to General Acacius," the gladiator remarks, his tone probing as he holds your gaze. You step away, irritation rising within you, though you refuse to admit it aloud.

"You could say so—I am indebted to General Acacius. Does that make you angry with me?" you ask earnestly, taking a cloth soaked in wine and carefully pressing it against the gladiator's wounds.

"No, I do not feel anger toward you," he replies, his voice steady despite the sting of the alcohol against his skin.

"Gladiator, you are ready to fight once more. Should you suffer any wounds in the future and prefer Ravi's care, I will not take offense," you say, finishing your work.

He smiles softly, gradually regaining his composure. "My name is Hanno. You may call me that, and I would like to keep you as the one responsible for my care." Hanno says, taking your hands as if in gratitude.

"I am Y/N, since we are introducing ourselves," you reply. "And since we are being friendly, I will ask a favor of you. If you plan to seek revenge, do it properly. Confront General Acacius in a fair manner, that one of you may die an honorable death."

You hold Hanno's rough hands, hoping to appeal to his sense of reason. "I will take your words into consideration, but I cannot guarantee anything," Hanno responds, his gaze never leaving you.

"I recommend you rest before being taken to your cell. Surely, we will meet again soon," you say as you step away, gathering the healing supplies Ravi entrusted to you.

Hanno bids you farewell, settling down in a corner of the place where you had been tending to him. You leave him there, knowing he will soon be escorted to his cell. Meanwhile, you make your way to General Acacius, as he often summons you when he returns from his campaigns, and you follow him without hesitation.

"Mea domina, I have waited so long for you to come to me..." Marcus Acacius' voice fills the space around you. The setting is a private garden within his residence, shared with Lucilla.

You approach him, adjusting the stole around your body. He moves toward you slowly, holding a goblet of wine in his hands.

"I had to attend to the treatment of one of the gladiators," you speak softly, drawing nearer to him. He extends the goblet to you, and you drink from it. Then, he rises slightly and places a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"I have a wound as well; I would like you to tend to it," General Acacius says, his fingers brushing lightly against his lower lip. Gently, you rise toward him, pressing your lips to his in a kiss so soft it could scarcely be called one. It is delicate, restrained—you have no desire to overstep any boundaries.

"Our charade may now conclude, General Acacius. I believe any servant or guard lingering nearby has been sufficiently convinced by our display of affection," you say, fully aware that this romantic gesture is but a performance to solidify the illusion that you truly belong to him.

"Just a little longer, mea domina," he murmurs, placing his hands gently on your face and pulling you into another kiss. This time, it is more fervent, as though he is intent on committing the feel of your lips to memory.

ONE

A starry night, as though the gods themselves had blessed the heavens. You stand in the place where you often meet General Acacius to maintain appearances. He will spend the day attending to Emperors Geta and Caracalla alongside his wife, Lucilla. Meanwhile, your day will revolve around the gladiators—or, more precisely, their wounds. You have been summoned to tend to the gladiators who will participate in that day's opening of the games—battles they will wage against one another or against beasts. Your thoughts are divided between Marcus Acacius and Hanno, the gladiator you strongly suspect harbors intentions of avenging his wife’s death at Acacius's hands.

"Mea domina, you are here," General Acacius murmurs as he approaches, though his complexion appears unusually pale. He is dressed in a tunic that conceals most of his body, with a laurel crown adorning his head. The lateness of the hour and the absence of natural light obscure your view, but as he draws nearer, you notice a wound bleeding on his arm. You rush toward him, your concern overcoming any formality. Without hesitation, you expose the area of his injury, removing the fabric to inspect it. His skin is feverishly warm beneath your touch.

"Who did this to you, Acacius?" you ask, a wave of anger surging through your body, mingling with an overwhelming sense of concern. "By the Gods, you should have come to me sooner," you say, your voice laced with frustration as your fingers graze his fevered skin, causing him to shiver under your touch. You guide him to a nearby bench, urging him to rest. Knowing him well, you suspect he has concealed his injury from everyone, unwilling to reveal any vulnerability. Fortunately, all are accustomed to you tending to him—it is, after all, one of your roles as his lover.

"I did not wish to trouble anyone, least of all you, Y/N," Acacius replies, his tone steady as he attempts to mask his discomfort. "A gladiator loosed an arrow at me—it must have struck me somehow. Macrinus certainly knows how to select skilled men for his arena." His voice retains its commanding timbre, though his actions betray his weariness. He pulls you closer by the waist, resting his head against your abdomen, as though seeking solace in your presence.

"General, we must go to the place where Ravi keeps his instruments. I must tend to your wounds and return you, whole and well, to your wife," you say, holding Acacius' face in your hands, as if willing him to remain conscious. His deep brown eyes meet yours, their gaze uncharacteristically tender.

"But this is my time with you," he whispers, taking your hands in his and pressing a kiss to each. "And I have told you, you need not address me as General. Our relationship has long surpassed formalities," he says, his voice softer now as he finishes kissing your hands. A fleeting thought tempts you to lean down and kiss him, but before you can act, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupts. Guards arrive, accompanied by Lucilla and Ravi. You instinctively want to withdraw from Acacius, but his unconscious state forces you to hold him upright.

"Take my husband to his quarters. Ravi is here to see to his treatment," Lucilla commands, her tone dismissive, her gaze avoiding yours entirely. The guards comply, carrying the now-limp Acacius away.

"Y/N," Lucilla addresses you, her voice sharp and deliberate, "from this moment forward, Ravi will be responsible for Acacius' care. I trust the gladiators will suffice to occupy your attention." Her words, though polite in form, carry an unmistakable message: your role as Acacius' lover is nearing its end. Vulnerability washes over you, but you lower your head in acknowledgment, as if understanding her decree. Without another glance, she follows the guards to accompany her husband.

Ravi approaches, carrying his instruments and tools. "I need you to go to Macrinus' gladiator and tend to his wounds. Macrinus has already informed the guards of his gladiator's need for treatment, so you need not fear," Ravi instructs, already preparing to attend to Acacius himself. Fear is far from your mind. The only sentiment stirring within you is anger, directed at the one who dared harm Acacius. You nod in silent agreement and gather the necessary supplies to treat the gladiator, your resolve firm as you set out to fulfill your task.

The guards grant you entry without hesitation, their expressions indifferent. Inside the dimly lit cell, you find Hanno—his body marred by fresh wounds, his face pale but defiant. He appears battered, as though every ounce of strength has been drained from him. Anticipating the state you might find him in, you came prepared with tools to clean his wounds, at least superficially.

"The lovely healer graces me with her presence once more," Hanno mutters, his tone laced with a mix of sarcasm and faint amusement. A strained smile flickers across his lips as he clutches his abdomen, evidently in pain. "I suppose you're here to finish what the guards so generously began." His voice is hoarse and weakened, yet it retains a biting edge.

A chill runs through you as you step closer to him, fully entering his cell. The air feels heavier here, and his piercing gaze follows your every move. "They must have hurt you for what you did to General Acacius," you state, your voice measured as you kneel, setting down your tools. The mention of Acacius draws no sign of remorse from Hanno; instead, he seems emboldened, inching himself nearer to you with deliberate subtlety. As you settle beside him, his proximity becomes undeniable, his rugged presence filling the confined space. Though weakened, there’s an unsettling calm in his demeanor, as though he is testing you, seeking something unspoken within your resolve.

As you begin to cleanse his wounds, the facade of the formidable gladiator crumbles beneath the weight of his pain. Low, anguished groans escape his lips despite his efforts to suppress them. It becomes clear that he is suffering deeply, though he clings to the last vestiges of his pride.

"Ah, here we are again," Hanno murmurs between strained breaths, his voice laced with an uneven mixture of sarcasm and torment. "You, seizing the opportunity to inflict more pain under the guise of tending my wounds, and I, striving to focus on your beauty to mask just how much it hurts."

A flicker of anger rises within you, mingled with a reluctant pity for the state of his battered body. "Flattery will not grant you any special treatment," you reply sharply, leaning in closer to examine his injuries more thoroughly. "I warned you not to harm Acacius dishonorably. I thought you might exercise restraint, but I was mistaken."

With deft movements, you remove the upper portion of his tattered garment to gain better access to the worst of his injuries. He offers no resistance, watching you with an unsettling mix of amusement and interest, as if savoring the attention. "I do recall saying I would take your request under consideration," Hanno says nonchalantly, as though the matter were trivial.

Frustrated by his flippant attitude, you press a tender wound more firmly than necessary. He lets out a guttural cry of pain, his composure faltering for a moment. "Forgive me," you say with a mocking smile, your tone cold. "I must have forgotten to take your suffering under consideration."

He meets your gaze, a faint, knowing grin curling his lips as if he derives some twisted pleasure from your defiance. "If you wish to exact vengeance, then take the dagger you’ve hidden and drive it into my heart," he says, his voice low and steady, despite the evident strain. "It is the only way to shield your precious General Acacius from my wrath." Hanno leans closer, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours, the proximity of his battered form unsettling. His observation of the concealed blade leaves you momentarily stunned, your grip tightening as the tension between you hangs heavy in the air.

"Is that what you believe I should do—kill you?" you ask, a faint trace of amusement in your tone as you marvel at Hanno's audacity. He leans closer to your face, his gaze sharp and provocative.

"If protecting him is your goal, then yes," Hanno replies, his voice steady, his eyes fixed upon yours with an intensity that borders on insolence.

You smile, intrigued by how easily he speaks of his own demise. "General Acacius is a wise and seasoned warrior. He will know how to deal with you," you say, leaning in as if accepting the challenge his very presence seems to demand.

"If you think I seek an honorable battle with Acacius solely to shield him," you continue, your voice steady and measured, "then you are gravely mistaken. Look at yourself, gladiator. To achieve vengeance, it is not merely strength or skill you require. A true fighter knows which battles are worth fighting." Your hand moves deftly to clean a wound near his neck, blood still seeping from it. He winces slightly but does not pull away, his sharp blue eyes never leaving your face.

"The way you speak, it seems as though you've developed an affection for me, healer," Hanno remarks, his tone soft but probing. "If that is the case, why carry a dagger?" He gently grasps your arm, his grip firm yet careful, as if urging you to give him your full attention.

"Because the wife of General Acacius made it clear before the guards that I will no longer tend to his care. For many of the men here, that declaration is as good as an invitation to see me as their sport," you reply, your gaze unwavering as you meet his eyes.

For a moment, something shifts in his expression—a flicker of understanding crossing his features. "I see," he murmurs, his voice lower now. "Then show me. Show me how you would wield it to defend yourself." Though puzzled by his request, you reach for the dagger and position it as you would in a moment of self-defense, your stance steady and deliberate. His eyes follow your movements with a keen focus, his lips curving into a faint, almost approving smile as he observes your resolve.

"You’re holding it incorrectly," he says, taking your hands, still clutching the dagger, and guiding them to a precise spot on the left side of his chest. "Here. Strike here on any opponent—more than once, if need be—and you’ll increase your chances of survival," he instructs, his voice steady, his grip firm but not overbearing.

You had never considered the necessity of knowing how to fight; before Acacius, your late husband had always been there to shield you. But now, an unsettling vulnerability lingers, heavy and unshakable.

"You place too much trust in me," you murmur, your gaze locked with his. "I could hurt you with this dagger right now."

His lips curl into a faint, genuine smile, weak but without hesitation. "Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if you did," Hanno replies, the tension between you thickening.

You drop the dagger back to its place, snapping yourself out of the moment. "Turn around. I need to apply an herbal salve to the wound on your back so I can retire to my quarters. It has been a long day," you instruct, watching as he complies without protest. His physique, sculpted as one would expect of a gladiator, does not escape your notice. But before your thoughts can wander too far, you refocus, applying the salve with care. He grunts softly at the touch, his pain audible but restrained.

"I could teach you how to defend yourself," Hanno murmurs as you finish tending to his wounds. Once done, he turns to face you, his expression expectant.

"Are you certain you wish to help me, knowing my loyalty lies with General Acacius?" you ask, genuine curiosity laced in your tone.

He lifts a hand to your face, his touch gentle as he caresses your cheek. "Something tells me you need help, and I want to offer it. General Acacius or not, this is about you," he emphasizes, pointing at you, "and me," he finishes, gesturing to himself.

You hesitate, uncertainty flickering in your eyes, but the sincerity in his gaze stirs something within you. Perhaps it would be wise to accept his offer. "Very well, gladiator," you reply, taking the hand that had touched your face and grazing it softly with your fingertips. "Teach me what you know, and I promise to mend you each time you require it."

TWO

Days, perhaps more, have passed. You and Hanno have been meeting in secret, seizing moments when there was no sign of General Acacius. All that you were permitted to know was that he was recovering in the company of his beloved wife, Lucilla, who made it clear she wanted no trace of your presence near her husband. The absence of Acacius weighed upon you more than you cared to admit. To be denied access to him felt akin to holding your breath for far too long. Yet, your clandestine encounters with Hanno had proven to be a welcome distraction, enough to keep your mind from lingering too deeply on what you could not change.

"Your gladiator is requesting your care, Y/N. And while we are on the subject, your encounters under the pretext of physical care will soon spark rumors," Ravi remarks as he steps into the chamber where he keeps his healing tools. "General Acacius will be the first to rage if he learns of your escapades. Should Emperors Geta and Caracalla grow suspicious, they may presume you are seeking a new lover. Not to mention the possibility of Macrinus taking offense at your growing closeness with his gladiator." You remain crouched, organizing a collection of herbs, a faint smile tugging at your lips. Hanno needs you—or rather, he has summoned you for yet another session of personal defense training.

"Ravi, believe me, I am well aware of the risks I take in daring to draw close to Hanno. Yet, I choose to take them—something no one of sound mind would do. General Acacius will not always be there to save me in the future. Lucilla has made her stance on my involvement with him abundantly clear. You do not see him here, concerned for me, do you? Precisely for that reason, I must think of the future." You speak as you search for the garment General Acacius once left at your disposal, should you ever need to fight.

"Since you are so determined to take such risks, be cautious. The guards will bring Hanno to be treated, and you will have only that time to practice—whatever it is you two practice," Ravi warns, much as he does each time you and Hanno meet, repeating the same cautions.

"I shall change my attire. If you would, dear friend, make Hanno comfortable until I return," you say, rising and moving toward the exit of the space where you and Ravi have tended to countless gladiators. "If all goes well today, I shall be one step closer to becoming more than a healer or a lover. I shall be the closest thing to a warrior I can aspire to be." Ravi nods, though a hint of worry lingers in his expression. He is the closest thing to an ally you have.

Time rushes by when one is on the brink of doing something forbidden, but you no longer concern yourself with the consequences. You are resolute to take control of your destiny, even if that control is but a sliver. Once dressed, you secure the dagger Acacius once gifted you in a hidden compartment of your attire. It is your small but vital secret, and you are steadily improving in its use.

With purpose in your stride, you make your way swiftly to where Hanno is awaiting you. When you arrive, his eyes brighten at the sight of you. "I see your delay is justified; you look prepared for battle. Let us see if you can land a blow," Hanno says, advancing toward you with a predatory gait meant to intimidate.

You meet his gaze with an unflinching smile. "Save your words for when we’re truly facing off, gladiator," you reply, following him to the familiar training grounds. It is the very arena where countless gladiators sharpen their skills, preparing for the moment they will stand before the emperors in the grand coliseum.

As soon as you step into the center of the training grounds, Hanno strikes without warning. His sword arcs toward you, narrowly missing as you instinctively step back. At the start of this combat practice, both of you wield swords, though your grasp on its use remains novice.

"Have you lost your sanity, Hanno? I wasn’t ready," you exclaim, fixing him with a glare of irritation. He advances on you again, silent and relentless, as if transformed into a stranger intent on attack. His gaze is unwavering, his resolve sharp.

"When you’re defending yourself, no one will wait for you to be ready, nor will they show you mercy. I want you to see me as you would see any foe who dares strike at you," Hanno declares, his sword slashing toward you again. You react, relying on your defensive maneuvers, retreating step by step until a strategy for counterattack begins to form in your mind.

"I’m not so sure; you seem to be enjoying this far too much," you retort, timing your movements before landing your first offensive strike. It catches him off guard, a flicker of surprise flashing across his face. The gap between you narrows, charged with the thrill of the fight and something deeper, more electrifying.

"I am enjoying it just as much as you enjoy patching me up with that brute strength of yours, healer. Now, focus," Hanno says, parrying your blow with unnerving precision. It’s like a dance—each movement perfectly countering the other. You attack; he defends. He strikes; you block. The rhythm between you is almost hypnotic, an eerie harmony born of tension and skill. But then, in a risky maneuver, Hanno manages to disarm you. Your sword flies from your grasp, landing far out of reach. Now standing mere steps apart, your eyes meet, both of you breathing heavily. It feels like the end for you, so why not take a chance?

With a surge of reckless determination, you rush toward him, channeling all your strength into an attempt to topple him. In your mind, it isn’t Hanno you’re facing—it’s an enemy, someone who would do you harm. Your unexpected move catches him off guard, and he falls to the ground. By sheer luck or fate, his sword slips from his grip as well. Now, you find yourself on top of him, both of you unarmed. The air between you is charged, your breaths mingling as silence envelops the space.

"It seems I have bested the great gladiator of Macrinus," you say, pressing your body lightly against his, a triumphant smile on your lips. Hanno smirks, his hands firmly gripping your waist as he swiftly reverses your positions, pinning you beneath him with effortless strength.

"Do not be deceived, healer," he murmurs, his piercing gaze locking with yours. But you are not so easily subdued. With a practiced movement, you draw the hidden dagger from your vestments and press it against his neck, the blade gleaming in the dim light. "Your presumption is touching, gladiator," you retort, your tone both teasing and sharp.

"What will you do next, healer?" Hanno asks, his breath warm against your face. The tension between you ignites instantly, palpable and undeniable. Before you can respond, he pulls your face closer to his, his lips capturing yours with a fervent intensity, as though he means to consume you entirely. At first, you almost resist Hanno’s kiss—it feels forbidden, a boundary you should not cross. Since your husband’s passing, Acacius was the only man you had kissed. Yet, as Hanno’s tongue ventures into your mouth, you find yourself surrendering, the kiss quickly becoming mutual.

In truth, Hanno is devouring you, but you refuse to let him take the upper hand so easily. You tug at his hair with force, pulling him closer, demanding his full attention. The kiss deepens, its intensity increasing to the point of no return. You want him to feel your hunger, to know that you wish to consume him just as much. For all its forbidden allure, you crave this moment—not because of duty or obligation, but because you want it. You want to know what it feels like to kiss someone you shouldn't, to rebel against every expectation tethering you. Your husband was not forced upon you, but your marriage had been a safeguard. Becoming Acacius’ lover served a similar purpose. But with Hanno, nothing feels safe. And perhaps that is why you let this moment unfold. There is no security here, no veil of protection. If you and Hanno are caught, Acacius could kill him, both the Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla could execute you, and the repercussions would be endless. Yet, none of that matters as your lips clash with his in this reckless, intoxicating dance of defiance.

The kiss is all-consuming, so intense that, for a moment, it steals your breath. You pause, pulling away to recover the air you desperately need. Yet Hanno seems unsatisfied, his eyes locked on you with an intensity that threatens to unravel your resolve.

His hand cups your face, fingers tracing over every detail as if committing you to memory. When his thumb brushes over your lips, he murmurs softly, "Your lips remind me of hers, my beautiful Arishat." Reality strikes like a sharp blade. He is with you, yet his mind lingers on his late wife. The weight of that truth is unbearable. As he leans forward, seeking your lips once more, you push him away, creating the distance you now desperately need.

"I will not be her replacement," you think, your resolve firm. "Nor Lucilla’s substitute." Avoiding his gaze, your shame and frustration burn within you. Rising quickly, you make your way toward your quarters. You and Ravi must always be prepared to tend to the wounded, so your rooms are close to where the gladiators train and where Ravi keeps his healing tools.

"Healer," Hanno calls out behind you, his voice firm yet laced with something softer. He follows after you, refusing to let the moment end so abruptly.

"Gladiator," you say, turning to face Hanno. Your body nearly collides with his, but you take a step back, halting the chase that had ensued. "Our training is done. I think it would be wise for us to part ways now, so as not to confuse..." You pause, searching for the right word to define what you might be confusing, only for Hanno to step abruptly closer, almost closing the space entirely.

"I am not confused about anything, healer," he says, his tone firm yet sincere. "I was lost momentarily in a memory, but I assure you, I knew exactly who I was kissing." He takes another step forward, his presence overwhelming.

"The act itself is already a problem, gladiator," you reply, struggling to maintain composure under his intense gaze. "We should not have kissed." Before he can respond, both of you hear footsteps approaching. In an instant, Hanno’s hand moves to your waist, pulling you behind him as though to shield you from whatever danger may come. Ravi appears, nearly running toward you, his face etched with worry.

"General Acacius has been seen heading this way," Ravi announces, his voice hurried and panicked. "The guards are murmuring that he’s coming to see you, Y/N. I suggest we get Hanno out of here immediately, and you prepare yourself to receive him."

The mention of Acacius sends a cold dread through you. Him encountering Hanno now would spell disaster. "Tell the guards who brought Hanno to retrieve him from here," you instruct, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside. "Hanno and I will change out of these combat garments, and I’ll distract Acacius while the guards take Hanno back to his cell. Ravi, I’ll need your speed."

Without hesitation, Ravi nods and rushes off to summon the guards. You, in turn, push Hanno toward a secluded area where he can change out of his training gear. "Change in there and wait for me," you instruct firmly. Noticing the swords in his hands, you swiftly take them from him despite his protests. With no time to spare, you carry the weapons back to your quarters while Hanno remains in the area where you and Ravi usually tend to injured gladiators. In the quiet urgency of your chambers, you hastily change your attire, your mind racing with the precariousness of the situation. Hanno waits silently, the gravity of the moment clear to both of you.

"Do you fear what might happen should General Acacius discover your association with the gladiator who recently sought his life?" Hanno asks as you enter the room where he waits patiently to be taken back to his cell.

"I do not fear for myself," you reply, adjusting your tunic with calm precision. "I fear that if you and he meet, there will be unnecessary bloodshed. As I’ve told you before, if you wish to kill him, do so in a duel—before the people of Rome. Sate the appetite of Emperors Geta and Caracalla as they watch you strike at each other in a frenzied battle for glory in the name of the gods."

Hanno listens intently, his expression thoughtful as he steps closer. Without a word, he helps you smooth the folds of your tunic, his touch deliberate yet gentle. "Will you tell him of our association, then?" he asks, finishing his adjustments and letting his hand linger briefly as it grazes your cheek.

"What is there to tell?" you counter, meeting his gaze with resolve. "Our association is no one’s concern." A smile spreads across Hanno’s face, slow and satisfied, as if your answer pleased him greatly.

Moments later, Ravi appears, his expression tense. "The guards are near," he informs, his tone clipped. His gaze shifts between you and Hanno, briefly noting the closeness between you, though he chooses to remain silent. With a small nod, Ravi turns to Hanno, gesturing for him to follow. Hanno casts you a lingering look before allowing Ravi to lead him toward the guards, leaving you behind with the weight of the encounter still pressing on your chest.

You wait patiently for General Acacius to arrive, though his delay stretches longer than anticipated. The thought suddenly strikes you—he might already be in your quarters, as he has been on previous occasions.

"Would you care to explain," his voice calls out, smooth and laced with quiet reproach, "what reasons led my beloved healer, whom I hold in such high regard, to abandon me to the care of Ravi instead of tending to me herself?" Turning toward the source, you find him stepping into view, pulling back the mantle that had concealed his face and form. His approach is measured, deliberate, and his gaze briefly flickers to the swords you had left behind without considering they might draw his notice.

"You should have sought explanations from your wife, General Acacius," you reply, your tone calm but firm, though the effort to keep it so is greater than it seems. "It was she who instructed me, in the presence of the guards no less, to withdraw from tending to your care." His footsteps pause near the swords, his attention drawn to their gleaming edges. The air between you grows heavier as his eyes shift back to yours, narrowing slightly as he regards you. You remain steadfast, though the distance you keep from him feels tenuous, as if he could close it with the simplest of steps.

"I was not informed of such a decision; I would never have allowed my care to pass from your hands to another's," General Acacius speaks softly, his tone a mixture of calm and yearning as he moves toward you with deliberate caution, yet there is a palpable hunger in his eyes.

"General, whether you authorized it or not is irrelevant," you reply, holding your ground though the weight of his presence begins to press upon you. "Lucilla no longer wishes for us to remain close. Surely, you remember that when all this began, you told me that if your wife were ever to object to our association, even if it was merely for appearances, it would end."

Your words are firm, yet the truth they carry sinks heavily into your own heart. You know now, with certainty, that the chapter of your life entwined with Acacius is nearing its inevitable conclusion.

"Those words were spoken before we became what we are today," Acacius responds, his voice steady yet filled with a quiet intensity. "Surely you know I have no intention of abandoning you." He steps closer, his gaze unwavering, his nearness suffocating in its allure.

"Do not worry for me. Your pity is no longer necessary, Acacius," you say, though the ache in your chest betrays the pain these words bring. Deep down, you have long feared that what he felt for you stemmed from nothing but pity.

"I have never pitied you," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with conviction. "Perhaps I felt empathy for your pain in the beginning, but after that—everything was real. Your presence makes me a better man." His hand reaches up to touch your face, tenderly tracing its contours as if to soften your resolve. He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, an intimate gesture meant to draw you back to him, to coax you into his embrace once more.

"You owe your loyalty to your wife, not to me," you say, your voice faltering slightly under the weight of his gaze and the warmth of his touch. "We must no longer allow ourselves to feel anything beyond what is proper, Acacius." Even as you speak, your resolve weakens beneath his touch, his words a balm and a temptation all at once. He seems heedless of your protest, intent only on closing the distance between you.

"Lucilla has my loyalty, but you... you have my protection. I will not leave you unguarded," Acacius says, his lips almost brushing against yours, his voice weighted with emotion.

"Then you should know that my loyalty is no longer yours exclusively," you reply, steadying yourself as you deliver the words. You feel the sharp recoil in Acacius as he steps back, his expression hardening, though disbelief flickers in his eyes.

"I am involved with another," you continue, forcing the lie to your lips with a strength you did not know you possessed. "It may mean that I will no longer require your protection in the future." Your words are a dagger you wield with precision, for you know that to continue as his lover would jeopardize his marriage—a risk you cannot allow, no matter the desires that linger within you.

"Who would dare attempt to claim you, knowing that you are mine?" General Acacius demands, his voice edged with irritation that betrays a rare crack in his calm demeanor. His gaze narrows, his presence no less imposing, but the fury brewing beneath his words sends a shiver through you. You realize the fire you have kindled within him may burn brighter than you anticipated.

"Someone who does not fear the wrath of General Acacius," you say, your voice steady despite the undeniable pull of his proximity. You desire him, undeniably so, but you know you must not have him.

"It is clear that our involvement must end—now. Before it concludes in disaster," you declare, watching as Acacius processes your words, his gaze shadowed with an intensity that seems both pained and unyielding.

"Then let it be clear to you," Acacius responds, his tone laced with an unwavering authority, though no threat lies in his words. "Whoever dares to encroach upon what is mine will meet the edge of my sword without delay. Our bond will not be severed while either of us draws breath, Y/N. Keep that in mind." His declaration is resolute, not spoken as a plea but as a statement of his immutable commitment to you. It leaves you breathless, the weight of his words pressing against the fortress of your resolve.

"You cannot protect me forever, Acacius. Just as I cannot heal you forever," you murmur, stepping closer, your desperation palpable as though silently begging him to release you—to let you go before you both reach a precipice from which there is no return.

"Mea domina," he whispers reverently, stepping closer and pulling down the fabric covering your shoulder with deliberate care. His lips press softly against the exposed skin, lingering as if to seal a silent vow. The tenderness in his touch conveys more devotion than desire, a gesture that leaves you caught between longing and regret.

"I would die if necessary, but I will not abandon those I hold in the highest esteem. You and Lucilla are my priorities, and I will relinquish neither of you. If you place so much faith in this new interest of yours, let him come to me bearing a sword, and he shall find his end," he declares, his voice unwavering and resolute, his words resonating like a solemn oath.

Acacius lifts his hand to gently cradle your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as his lips trace a path of soft kisses along your temple, down to the curve of your jaw, and finally your forehead. His lips linger as if memorizing each contour of your face, avoiding your mouth deliberately—a clear boundary, or perhaps his way of expressing silent reproach for the words you have spoken. The kisses feel like a claim, yet also a farewell—his way of both cherishing and punishing, of reminding you of his commitment while withholding the one intimacy he knows you yearn for. The intensity in his gaze as he pulls back speaks volumes, as though he is willing you to see the depths of his resolve. "At times, it feels as though battle is all you truly understand, Acacius," you say, holding his gaze with a penetrating look, as if unraveling the depths of his thoughts.

"I am a man of honor," he replies, his tone firm yet measured. "I will not seek out the man who dares to involve himself with you, but neither will I stand idle should he attempt to take what is rightfully mine." His presence remains close, commanding and resolute, as though he seeks to claim not just the space but the moment itself. With deliberate care, Acacius reaches out, his hand brushing your face in a touch that is at once gentle and laden with unspoken meaning. It lingers, as if he wishes to commit every contour of your features to memory.

Without another word, he steps back, retreating from your chambers with the disciplined stride of a general accustomed to carrying the weight of empires. His departure leaves the room heavy with unresolved tension, the air thick with the echoes of what cannot be spoken. Alone, you are left to ponder the tangled web of emotions and loyalties binding you to both Acacius and Hanno. The weight of your entanglement bears down upon you, as inevitable as the arena’s call to blood and glory.

THREE

Something ominous looms on the horizon. For days, you have been meticulously avoiding both Acacius and Hanno—a strategy that, while effective thus far, has been anything but easy. The rumors reaching you suggest that Hanno has been pestering Ravi incessantly, demanding your presence once more. Ravi, clearly exasperated, has taken to openly complaining about being forced to mediate between your "amorous entanglements," as he puts it, since your self-imposed distance began.

You had thought your withdrawal would carry no real consequences, yet this morning proved otherwise. A messenger from the emperors arrived at your doorstep, summoning you to attend the games at the Colosseum. Apparently, Emperor Geta himself wishes to extend his gratitude for your exemplary work in tending to the gladiators—his and his brother's greatest source of entertainment.

"If you wish, I could say you are unwell," Ravi murmurs as the two of you make your way toward the Colosseum.

"I cannot risk displeasing the emperors while my standing with Acacius remains fragile," you reply, touched by Ravi's unwavering support.

"You should consider mending things with one of the men in your life, for your own sake," Ravi suggests, his tone serious, ever the wise counselor.

"Hanno remains tethered to the memory of his late wife, while General Acacius refuses to release me from our former arrangement. It seems there is no simple resolution," you respond, your voice carrying the weight of your predicament, as the imposing silhouette of the Colosseum looms ever closer.

"It would be far simpler if you weren’t so stubborn. General Acacius may no longer be the ideal choice, but you and Hanno share more in common than you’re willing to admit," Ravi says with an irritating air of wisdom.

"It would be far simpler if you ceased your obstinance. General Acacius may no longer seem ideal, yet you and Hanno share far more in common than you are willing to acknowledge," Ravi remarked, his tone laden with that infuriating wisdom he so often wielded. However, the truth stands—your union with your late husband was forged more upon the bonds of friendship than the fires of passion. Before his commitment to you, he was entangled in an affair with Emperor Caracalla. That, above all, is the most profound distinction between yourself and Hanno. You grieve the loss of a cherished companion who became your husband by circumstance, whereas Hanno mourns his wife, who was, perhaps, the great love of his life.

"I shall take your counsel into consideration, my old friend, yet I beg of you to help me survive at least this day," you say, casting an apprehensive glance toward Ravi. He halts before you, placing a gentle kiss upon your forehead.

"Years ago, I vowed to your husband that I would care for you, and I shall not falter now. May the Gods watch over us," Ravi murmurs solemnly, his voice a quiet prayer as the two of you resume your path toward the arena, where the gladiators are already assembling for the commencement of the games.

Your gaze instinctively searches for Hanno, betraying a desire you would rather not acknowledge. His eyes, almost alight amidst the throng of gladiators, lock onto yours, his expression that of a man consumed by fury. You and Ravi did not take the same path as the gladiators, so it would not be prudent for you to approach him. Yet, from afar, you watch him with a quiet intensity. The courage you lack to bridge the distance is overshadowed by the boldness he possesses to close it himself.

"I shall give you a moment," Ravi murmurs, stepping aside as if sensing the gravity of the encounter. "Do not forget—Hanno may not leave the arena alive today. Be mindful to show kindness, for this could be your last exchange with him." Before you can fully process Ravi's warning, Hanno reaches you with surprising swiftness, all but sweeping you away with his commanding presence.

Hanno swiftly seized your waist with firm hands, nearly lifting you off the ground, and guided you to a secluded corner. His fury was unmistakable, reflected in the dominant grip he maintained on your waist, his hold firm enough to suggest he had no intention of letting you escape. "Have you lost your senses?" you demanded as he pressed you back against one of the great columns of the coliseum.

"I could not allow you to slip away from me again," Hanno replied, his voice low but resolute, his eyes scanning your surroundings with the precision of a predator ensuring no one dared approach.

"Our separation was necessary," you say with some difficulty, the closeness of Hanno's body to yours a maddening temptation that clouds your thoughts.

"Your master forbade you from interacting with me, and you simply obeyed, didn’t you?" Hanno says in a low, furious tone. His anger is not just visible but palpable, almost suffocating.

You seize his face with your hand, your nails pressing dangerously close to his neck. "Say once more that Acacius is my master, and I shall tear your throat out," you threaten, your voice laced with an inexplicable fury. Yet, Hanno seems to relish this, for he steps even closer, his lips curling into a wicked smile.

"I missed you, healer," Hanno replies, his eyes holding an unusual tenderness just moments before he claims your lips in a tumultuous kiss. It is as though he is consuming you, devouring you with his kiss, seeking to capture you entirely while his hands map your body with desperate reverence.

If the two of you were caught, it would mean your undoing, the end of both your lives. Yet, some part of you whispers that it would be worth it. In truth, if death awaited you for this, a kiss alone would not suffice. Each second his tongue dances with yours stirs a longing so deep it borders on madness. You yearn for him to take you, right here and now, for the feel of him within you seems the only desire worthy of risking everything. "Do not die today, gladiator," you murmur against his lips as they part, allowing you both to catch your breath.

"It will not be I who dies today, healer," Hanno says, his voice steady, before capturing your lips once more, this time with tenderness rather than desire. His grip on you tightens, as though he wishes to sink his hands into your very being, to keep your body close to his for all eternity.

"I only hope you can forgive me for what I am about to do," he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. Before you can respond, one of the gladiators calls his name, and he steps away. An unease settles in your chest, fear creeping in as you wonder what he might be planning. Yet, the weight of your obligations presses against your thoughts—you must make your way to the emperors without delay.

"For what reason is the healer present here?" Lucilla, seated beside Acacius, questions sharply as you approach the section where they, the emperors, and other guests await the spectacle.

"The healer is my guest, Lucilla," Emperor Geta interjects swiftly, extending his hand toward you in expectation. Dutifully, you step forward and kiss it. Moments later, Emperor Caracalla mimics his brother’s gesture, and you lean in to kiss his hand as well.

As you rise, your gaze catches the familiar figure of Dondus, the small monkey, bounding toward you with recognition in his bright eyes. Memories of the time you were compelled to remain near the emperors, so Caracalla could indulge his desires with your late husband, flood back unbidden. "He still remembers you," Caracalla exclaims, his voice carrying an unusual note of delight as he grasps your hand.

"It is an honor to be here," you reply evenly, though the weight of his touch stirs emotions you work hard to suppress. Behind your composed words lingers the haunting memory of the cold efficiency with which Caracalla and his brother had ordered your husband's death—right here in this very arena.

"We have been separated by the misfortunes imposed upon us by the Gods, but I believe a new chapter is now opening for us, as your skills as a healer have not gone unnoticed. Hands as talented as yours deserve to care for the well-being of emperors, my dear," Geta declares, his gaze lingering on you with a fervent intensity that borders on desire. You struggle to mask the fear swirling within you, wondering what fate the Gods have in store for you next.

The weight of his words settles heavily on your chest, but before you can gather your thoughts, General Acacius rises abruptly and moves toward the two of you. Your hand lightly grazes the fabric of his attire, halting his approach. "Is there a matter of concern, General?" Emperor Caracalla inquires, his tone laced with an air of amusement, as his fingers idly stroke Dondus, who appears entirely at ease in his presence.

"There is no matter of concern, Emperor Caracalla," General Acacius responds, his hand firmly clasping yours against his chest beneath the folds of his vestment, his piercing gaze directed at the two emperors with the weight of an unspoken warning.

“Our most illustrious general appears perturbed that we extended an invitation to his mistress to grace these games in our company without first seeking his counsel,” Emperor Geta declares with an air of calculated provocation, his words laden with mockery. The faintest smirk curls his lips, as if relishing the tension he seeks to sow.

"Ah, brother, such concerns would trouble him only if he were entangled with her. Yet rumors abound that they no longer seek solace in each other's embrace and that she is no longer charged with tending to the wounds of our noble General," Emperor Caracalla remarks, his words clearly meant to provoke. However, his statement seems to have unsettled Lucilla, who shifts restlessly in her seat.

"Brother, remember that we ought not lend credence to idle gossip," Emperor Geta interjects, rising with an air of authority. "If our esteemed General Acacius insists that we disregard his lover, let him convince us that their bond remains intact. Otherwise, let him return to his rightful place beside his wife, and allow my brother and me the honor of tending to the fair healer." As Geta’s words echo, Acacius turns his gaze toward you, his eyes locking with yours in a silent exchange. Without hesitation, he pulls your face toward his, as though intending to kiss you before the eyes of all assembled.

"Do not sacrifice your marriage for me," you murmur, your voice trembling as the weight of the moment threatens to bring tears to your eyes. The inevitability of what you feared is now unfolding before you—Acacius can no longer shield you.

"You are worthy of such a sacrifice, mea domina," General Acacius murmurs near your ear, his hand gently caressing your face. His touch carries a tenderness that momentarily threatens to weaken your resolve. Yet, you grasp his hands, steadying yourself, and move them away from your face, refusing to yield to the moment. There is a depth to your bond with Acacius, a connection forged in unspoken understanding, but you cannot bring yourself to jeopardize him.

"Perhaps it would be wiser to let the healer decide where she wishes to remain," you say, your voice steady, masking the longing within you to leave this place with Acacius. Turning toward Emperor Geta, who now sits observing the exchange with keen interest alongside his brother, Caracalla. Without hesitation, Geta seizes the opportunity, pulling you onto his lap with a self-assured ease that leaves no doubt of his authority.

Your gaze meets that of General Acacius, whose displeasure grows ever more evident. His clenched fists and the tension in his posture betray the storm brewing within him. "I believe the games are about to begin, dear General Acacius," Emperor Geta states with a sly smile, his hand firmly resting on your waist to solidify his claim. "It would be most appropriate for you to take your seat and enjoy the spectacle." His words carry a subtle provocation, a challenge cloaked in politeness.

Acacius lingers, his body taut with restraint as though weighing the consequences of striking an emperor in defense of his pride. Just as the tension threatens to boil over, Macrinus approaches, his demeanor lively and oblivious to the undercurrents. "Ah, are we all ready to witness the might of my beast? My gladiator returns to the arena today!" Macrinus exclaims, his excitement cutting through the charged atmosphere like a blade.

Acacius hesitates, his head tilting as though he is torn, unwilling to move from your side while you remain seated on Emperor Geta’s lap. Yet, Lucilla intervenes, her steps measured as she approaches her husband. She takes his hand with a quiet resolve, guiding him back to her side. A flicker of disappointment stirs within you, faint but undeniable. What else could you have expected? Acacius has always belonged to her, to duty, to the empire. He has never truly been yours.

The tension lingers only a moment longer before the spectacle claims everyone’s attention. The gates to the coliseum creak open, and the gladiators march into the arena. Yet something is amiss. Their faces are obscured, smeared with what appears to be blood, masking their identities. For those with inattentive eyes, it becomes nearly impossible to distinguish one from another. But not for you. No, Hanno’s eyes—those piercing, tempestuous eyes—are burned into your memory like the sharp point of a blade embedded deep into flesh. Even amid the chaos, they find you, unyielding and unforgettable.

"Macrinus, what are the gladiators scheming?" Emperor Caracalla asks, his words slurred as he drinks from his goblet, already appearing too inebriated to speak coherently.

"My esteemed Emperor Caracalla, I have no knowledge of their schemes, but I trust it is all in service of your entertainment," Macrinus responds, his gaze fixed intently on the gladiators below. He observes them with a sharpness that contrasts Caracalla's indifference, his expression unreadable.

Your eyes instinctively seek out General Acacius, silently willing him to understand that something is amiss. He meets your gaze, his brow furrowed as though catching the silent warning you convey.

"You seem unsettled, healer," Emperor Geta murmurs into your ear, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "I am not accustomed to watching gladiators face one another, Emperor," you reply, steadying your voice. "I am more familiar with mending their wounds when they survive." The truth, however, weighs heavier on your mind—Hanno is planning something, and whatever it is, it may cost Acacius his life. A fate you cannot allow.

"Do not fret," Geta coos, lifting your chin with a deliberate gentleness that feels almost mocking. His eyes search yours, a predator relishing his control. "Guards, increase vigilance near the gladiators!" he commands suddenly, his voice sharp and resonant, slicing through the murmurs of the spectators.

"Emperor, it may not be wise to leave yourself so unguarded," General Acacius interjects, his tone firm yet controlled as he observes the guards dispersing to obey Geta's orders.

"And what greater protection could Rome offer than you, General?" Geta retorts with a smug smile, his grip on you tightening slightly, as though to assert his dominance. The tension is palpable, yet it is quickly eclipsed by the spectacle unfolding in the arena. The gates groan open once more, and three lions emerge, their emaciated forms a testament to their hunger. Their roars echo across the coliseum, a feral sound that sets the crowd alight with excitement. The gladiators ready themselves, their movements deliberate, each one measured and precise.

Your heart tightens as Hanno shouts to the other gladiators, "Remember our plan! Our enemy lies far beyond the arena!" Surely, he is plotting something, yet his precision in leading the gladiators against the lions is extraordinary. It is as if Hanno is channeling his spirit animal, his movements instinctive and deliberate.

Blood is everywhere—some gladiators brutally slaughtered by the lions. Two of the beasts have already been defeated when a revolt begins, chaos erupting as the third lion aids the gladiators in breaking through the arena gates. Suddenly, the tension in the air thickens. Panic spreads as the guards scramble to escort the emperors away from the scene.

Caught in the fray, you find yourself swept along with Emperors Geta and Caracalla, fate conspiring against you. In the madness, you lose sight of Acacius amidst the swarm of guards and gladiators. The tumult escalates into full-blown chaos until a voice pierces through the din, crying out, "Protect the Emperor!"

Before you can react, you feel the sharp pain of a blade slicing through your skin—or perhaps plunging into it. You cannot tell. Dazed, you glance down to see your blood staining your garments, and when you lift your gaze, you meet the eyes of your assailant. Hanno's eyes. You are certain.

The attack meant for Emperor Geta has struck you instead, delivered by the very man who has awakened feelings you dare not name. Tears well in your eyes as you feel your strength waning, your consciousness slipping into darkness.

FOUR

You lost consciousness, yet fleeting moments of the struggle to bring you back to life drifted through your mind like a fevered dream. Ravi, frantic, attempting to stitch your wound. Your body burned with searing heat. Someone held your hand, cold lips pressing against your forehead, as you fought to return—to reclaim a life you were no longer certain you deserved. But the thought of never waking again, of being torn from those you held dear, was a nightmare far worse.

Your late husband appeared before you. He spoke no words, only extended his hand, beckoning you to follow him. You embraced him as one does in farewell, knowing it was not yet your time. And then, whether by day or night, you awoke. Pain throbbed low in your abdomen, a grim confirmation that this was no hallucination—you had been wounded. More than that, Hanno had sought your life. Yet your wound was dressed with care, wrapped securely in bandages. Your attire was unfamiliar, the fabric of your tunic impossibly fine—far beyond anything you had ever worn. You had been tended to with great attention, that much was certain.

"It is a relief to see you recovered," came a voice, firm yet measured. Emperor Geta stood at a distance, observing you intently before stepping forward. In that moment, the pieces began to fall into place—the luxurious garments, the richly adorned chamber. Of course. These were his quarters.

"I would not say recovered, Emperor, merely awakened." Your voice was steady, though your body remained weak. "I see that you are safe." Fragments of memory returned—the gladiator revolt, the last moments before your collapse.

"General Acacius managed to quell the disorder among the gladiators," Geta remarked, his voice smooth yet watchful as he moved closer. "I suspect his true aim was to save his beloved mistress from the grasp of death, though that is something you shall have to confirm with him yourself." You pushed yourself upright, adjusting to the ache in your body, making space on the bed for him to sit. After all, these chambers belonged to him.

"I must thank you for your care. I imagine my recovery is due to your efforts," you say, your gaze fixed upon Emperor Geta. Years had passed with the two of you in such close proximity, yet always bound by the same unchanging dynamic—he desiring you, while you belonged to another. If not to your late husband, then to the great General Acacius.

"You saved my life, healer," Geta murmurs, his eyes locked with yours. His hand comes to your face, a gentle yet deliberate touch, urging you to meet his gaze more fully as he draws closer.

"And your act of bravery will not be forgotten. The gladiatorial games shall resume as soon as you are well enough to attend them—at my side, fulfilling your new role in Rome." Something feels amiss. A new role?

"Forgive me if I seem ungrateful, but what new role do you speak of? And I had assumed the gladiators would not be so willing to continue their battles in the arena," you say, your thoughts reeling, trying to piece together what has transpired in your absence.

"I do not wish to overwhelm you, but your actions have made something clear to me," Geta replies smoothly. "A companion willing to sacrifice her life for me, one who possesses both skill and knowledge in tending to wounds, would be of great use. From this moment on, you shall be my attendant before all of Rome. I assure you, you need not spend every moment at my side—but while you do, you shall keep me entertained."

He pauses, his tone sharpening slightly. "And let me make one thing very clear—you need not concern yourself with what the gladiators wish. They will stand in the arena for as long as I decree it. We decree it—my brother and I."

A faint smile lingers on his lips as he rises. "Now, rest and recover. These chambers—and whatever garments you may require—are yours." Then, with deliberate ease, he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss at the corner of your lips before pulling away. The unexpectedness of it leaves you momentarily stunned. And just as swiftly as he came, Geta turns and departs, leaving you in silence.

Not immediately, but moments later, you rise. With some difficulty, you make your way through the palace, recalling the times you accompanied your late husband to his brief meetings with Caracalla. You needed to see Ravi—perhaps the only one truly concerned for you. As you prepare to take the risk of mounting a horse to go to him, General Acacius appears, accompanied by several guards on horseback.

"Where do you think you're going?" Acacius questions the moment his gaze meets yours. You look at him, anger simmering beneath your composure. Years by his side—tending to his wounds, watching over him—and when you were the one struck down, he left you in the hands of Emperor Geta.

"General Acacius, there is a certain recklessness in your question. We are no longer connected, and surely, it is inappropriate for you to question my actions when they matter so little to you," you respond, continuing to ready the horse for your departure.

"Leave us," the general commands his guards, dismounting. "If defiance is your intent, I suggest you try harder," Acacius murmurs behind you, his breath warm against your ear. His hands graze your arms, a slow caress that makes you shut your eyes at the familiarity of his touch.

"Did you even spare a thought for my well-being while I lay dying?" you ask, uncertain now whether your survival is of any importance to him at all.

"If you must ask me that, then you never truly knew me, despite all these years," Acacius says. "I would have faced all of Rome to save your life if it came to that. And indeed, I put an end to a rebellion to ensure that you would stand before me once again, looking at me with that same cold indifference. And here you are." He moves in front of you, seizing the reins of the horse you had been preparing to mount. You avert your gaze, momentarily ashamed.

"I imagine you have punished the gladiator responsible for this," you say, meeting his eyes once more.

"I cannot do that. In the chaos, we were unable to identify who attacked you," Acacius replies. But something in his demeanor shifts—something is not right.

"That will not be an issue. I can identify him," you lie, watching him closely. You need to understand why he is suddenly hesitant. "Do not do this," he says almost immediately.

"And why not?" you demand, struggling to comprehend why Acacius would have any interest in sparing Hanno.

"I cannot tell you. Not yet. Just… don’t," he pleads, his voice softer now, almost desperate.

"Let me guess—it has something to do with Lucilla?" you say, feeling your blood boil. "Your wife comes before any retribution for an attempt on Emperor Geta’s life? Or nearly sending me to my death?" There is no need for him to answer—you already know. Perhaps it is better this way. The sooner you accept that Acacius does not belong to you, the easier it will be to accept the reality that, piece by piece, you are being handed over to Geta. Always belonging to someone—never having someone who belongs to you. Perhaps one day, you will belong to yourself.

"Believe me, it is not easy letting the one who hurt you go unpunished, but there are circumstances that prevent me from—" You do not let him finish. In one swift movement, you mount his horse, the one he had so foolishly left within your reach, since he still blocked the one you had prepared. Yes, you are stealing a general’s horse.

"A word of advice before I leave, General—if you continue placing your wife above all else, you will die. A person blinded by love loses all the instinct for survival," you tell Acacius before spurring the horse forward. But instead of heading toward Ravi, you turn in the direction of the one who owes you the most answers. Hanno.

Your wound threatens to slow you down, but with determination, you press on, each step a test of endurance. At last, you arrive at your destination—the dim, squalid cells where the gladiators are kept like beasts awaiting slaughter. The air is thick with the stench of blood and sweat, the groans of the injured echoing through the narrow corridor.

A guard, stationed at the entrance, swiftly steps forward to block your path, his expression wary. "You are the savior of Emperor Geta, correct?" he asks, scrutinizing you.

"In a way," you reply, your voice steady. "I have come to visit one of the gladiators—I used to tend to his wounds." He studies you for a moment before stepping aside, though his eyes linger on you with mild curiosity.

"You saved our emperor. You may visit whomever you wish. But be warned—none left unscathed. They were punished mercilessly for their part in the rebellion," the guard cautions.

You nod and move forward, your gaze sweeping over the men behind the iron bars. Some are barely conscious, their bodies marred with fresh wounds, while others simply stare blankly ahead, their spirits crushed by suffering. You cannot help but think of Ravi, who must be overwhelmed, desperately trying to mend the broken bodies around him. Then, a sound catches your attention—soft yet urgent. A woman’s voice, one you recognize.

Your steps slow as you follow the sound, until you find yourself before Hanno’s cell. The heavy iron door is ajar, and within, you see him—battered, bruised, barely standing. But he is not alone. Lucilla is there with him, locked in what appears to be a hushed, heated exchange. A strange unease coils in your stomach. Whatever is happening, it is not something they expected to be witnessed. You take another step forward and clear your throat, making your presence known.

"Am I interrupting something?" Both of them freeze, their heads snapping toward you, eyes wide with surprise. And Hanno—Hanno looks utterly ruined.

Your chest tightens at the sight of him. His body bears the cruel marks of battle—wounds torn open, bruises darkening his skin like the aftermath of a storm. It is evident that Ravi has not tended to him, that no gentle hand has sought to mend what was broken. You should feel some measure of satisfaction at his suffering, for he nearly cost you your life. And yet, all you can summon is a strange, unwelcome pity.

"You are alive." Hanno’s voice is urgent, as though the mere sight of you breathes life back into him. He moves toward you, instinctively drawn closer.

But you retreat—a step, then another. His pale blue eyes search yours, and in them, you find sorrow. Perhaps it is for himself, or perhaps for the wariness that now defines the space between you. It matters little. The last time he stood this close, you were left at death’s door.

"Yes, I live." Your tone is measured, though not without bite. "And I see you have already sought comfort elsewhere." Your gaze flickers toward Lucilla, her presence beside him casting shadows of suspicion. The truth strikes swiftly—this is why she so fervently opposes Acacius bringing Hanno to justice. Lucilla stiffens, her face drained of color.

"It is not what you think, Y/N!" she exclaims, a thread of panic woven through her voice. She steps away from Hanno, as though distance might absolve her. You do not reply, merely observing as she turns toward him, her voice lowering to something just above a whisper. "I cannot explain why I am here. I shall leave that task to you."

Then, with a fleeting touch to his arm, she murmurs, "Stay safe." And with that, she departs, leaving you and Hanno alone. There is hesitation in both of you, a guarded uncertainty. And yet, beneath it, something else lingers—a strange, unspoken pull, as if despite all reason, some part of you still longs to close the distance.

"Was it for her that you tried to kill Emperor Geta? He was not even the intended target, was he? Or would you have slain him first, then Acacius, so the two of you could be together? What kind of reckless fool are you, Hanno?" Your voice rises, edged with fury, the mere thought of it setting your blood aflame. Had he truly risked everything—had he risked you—for Lucilla? Acacius had always belonged to her, but Hanno had not.

Before you even realize it, your hands are upon him, shoving his body against the iron bars of his cell. He grunts in pain but does not resist, allowing you to press him further into the cold metal. And then—he smiles. As though your rage amuses him, as though he welcomes it.

His rough hands close over yours, steadying them, though he does not force you away. And then, with a swift motion, he pulls you into his cell. Before you can utter a word, his palm is over your lips, silencing you.

"I will explain everything," he murmurs, his voice low, commanding, "but not if you refuse to listen. Be a good girl and keep still for a moment." Your eyes flash in warning before you sink your teeth into his hand. Hard.

He curses, releasing you with a sharp intake of breath, shaking his hand as if to rid himself of the pain. The faint taste of blood lingers on your tongue.

"I shall remain silent for your explanation," you say coldly, "but do not lay a hand on me unless I grant you leave to do so."

Hanno huffs out a soft chuckle, flexing his fingers as though to ease the sting. He is still smiling—perhaps at your audacity, or perhaps at the sting of your defiance. Then, his expression darkens.

"Lucilla is not my lover," he says at last. "She claims to be my mother, though the fact that she brought me into this world does not necessarily make her one." His words strike you like a blow.

You take a step closer, your mind racing. "That would mean…" The realization unfurls within you, pieces of an old tale assembling into a truth long buried. The missing child. The son of Lucilla, lost to the world. "Lucius." Your voice is scarcely above a whisper. "Lucius Verus Aurelius."

Hanno—or rather, Lucius—gives a slow nod. "I had no wish to reveal it, but I could not allow you to believe there was something between us." There is something oddly hesitant in his gaze, something almost vulnerable.

"Were you afraid I would tell Acacius?" you ask, searching his face for an answer. "Though if he spared your life, it means he already knows."

Lucius exhales, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I care not if you tell Acacius or Geta what I have done or who I am. My only concern was that you might believe I meant to harm you." His voice wavers, and for the first time, you see the torment behind his eyes. "I wished the gods had taken me instead of you. Believe me, it was never my intention to wound you. I have suffered for it every day since, for I wounded the only person who made me feel alive since the death of my Arishat." His voice is thick with emotion, his eyes dangerously close to tears. You stare at him, your chest tightening, before your hand flies across his face in a sharp slap. His head turns with the force of it, his cheek reddening, but he does not flinch. He merely watches you, unreadable.

"Nothing you say will undo what you have done," you say, your voice trembling with anger. "The sheer folly of striking against an emperor! And worse—of keeping this from me."

You push him back against the stone wall of his cell, your gaze flickering over him—his bare chest, the rise and fall of his breath, the defiant set of his jaw. His lips.

Lucius tilts his head slightly, his breath warm against your skin. "Strike me again if it pleases you," he murmurs, his voice nearly brushing your lips. "If pain is what you wish to inflict upon me, then I shall welcome it." His words send something hot and wretched through you, something you refuse to name.

Your hands tighten at your sides, your anger warring with something far more dangerous. "How could you do this to me?" The words spill from you in a whisper, your strength faltering as tears well in your eyes. "Do I mean so little to you?" For the briefest moment, you let yourself break.

"No—do not doubt what I feel for you simply because I was reckless," Hanno says, his voice strained yet firm. "I sought vengeance for Arishat’s death. I thought that if my target were Acacius, it would create a rift between us. If only I had realized sooner that it was vengeance itself I should have abandoned, not merely my aim."

He steps closer, his fingers brushing against your cheek as he wipes away your tears. Your voice trembles with emotion as you ask, "You abandoned your attack on Acacius… for me?"

His jaw tightens. "And it nearly cost me your life. I shall never be so foolish again." His hand rises to your chin, tilting your face up toward his.

His lips hover just above yours, his breath warm against your skin, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

"I have not forgiven you yet," you murmur against his mouth, your words barely above a whisper, "but listen well—tend to your wounds with Ravi, and next time, think before you act. Strength without strategy is a wasted effort." Your lips are so close that it is almost a kiss, a ghost of what could be.

The hunger in his eyes is unmistakable, mirroring the heat pooling in your chest. Your body aches to close the distance, to surrender to the pull between you. But you cannot. Not yet. Without another word, you step away, turning swiftly on your heel. You do not dare look back as you slip from his cell, leaving him behind.

FIVE (+18)

When you return to the palace of Emperors Geta and Caracalla, riding General Acacius’ horse, you find him waiting for you—as if, by fate or intent, he had anticipated your arrival. His gaze lingers on you, heavy with expectation, as though he has spent a lifetime waiting for this moment. Dismounting, you hold his stare, sensing the hesitation in him, the unspoken questions that hang between you.

"Whom shall I speak to now—General Acacius or Marcus Acacius?" you ask, standing tall, unwilling to betray any sign of the turmoil within you.

"Is there a difference between them?" Acacius replies as he steps forward, soothing his horse with practiced ease. You do not answer—not with words. Instead, you dare to close the distance between you, reaching out to touch his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw with your fingertips. At your touch, he closes his eyes, as if savoring the moment, as if it has been too long since he last felt such tenderness.

"General Acacius would stand before me now to speak of his wife, her son, and the inevitable consequences of what is to come," you murmur, your voice softer now, your fingers still resting against his skin. "Marcus Acacius, however, would stand before me to ask how we might mend what has been broken." His eyes open then, piercing and searching, locking onto yours.

His lips move toward yours, slow yet deliberate—but you turn away at the last moment, evading him. "Tell me what it is you want, Acacius," you demand, stepping back, retreating from him in more ways than one.

You stride quickly toward the chamber Emperor Geta has granted you, convinced that Acacius will let you escape. But you are mistaken. He follows. Through the halls, past the watchful eyes of guards and servants, he keeps his pursuit measured, careful not to attract undue attention. Yet his presence is inescapable, his intent unmistakable.

"You ask what I want, then flee from me," General Acacius murmurs near your ear as he catches up, his grip firm around your arm. He does not harm you, yet the strength in his hold sends a shiver through you. There is something dark in his gaze, something simmering beneath the surface—perhaps, in his anger, you might awaken his passion.

"Your cowardice surprises me. I always took you for a woman of courage," he taunts, pulling you closer, forcing you to face him. Without thinking, you strike him. Your hand lands hard across his face, the force of it splitting his lower lip. Blood beads at the corner of his mouth.

"I suggest you leave, General Acacius, lest I lose all restraint," you warn, your voice cold with fury at his insult. You tear yourself free and at last reach the sanctuary of your chamber. Surely, after everything, he will let you be. But he does not. Instead, he stands before you once more, his eyes ablaze with something raw, something relentless.

"Tell me—how do I mend this?" General Acacius asks, his gaze fixed upon you. You have no answer. You cannot even name what exists between you, let alone mend it. But your body speaks in ways your mind cannot. Fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic, you pull him down to you, claiming his lips in a desperate, unrelenting kiss.

Your hands trail from his neck to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands as you pull—hard—forcing him to break the kiss with a sharp breath. A flicker of something dangerous flashes in his eyes, but before he can reclaim your lips, his hands glide down your back, rough palms pressing firmly against your skin through the fabric of your toga. Then, with a sudden, possessive grip, he squeezes your ass. A gasp escapes you at the sensation, his touch igniting something primal within you. In response, you push him back, guiding him toward the bed without breaking the kiss. When the backs of his knees meet the edge, you shove him down, watching as he falls onto the mattress, his chest rising and falling with barely restrained hunger.

Only then do you part from his lips. Slowly, deliberately, you begin to strip away your toga, the fabric slipping from your shoulders. Acacius does not simply watch—his hands follow, tracing the path of the cloth as he helps you shed it, his touch unhurried, reverent. As the last barrier between you falls away, you climb onto him, straddling his body with deliberate slowness, savoring the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers tighten against your skin. His hands hold your waist and move up, caressing your body. He feels his way down your body, passing through your belly and moving up until he touches your breasts. You let out a moan as you feel his hands gently squeezing your breasts. You slowly grind under Acacius' body, feeling his cock getting hard. He was still dressed but you could feel him getting more and more turned on by you, moaning muffledly as you grinded on top of him.

"General Acacius, your wife requests your presence at your residence," one of the guards announces near your chambers. You and Acacius exchange a glance, both waiting for something—he, perhaps, for permission to leave, and you, for a sign that he wishes to stay.

"I need to..." General Acacius begins, his voice almost drained of strength. Before he can finish, you seize him, capturing his lips in a kiss as if it were the last—a raw, bruising clash of mouths, your nails digging into his face, intent on leaving a mark. He might find it bothersome, but if he does, he does not show it. Instead, he bites your lip before pulling away, savoring the sting he leaves behind.

"If you must return to your wife, then you have no further need for a mistress," you say, shoving his face away before swiftly pulling your toga back over your body.

"Let this be the first and last time we indulge in such folly, General Acacius." There is nothing more to say to him. You turn on your heel and leave your own chambers with hurried steps, unwilling to linger in the remnants of his presence. Without thinking, you walk through the palace corridors, the weight of the night settling upon you.

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"Where has my companion been all this time?" You turn at the voice, already expecting it to be Emperor Geta. What surprises you, however, is the state he is in—visibly intoxicated, unsteady on his feet, his garments stained with wine.

"I was tending to an unresolved matter," you murmur, stepping toward him. He stands just outside his chambers, swaying slightly.

"And is there a matter more pressing than the amusement of your Emperor?" he slurs, his hand brushing against your shoulder as if he might need it for balance.

You meet his gaze, embers still smoldering within you from what Acacius had awakened. "Tell me, dear Emperor Geta, how may I entertain you?"

A slow smirk plays upon his lips as he toys with the fabric at your shoulder, his fingers trailing lazily along the edge of your toga. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "Dance for me," he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine. He lifts his free hand—the one not clutching his wine cup—offering it to you. Without hesitation, you take it, and he leads you into his chambers.

He settles into a curule seat, watching you with lazy anticipation, waiting to be entertained. Slowly, you begin to move, each step deliberate, as though you were a serpent lulling its prey into a trance.

"Undress, healer," he commands, his voice thick with amusement as he watches you sway before him. You meet his gaze, feigning surprise at his demand, though in truth, the sooner you are bare, the sooner you might smother the fire burning within you. Holding his eyes, you begin to remove your garments, one piece at a time, casting them aside until nothing remains between you and his hungry stare.

Now fully exposed, you feel the weight of his gaze upon you—devouring, indulgent, as though he is savoring every inch of you before even laying a hand on your skin. You run your fingers over your breasts, just as gently as General Acacius did before. Still being watched by the watchful eyes of Emperor Geta, you pass one of your hands under your pussy, which by the way you touch it, is already wet.

"What would you have me do, my glorious Emperor?" you murmur, your fingers trailing over your own skin as you await his command. He gestures with his hand, beckoning you closer. "Crawl to me," he orders, his palm extended, as if expecting you to kiss it once you reach him.

With measured grace, you obey, moving toward him on hands and knees, your body ablaze with anticipation. Reaching him, you press a lingering kiss to his hand. His fingers trace your face, his thumb brushing over your lips, coaxing them to part. You look up at him, holding his gaze as you take his thumb into your mouth, sucking lightly, teasing.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you rise onto his lap, his hands cradling your face. As you settle against him, aligning your body with his, he draws you in, capturing your lips with his own. The kiss is unhurried, deliberate—his tongue first teasing your lips, offering you the taste of wine, before deepening into something more consuming. His mouth claims yours, intense and languid all at once, until he moves lower, trailing kisses down your neck, grazing your skin with his teeth. Then, suddenly, his kisses cease. A moment passes before you realize—Emperor Geta has fallen asleep.

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You had to put Emperor Geta into his bed with some difficulty. Dressing yourself once more, with the fire in your body left unsatisfied, was driving you to madness. You tried to lie down in your own chamber, pleading with the gods to grant you peace, to lull you into slumber. But nothing could quiet your soul. Tormented, you realized there was only one man who could ease this torment.

With the urgency of a lion hunting its prey, you sought out Hanno—or Lucius. It hardly mattered which name he bore, so long as he could quench this unbearable thirst. When you arrived at the place you had visited only hours before, a guard informed you that he was in the secluded bathing area. You hurried toward him, barely containing the anxiety coursing through you. Would he set aside the sting of your earlier rejection? Would he forget, even for a moment, the ghost of the wife he had lost?

And then, as your gaze met his—the blue of his eyes illuminated by the reflection of the water—your heart pounded against your ribs. Your breath came uneven, lost in the anticipation of what was to come.

"Why have you returned?" Hanno asked the moment he saw you approach. He was bare, of course, and surely wondering what had brought you here to seek him out.

"I need your help," you admitted, feeling suddenly exposed despite the distance between you. You held his gaze, though he seemed to be trying to decipher your distress.

"Allow me a fleeting indulgence," you implored softly, averting your eyes in shame. "One that will mean nothing." He said nothing. His silence unsettled you further. You covered your face with your hands and raised your voice. "Forget it. I shouldn’t be here."

Then came a sound—the unmistakable shift of Hanno rising from the water. You didn’t dare look, but you felt his presence drawing nearer. "Do not say that," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your skin. His voice echoed in the quiet chamber, where only the two of you remained. His wet hands closed over yours, gently pulling them from your face, leaving you with no choice but to see him—bare before you.

His wet body was erect in front of you. Showing you that his cock was slightly hard. The marks of physical fights on his defined body, making him look tougher. "Don't you want to touch me?" Hanno asks when he notices that you were analyzing his body in such detail. You turn your head to the side, contemplating the idea of giving up, but as an instinct, your hand goes towards his chest, caressing his wounds.

"I need you to keep in mind for this moment that by agreeing to do this with me, I will be the one taking you. I don't know if I could bear the idea of you thinking about your late wife," you whisper as if you are confiding a secret but in reality you are just being vulnerable.

"Believe me, healer, I know it is your hands touching me," he murmured, grasping them gently before pressing a kiss to each one. "I know it is your eyes upon me," he continued, his lips brushing over your closed eyelids. "I know it is your lips I desire," he whispered before claiming them in a swift, urgent kiss.

Though fleeting, it was the most ravenous kiss you had received in what felt like an eternity. His hunger consumed you, possessive, unyielding—stealing not only your breath but your very ability to think. His arms coiled around you, pulling you flush against him, leaving no space between your bodies. "And I know it is your body here, so close to mine," he breathed against your lips as he broke the kiss. With deft hands, Hanno began stripping you of your garments, undressing you with an ease that left no room for hesitation. Hanno's fingers begin to trail down your belly, stopping above your pussy. He makes a circular motion under your pussy, as if he wants to tease you. A moan escapes your lips as you feel his fingers enter your pussy without delay. As his fingers moved in and out of you, sometimes using his thumb to stimulate your clitoris, you rested your head on his shoulder, holding on to his arm as he thrust his fingers in you.

In a drawn-out moan you managed to say, "Hanno, please," as if you were begging him to take you, eat you, consume you; do every possible carnal desire with you. His whimpering takes effect as Hanno carries you to where he was previously bathing. As soon as your body and his come into contact with the water, he advances on your lips. He gets closer as he kisses you, holding your thighs to make it easier for you to open your legs so he can position himself. When Hanno's cock starts to enter your pussy, you let out a loud moan. It had been so long since you felt someone so intimate that it took a moment for you to get used to it.

"If you want we can stop," he whispers against your face. You don't answer anything, you just move your hands down to his ass and start holding it there, helping with the movements,as a way of showing that you want him and you definitely need to feel him inside you. He kisses your lips as he thrusts his cock into you more quickly than before. Each thrust increased the excitement you were feeling, as if you needed much more to be able to satisfy yourself.

Hanno's lips move from sucking your lips to sucking the skin on your neck and then to sucking your breasts as if he was thirsty for them. The sensation of his lips sucking one breast at a time was provocative. His thrusts into you only intensified as the sensations he was making you feel were making you shiver with pleasure. After taking his time sucking every visible part of you, Hanno returned to take your lips with his thirsty kiss. He even pulled your head a little, but specifically your hair to intensify the kiss, leaving you almost without reaction.

You dig your nails into his neck and back, moaning with each thrust as their pace increases.You help with the movements, using your hips to force more proximity between your pussy and his cock. When you feel a strong wave of pleasure coming, you throw yourself into Hanno's arms, biting his neck and gripping his shoulders tightly. It's an aggressive, intense feeling of pleasure that makes you almost scream as you feel that Hanno is close to feeling the same.

"Being in you, it's like being at peace," Hanno murmurs as he continues to cling to you. He gives one more thrust and then throws his head back slightly with a moan. He seems for a moment lost in his own pleasure while you are recovering. You grab him, pulling him into a kiss, soft and intense. "I want more," you murmur against Hanno's lips as soon as you break the kiss.

"I will do whatever you want to satisfy you, healer," he says still inside you. However, he pulls away, taking his cock out of you, making you gasp with the sensation. But it doesn't take long for him to turn you around, grabbing you from behind, running his hand over your ass. He doesn't wait long and manages to put his cock in you, taking you hard. You get lost in the sensation of him fucking you from behind, which is surprisingly tasty but a little painful. As he thrusts, you get used to the sensation, feeling his balls slapping against your ass as he thrusts his cock inside you.

His lips kissing your neck as he holds your hair back, pulling it as he thrusts his cock into you precisely and slowly. It's as if he wants to savor every thrust he gives you while with his hands he now massages your breasts. "I like feeling you inside me, Hanno," you murmur between thrusts. He kisses your back, while his hands guide your waist, helping with the movements. It doesn't take long before you feel Hanno melt inside you, with intensity. There is a pleasant pleasure in feeling it like this, still inside you. He kisses your neck and then helps you turn to face him.

"And I feel like I could die satisfied if I were inside you, healer," he murmurs, his hands wrapping around your neck as he pulls you into another kiss. Your eyes flutter shut, lost in the sensation of his strong arms holding your bare body against his. His lips claim yours with a lingering intensity, the kiss stretching on until he finally breaks away, trailing his mouth across your cheek and down your neck. The soft, teasing caress makes you smile—something tender amidst the fervor. Then, with commanding ease, he grips your waist, his touch deliberate as his fingers glide over the curve of your backside. You are still trembling with sensitivity, yet instinct tells you this bath with Hanno is far from over.

SIX (+18)

You fell asleep with Lucius still inside you. He had carried you to his cell, holding you in his arms as if you weighed nothing. You do not remember exactly when sleep claimed you, only that now you are waking, still enveloped in his embrace. His cock is throbbing for you.

His warmth surrounds you, his steady breath fanning over your skin. The faint scent of him lingers—a mix of sweat, water, and something undeniably his. For a moment, you simply remain there, pressed against him, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing. He appears to be peacefully asleep until you try to pull away from him. He wakes up, you can feel it, his breathing getting heavier. His lips touch your neck, while one of his hands spreads your legs, holding one up and placing the fingers of his other hand touch your clit. Light circular movements on your pussy making it feel wet, biting your lip holding back any sound.

There are no words as you feel him bite your neck as he moves, thrusting his cock into you. You feel your leg go limp as he holds it up, feeling him stimulate you as he thrusts his cock into you. It's slow, sweaty and hot. He licks your neck right above where he bit you while you hold on to his ass, feeling the pleasure of feeling him thrusting his cock in you. You feel his balls slapping against your pussy. You feel your cum running down your leg, soon feeling Hanno grunt close to your ear as he cums inside you.

For a moment, it is as if both of you are trying to catch your breath. Hanno’s hands release your leg gently as he withdraws from you. You climb atop his body, your fingers tracing the lines of his face, brushing over his lips as if memorizing every detail. He takes your fingers into his mouth, sucking them with the same hunger he had shown moments before. Tilting his face to the side, you slide your fingers from his lips, pulling him toward you for another kiss.

"It feels as though the gods are blessing me," he murmurs against your lips.

Your eyes meet his. "What do you mean by that, Hanno?" you ask, shifting slightly atop him, feeling your bodies press together.

"Being with you like this, before I am thrown into that arena, feels like a gift from the gods," he says, cupping your cheeks before placing a brief kiss on your lips.

"Do not fool yourself, Hanno. Even if the gods are blessing you, I am still angry at your recklessness. The gods will not protect you if you act as foolishly as you did before. The emperors will have your head displayed for all of Rome to see. At the very least, they will have your mother’s husband kill you," you warn, your tone grave as you gaze at him.

"Then you need not worry. Next time I wish to kill someone, I will make sure they die," Hanno replies.

You move off him, adjusting yourself to leave. Frustration tightens in your chest—he is playing with fire, and you know he could meet his death in pursuit of vengeance. You do not want Acacius to die, and the thought of Hanno attempting to kill Geta or Caracalla could only end in disaster.

"I can see how tense you are," Hanno remarks as he rises, moving toward you. His hands find your back, his touch firm yet soothing.

"You seem to have a death wish, which makes sense if you are so desperate to reunite with your late wife," you turn to look him in the eye, searching for any trace of his true intentions. Perhaps he truly wishes for death, just to see Arishat again.

"I loved my wife, but I do not want to die, Y/N. If there is one thing I want, it is to live—if possible, by your side," he breathes against your skin before pressing a soft kiss to your neck, his warm breath sending a shiver through you.

You turn and press a soft kiss to Hanno’s lips. You do not know if you will stand by his side in the future, and you have no desire to prolong this conversation.

"Try to stay alive," you say before finishing dressing and leaving. The truth is, you should already be with Emperor Geta. You make your way swiftly to the imperial palace, arriving without delay. Slipping through the corridors, you reach your quarters, feeling an urgent need to cleanse yourself after the events of the night.

There is a designated place near the chambers of Emperors Geta and Caracalla where their companions may bathe. The cool water soothes your body, though a dull ache lingers from the night’s passion. As you dress, the wet strands of your hair brush against your neck, sending a small shiver through you. Despite the soreness, you are undeniably pleased with the night that has passed.

"You deceitful harlot!" The enraged voice of Emperor Caracalla rings out as he storms toward you, gripping a sword in his hand. You barely have time to react before he swings at you. Instinctively, you dodge, heart pounding as you struggle to make sense of what is happening.

"Emperor Caracalla, what are you doing?" you cry out, narrowly avoiding another strike.

"Will you use my brother as you used your husband?" he roars, eyes burning with fury as he lunges again, his blade slicing through the air.

"It takes great courage to accuse someone of a crime you yourself committed, Emperor," you respond, feeling fury rise within you.

"My husband died because he was entangled with you. You took him as your lover, and when you tired of him, you discarded him," you continue, stepping closer despite the risk of being struck. Caracalla's eyes seem unfocused, as though he is somewhere else entirely.

"You never loved him. You have always been a harlot, a whore who lies with men already spoken for, so you may never be bound to anyone," he mutters, stumbling forward, his voice unsteady as he babbles incoherent words.

"Is that what you tell yourself to justify what you have done?" you shout, locking eyes with him. Caracalla looks as though he is on the verge of tears, likely reliving the brutal death of your husband—the spectacle of it, the merciless cruelty.

"What I have done?" Caracalla suddenly begins to laugh, even as tears streak down his face. His laughter grows louder, as though he finds your words amusing.

"You mean, what you have done. You turned Augustus against me—he was mine! I know it was your plan all along, to make him abandon me, forcing my hand so that I would send him to die in the arena. And as if that were not enough, you now lie with the very man who killed him," Caracalla exclaims, lifting his sword toward you.

"I do not know what you are talking about," you reply, lost in confusion. What does he mean? Whom is he speaking of?

"General Marcus Justus Acacius—the man who took you for himself. Did he not tell you? Of course he did not," Caracalla sneers. "But your beloved general was the one truly responsible for your husband's death. Augustus was wounded, but not dead, when he left the arena that day. It was my brother, Emperor Geta, who gave the order for Augustus to be slain. And Acacius… he is the one who saw it done." Caracalla finishes speaking with an air of bitter disappointment, as though it pains him to admit that his own brother ordered the death of the man he loved. A sickening feeling churns in your stomach, as though a dagger has been driven into your very soul. The weight of his words is unbearable. Could it be true?

"Augustus was the best man I ever knew. He saw you, Caracalla, as someone with whom he could be himself. But he knew that by your side, he was doomed. Do not blame me for the fact that he chose me," you say, your voice firm, laced with anger. Acacius or not, Caracalla allowed Augustus to be killed.

You see the fury rise in his eyes before you feel it—his hand striking your face with such force that the taste of blood fills your mouth. Your cheek burns, but before you can react, the cold steel of his sword presses against your neck. You do not move. You are certain this is your end. But then—

"Emperor, if you intend to do anything with that sword, know that it will be the last thing you ever do," a voice cuts through the silence. You recognize it instantly. General Acacius. Looking forward, you see him standing tall, his blade raised, the tip aimed at Caracalla’s back.

"Come to rescue your damsel in distress?" Caracalla sneers, his sword still pointed at you. You feel the blade graze your skin, a sharp sting blooming across your neck.

"You do realize I could have your head for the mere act of threatening to kill me?" he continues, his gaze locked onto yours.

But you cannot respond. Not when Acacius stands before you. Not when the thought that he may have played a role in your husband's death twists like a knife in your chest. It does not seem just. It does not seem real.

"You will have to remain alive to pass judgment on my reckless act, dear Emperor Caracalla," General Acacius replies, his voice steady. Then, his eyes meet yours—eyes that once inspired trust but now hold only uncertainty.

"So be it, General. I shall leave the whore to the murderer of her husband," Caracalla spits before dropping his sword to the ground. As he turns away, he spits at Acacius' face in disdain before striding off.

Moments from now, you will undoubtedly be surrounded by guards eager to avenge their emperor’s humiliation. "Y/N..." Acacius speaks softly, almost tenderly.

"No. Do not say anything," you cut him off, stepping forward and pressing your hand against his lips.

You fear that if he speaks—whether truth or lie—you will be unable to focus on what must be done. Then, without hesitation, you strike him. Your fist collides with his face with all the force you can muster, leaving a gash and a look of utter shock in his eyes.

"By the gods, Y/N!" he exclaims, clearly bewildered.

"Raise your sword against me. When the guards arrive, tell them you saw me and Emperor Caracalla in a confrontation. Say you came to his aid and I attacked you. Emperor Geta has little trust in his brother’s words—use that to your advantage. Arrest me, be the hero. I will craft my own excuse for my dispute with Caracalla." You pick up Acacius’ sword and press the blade against your palm, allowing your blood to stain it.

"What are you scheming?" he asks, his confusion evident. He reaches for your arm, his touch uncharacteristically gentle—but you pull away.

"Saving you. Not that you deserve it, but I will not owe you anything," you answer coldly, bracing yourself for what is to come.

"I cannot let you take this risk for me," Acacius murmurs, hesitating as if torn between duty and something unspoken.

"Do not mistake my actions, General. If I discover that you have lied to me all these years, I will claim your head myself," you declare, your fury unwavering. Acacius does not speak. He does not even attempt to deny it. Then—

"General Acacius!" Emperor Geta's voice roars through the halls. When you take notice, Geta and several guards arrive at the scene. Acacius does as you instructed, pretending to threaten you with his sword.

"What is happening here?" Geta demands, his gaze shifting between you and Acacius.

"Y/N was in a dispute with Emperor Caracalla. I intervened and managed to separate them. The emperor left, claiming he would seek assistance," General Acacius reports, though his expression betrays a hint of unease, as if the words feel wrong even to him.

"Bring chains for the healer. She will spend some time in a cell to reflect on her actions," Geta orders, his voice firm. The guards quickly disperse in search of restraints, leaving only you, Geta, and Acacius.

"General, grant me a moment alone with the healer," Geta instructs, motioning for Acacius to lower his sword. Acacius hesitates, his eyes locking onto yours with something resembling regret.

"As you wish, Emperor Geta," he replies, finally lowering his blade and stepping away—though it is clear that leaving is the last thing he desires. And then, only you and Geta remain.

TO BE CONTINUED...

SEVEN

There is a heaviness in the air as you still wrestle with the confusion of not knowing whether General Acacius has betrayed your trust all these years.

“If you intend to punish me for my disagreement with Emperor Caracalla, know that I am prepared to face the consequences of my actions,” you murmur, eyes cast downward, utterly dejected. You notice the footsteps of Emperor Geta drawing closer. Then, his hands gently lift your face, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Healer, what did my brother do to you?” His words catch you off guard. You had expected him to assume you provoked Caracalla and that punishment was warranted.

“There will always be discord between the Emperor Caracalla and me. Augustus hovers between us like a ghost. Sadly, he is not pleased with my presence here, given all that lies in our past,” you say with a fragile voice, hoping Geta believes that you're weakened by the weight of it all.

His fingers softly graze your cheek before he draws you into his arms, startling you with an unexpected embrace. At first, the closeness feels foreign—you’ve never known him to show such tenderness. Yet you allow yourself to surrender to the warmth of his hold, returning the embrace and clutching his body tightly to yours.

“Augustus has long since departed this world, and the discord born of his memory should have faded with him,” Geta says, his voice low as his lips brush against your shoulder—which, amidst the chaos, had somehow become bare. The warmth of his mouth against your skin is unexpectedly soothing.

“Alas, my brother’s mind is troubled. He is no longer the man he once was.”

He pauses, a hint of worry clouding his expression. “He will not rest until he believes you have been punished for defying him. I must send you to a cell. But if you need—”

Before he can finish, you close the distance and kiss him. A kiss born as much from the need to silence this conversation as from the desire to feel something other than rage. His lips, however, are more eager than you anticipated—hungrier, as though Emperor Geta holds more than a passing interest in you.

“I can look after myself, Emperor. And if you do not object, I believe it is time I face my punishment,” you say, your lips still barely apart from his.

"General Acacius!" Emperor Geta calls out, still holding you in his arms. You wish he hadn’t chosen Acacius to escort you, but deem it unwise to challenge his decision.

General Acacius enters the chamber with precision, his gaze falling upon you and Geta. He seems slightly unsettled—perhaps even jealous—at the sight of your closeness with the emperor.

"What is your will, Emperor?" the general asks, and you notice the chains in his hands, meant for your wrists.

Geta steps away from you and gestures toward Acacius, granting him permission to approach and restrain you. The general wastes no time, fastening the chains without hesitation.

"Take the healer to a cell," Emperor Geta commands. "Tell the guards to treat her gently, but make it clear—she does not leave unless I give the order."

Acacius nods. He appears reluctant to touch you roughly, instead attempting to guide you forward with a soft nudge. You look at him, struggling to suppress the anger boiling within you, but say nothing as you walk away from Emperor Geta.

You move ahead of General Acacius. The silence between you feels like a dagger driven into the space that once held trust. He dares not speak. You sense that any words exchanged now might unleash destruction across Rome.

At last, he lifts you onto his horse and begins the journey toward your confinement.

“I should thank you,” Acacius murmurs as the horse trots forward, “for taking the blame upon yourself.”

With each steady gallop, your hands grip the chains tightly—if only to keep from pushing him off the horse and killing him then and there. Truth be told, you are not certain whether he truly murdered Augustus. Yet something in Caracalla’s words—or in the way Acacius has carried the weight of responsibility for you since your husband's death—makes you believe he may very well be the one who ended Augustus’ life.

"Did it fill you with gratitude to take my husband’s life with your own hands? Or was it by the blade of your sword?" you ask, struggling to believe you are truly accusing Acacius of such an act. The man who had cared for you all these years—the one who had made you feel safe, even if only for a moment.

“I do not take pride in what I have done,” he murmurs, admitting what you so desperately wished he would deny.

A wave of sorrow threatens to overtake you, tears brimming in your eyes. “You killed my husband? Why would you murder your friend—someone you once vowed to protect?” you whisper, your voice tight with emotion, nearly breaking as the grief takes hold of you. A sharp pain blooms in your chest, as if sorrow itself had taken root in your soul.

“Because he asked me to,” Acacius mutters, shattering something deep within you. No—no, it could not be true.

You move instinctively, as if your very body rejects his words, and fall from the horse. Acacius immediately dismounts to help you, but you recoil from his touch, struggling to gather yourself after the fall. Your body aches, but it is your spirit that screams in pain.

“You expect me to believe my husband asked you to kill him?” you speak with contempt, revolted by the very suggestion that Augustus would choose to abandon you.

“He could no longer endure the battles. No matter how hard he tried to stand tall, his body had long begun to reveal what he already knew in his heart. He was dying before our very eyes, Y/N,” Acacius says, once again attempting to draw closer. But you, already on your feet, step away from him.

“How could you?” you whisper, clutching the chains that bind your hands with trembling strength.

“I did it out of love,” General Acacius murmurs, his gaze fixed on you—his longing to close the distance between you evident in his eyes.

“Love?” you echo, as though the very word were foreign—a concept twisted beyond recognition by the betrayal it now represents.

“Augustus always knew I harbored feelings for you,” Acacius confesses, his voice strained, as though the weight of the truth were nearly too heavy to speak aloud. “I tried to bury it when I learned the two of you had wed… but I fear I never truly grasped the depth of it.”

You stare at him, unable to reconcile the man before you with the certainty you once held—that General Acacius had given his heart to Lucilla.

“Are you saying this only to deceive me again?” you ask, your voice laced with bitterness. “Professing some deep affection now, so that I might believe the rest of your tale?”

“I deceived you once,” he says softly, taking a step toward you before lowering himself to his knees. “I will not repeat that mistake.”

“So not only did you kill my husband, but you made me feel shame for believing there was more between us than a fabricated affair to maintain appearances?” The fury you had struggled to contain finally breaks through, lacing your voice with fire. He had deceived you—deceived you even while claiming to love you.

“I cannot express how deeply I hate you in this moment, General Acacius,” you cry, your voice sharp, searing—as though each word scorches the air between you. The truth is, you do not know what you feel. But something inside you demands to rise, and rage surges like a tide.

“This was what I sought to prevent,” he confesses, still on his knees before you, a rare vulnerability exposed in a man who seldom allows any weakness to show. You cannot stop yourself.

Gripping the chains that bind your wrists, you raise your fists and strike him across the face. The blow lands with a dull thud, and Acacius exhales sharply, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“You are a coward!” you cry out, feeling the warmth of his blood trailing over your hands. The gash across his face reveals that your blow landed with more force than you had anticipated. Acacius’s lips tremble as he falters, clearly shaken.

“Yes, I am,” he says, voice hoarse. “I was a coward when I granted a friend’s request years ago without grasping the consequences—and I am a coward now, admitting that a part of me took advantage of the aftermath.”

The way Acacius looks at you now is stripped of all armor—utterly vulnerable. You stare at him, trying to make sense of how the two of you arrived at this moment. The tears come then, a bitter, agonizing weeping that feels like it had long been lodged within you. Still on his knees, Acacius drags himself closer, then clings to your legs as though trying to physically anchor himself to you, to beg silently for the forgiveness he desperately desires.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, gazing up at you as your tears fall freely. The plea in his voice is palpable. But in this moment, nothing he does can draw you toward forgiveness.

“General Acacius, rise—and take me to my cell,” you command, struggling to contain your sobs. Distance is what you need now. Perhaps time apart will bring clarity to your heart… or strength to your fists.

He looks up at you one last time before rising—seeking in your expression the faintest trace of hope for reconciliation. He finds none.

Without a word, he helps you back onto the horse, and then guides you in silence through the streets—toward your prison among the captured gladiators. You do not speak. He does not speak. Truthfully, you would not listen even if he did.

You only realize you have reached your destination when the murmurs of the gladiators reach your ears. Acacius steps forward before returning to the comfort of his home—and the embrace of his wife. Quietly, he removes the chains from your wrists.

“I will return soon… to see if you are well,” he says softly, gently undoing your bonds. You say nothing. You simply look at him—with a hollow, empty stare that seems to strike him harder than any blow could. He says no more. Then, you are led into a cell—

You then collapse to the ground as if your body can bear no more of standing. A tumult of conflicting emotions overwhelms you—guilt for having wounded Acacius, a burning desire for revenge for being deceived, and anger that your husband chose to command Acacius to take his life rather than open his heart to you. So many feelings churn within you that it seems you cannot bear the weight of them all.

Just then, you hear someone enter your cell. "General Acacius, it would be best for your safety that you depart," you say without turning to see who has come in, for you are nearly certain it is Acacius. You know full well that if you do not insist upon his leaving, the discomfort between you will only endure longer.

"I am not General Acacius," Hanno declares, surprising you, "but I am willing to risk my own safety to remain here." He fixes his gaze upon you, as if studying every nuance of your state, while you feel a deep shame for being so utterly broken in his presence.

"You should not be here," you murmur softly, acutely aware of your disheveled condition. Then Hanno stoops toward you, and without further delay, he gathers you into his arms, offering solace without requiring a single word from you.

"I feel that here is exactly where I should be, Y/N," Hanno declares as he draws you into his embrace, allowing you to feel the warmth of his body. He begins by kissing your neck, then your cheek, and finally your lips, holding you with a tenderness that belies the tumult of the day.

"I missed you," you whisper, comforted by the secure hold of his arms. You close your eyes, nestling against the expanse of his chest.

"I do not know what has befallen you, but know this: henceforth, you are mine to care for," he says, pressing a gentle kiss upon the top of your head. And so you remain together, intertwined in that intimate and reassuring embrace.

EIGHT

Your cell feels colder with each passing moment, the light striking the iron bars serving only to remind you of your confinement. The chains around your wrists weigh heavily, a constant reminder that freedom is no longer within reach.

Then you hear the creak of the door opening, and you recognize Hanno. He has returned from yet another brutal trial imposed by the Emperors.

"Hey, guard!" you call out, rushing toward the gladiator, who is so wounded he can barely stand. He leans against you for support, blood staining parts of his skin, his breath labored. The guard who escorted him in watches you with a look of cold indifference.

"He needs care," you say, more composed now, noticing the guard’s displeasure at your tone of command.

"Healer, I know you're used to getting what you want, but orders from above forbid me from assisting your gladiator," the guard replies, beginning to close the door to your cell. But before it shuts, you grip it with desperation.

"Take him to Ravi—I'm useless without supplies!" you plead, your voice nearly breaking as you glance down at Hanno’s battered form.

"Emperor Caracalla has decreed that the gladiators are to be kept without privilege," the guard says, his voice devoid of empathy. Then, with a slight sneer, he adds, "Perhaps you should find someone willing to challenge this order." His implication is clear. He knows exactly who you’d have to turn to and the weight of that unspoken name lingers heavily in the air.

“Keep your gladiator alive long enough,” the guard said sternly before locking the cell behind him.

You sank to the ground beside Hanno, who lay slumped against the cold stone wall, barely conscious. His body was a map of bruises, dried blood clinging to his skin like a second layer. His breath came shallow, uneven.

You reached for him, brushing a trembling hand over his brow, trying to clear away the filth. The weight of your chains clinked with every movement—a cruel reminder of your own captivity. He stirred faintly, and his head came to rest against your shoulder.

“You shouldn't have to suffer because of me,” he whispered. His voice rough and broken, as though each word scraped his throat raw. You closed your eyes, fighting the despair that threatened to consume you.

“And yet here we are,” you whispered back, wrapping your arms around him the best you could, as if the mere act of holding him could protect him from the cruelty of this world.

In that dim, stifling cell, with the scent of iron and dust heavy in the air, you made yourself a silent vow: if the gods had truly abandoned this place, then you would become your own salvation—and his.

“You needn’t speak on my behalf… I know how angry you’ve been with General Acacius since learning what he did,” Hanno murmurs, his voice breaking between groans of pain. He had clearly been pushed to the limits of what any man could endure.

“Shhh… don’t worry about that,” you whisper, taking his battered hand into yours, your fingers gently brushing over torn, raw flesh. His fingertips were bleeding, split open, a testament to the cruelty inflicted on him. Caracalla must be unleashing some hidden wrath upon the gladiators.

“I will not die, don’t worry… I’ll still be standing to bring down your tormentors, one by one,” Hanno mutters, as if delirious. His skin burns with fever, and sweat clings to his body more with each passing moment. He needs care urgently.

“Just focus on staying alive, Hanno,” you whisper, running your fingers gently through his hair, trying to soothe him as your own worry grows.

He leans into you, then presses his lips against the exposed skin of your shoulder. His mouth trails slowly to your neck, his warm breath brushing over your skin. His fingers find the back of your neck, pulling you gently closer until your faces nearly touch.

"How can you be thinking about—" you begin, meaning to scold him for seeking intimacy at a moment like this. But his lips claim yours with a hunger that steals your words. He kisses you with a feverish desperation, as if trying to consume every part of you before time slips away. Heat coils between you, and your breath grows shallow as the kiss deepens, wild and fervent.

“If I die… let it be with your taste on my tongue,” Hanno murmurs against your lips.

You pull back just enough to look at him, torn between fear and frustration. “You just promised me you wouldn’t die,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you try to anchor him to that vow, even as his gaze grows hazy with fever.

You expected a reply, but he only smiled faintly before his eyes closed and his body went limp against yours. There was no consciousness left in Hanno, only the frightening weight of his body pressed to yours. You didn’t move, frozen by the fear of what this stillness could mean. He was dying and you could feel it.

Then, like a cool breeze breaking the suffocating heat, you heard footsteps. Ravi was approaching your cell, flanked by two guards. Without hesitation, they opened the gate and carefully lifted Hanno from your arms.

“General Acacius brought us. Do not worry—we’ll take care of him,” Ravi whispered close to your ear, his hand steadying your arm with quiet reassurance. He kissed your forehead softly, as if promising that your pain would not go unanswered. They moved quickly, taking Hanno away into the shadows. And then you saw him. Acacius.

He stepped toward your cell draped in a mantle, a hood shadowing his face. But as he drew closer, he shed the coverings, revealing himself completely to you. You had held back your tears until now.

“They’ll take care of Hanno,” he said quietly, his voice laden with concern, his eyes locked on yours. You stared at him, uncertain of how to feel, your heart torn between anger and something else.

“You came…” you murmured, disbelief trembling in your voice. You hadn’t truly thought he would risk defying the Emperors to help you.

He stepped nearer, slow and deliberate, until there were only inches between you. His gaze never left yours as he spoke with quiet conviction: “Whenever you need me… I will come for you.”

You look at him, and something inside you feels like it’s betraying you—a feeling that resembles nothing like anger stirs within your chest. As you gaze into Acacius's eyes, you swear you can hear his heartbeat pounding louder, feel it echoing as though it were your own. The sensation is so real, so visceral, as if something alive throbbed deep within you.

You take a step closer. Then, without warning, your hand strikes his face. The sting shoots up your palm, making your fingers tingle. “That’s for deceiving me for so long,” you say, your voice low but firm, justifying the slap even though Acacius doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. He merely stands there, receiving it.

But then, in a rush of emotion you barely understand, you reach for him. Your arms wrap around his frame, confused and trembling, and you pull him into an embrace. “Thank you for coming,” you whisper, your voice cracking as you hold back the tears clawing their way to the surface, begging to be released.

“It may not seem so because of my many failings, but I would die for you,” General Acacius says softly, holding you tightly in his arms. And for the first time, his words ring with a certainty that shakes you. What you are about to propose could very well lead both of you to death.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it, Acacius,” you murmur, feeling his breath warm against your neck, the two of you still locked in an embrace.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes, searching for something there. “Do you want me to prove it beyond disobeying a direct order from one of Rome’s emperors?” he asks, his voice low, intense.

“I want him dead, Acacius,” you confess. “And part of me—the part that still resents everything you’ve done to me—is selfish enough to ask you to help me do it.”

You nearly falter, the weight of your words sinking in. The very thought of killing an emperor—especially one as volatile as Caracalla—is treason in its purest form.

“You could die for this,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “We could both die.”

Acacius watches you for a few quiet moments, then gently wipes away the tears you hadn’t even noticed falling. His fingers caress your face with reverence, and his lips press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, wordless, but full of meaning. Then, with deliberate tenderness, he takes your hands and kisses them, as though he were surrendering himself to you entirely. As if you were something sacred. As if you were his goddess.

“There is no nobler death than one for the sake of those we love,” he whispers, brushing a final kiss to the corner of your lips.

A storm brews inside you. A tightening in your chest. Some part of you knows this may well be the end for both of you.

“And Lucilla?” you ask, your voice barely audible as your eyes lock with his. His gaze, those deep brown eyes, do not waver.

“We said our goodbyes—not just to each other, but to what we were,” Acacius replies, his tone calm, resolved. “My wife already senses what lies ahead for her husband. It was only right we free one another from our vows, now that my survival is… uncertain.” He says it with a strange serenity, as though he has already made peace with death.

"Who would have thought," you whisper bitterly, your voice low and distant, "that you would finally walk toward me only when death loomed as our fate. Not even in my most fevered dreams did I imagine this would be our end."

You already know—going after an emperor like Caracalla means death. It's a curse you've accepted. But what choice remains? Wait for him to grow tired of torturing gladiators? Wait until his madness no longer finds use in tormenting you?

"And what of Lucius? Or rather… Hanno?" Acacius asks, and your mind turns immediately to the man whose presence steadied you, whose pain has already cost you too much.

"Hanno matters far too much," you reply solemnly. "He is Rome’s promised future. Let him rise to fulfill that destiny. He need not stain his hands with the fall of Caracalla and Geta."

The thought wounds you. Keeping Hanno in the dark feels like betrayal but to involve him is to risk losing him. That is something you cannot bear.

"You know I can do this alone," Acacius offers. "Spare you—" You silence him by pressing your hand over his lips, staring deep into his eyes. "You would die in vain. And you owe me your life, General. So die beside me, or save yourself the effort. Now help me begin."

At your signal, he hesitates, puzzled—but positions himself behind you. His hands brace you instinctively. And without another word, you throw your head forward, smashing it hard against the iron bars of your cell.

“What are you planning, Y/N?” General Acacius asks as he steadies you, his hands firm around your waist after you deliberately struck your head against the bars of your cell. You feel something warm and thick trickling down your forehead—blood. The dizziness is immediate, but you remain upright with his support.

“I need to manipulate Geta,” you say through gritted teeth, blinking through the haze. Acacius narrows his eyes, understanding your intent, though the concern in his expression nearly unsettles you.

“He must believe Caracalla seeks to harm me, not just the gladiators. You must take me to him,” you insist, slipping from his hold, slowly regaining your composure. He looks at you, almost astonished.

“You truly believe you hold that much sway over Emperor Geta?” Acacius asks, a touch of disbelief in his tone.

“Don’t be foolish,” you reply coldly. “This isn’t about affection, it’s about planting doubt. If he believes his brother’s mind is slipping, he’ll start to question him. That makes him easier to bend.” Acacius studies you, the gravity of your plan settling between you both.

“In the meantime,” you continue, voice low and steady, “gather every man you trust. Every soul who sees truth beyond titles. Use Lucius. His mere existence will make them listen.”

You pause, the weight of what you’re suggesting pressing down on your conscience. But there is no room for hesitation now. “This is no longer about vengeance. It’s about saving Rome from those who would see it crumble from within.”

"I will do my best to serve your plan—but do not lie to me. This is still about Augustus, about avenging what happened to him," Acacius says, his voice firm, as though he knows your resolve better than you do. If not for the Emperors, your husband would still be alive. But what unsettles you most is the thought that you may be willing to risk Acacius's life for the same reason—for vengeance. And yet, to reduce your feelings for Acacius to mere revenge would be a disservice to all that lies between you.

“If you know me so well, then guess my next move,” you say, stepping closer to him, daring him to read your mind. Without warning, you pull the dagger from his belt and extend it toward him—offering it with intention. You want him to hurt you.

"This is a foolish idea," General Acacius says, his eyes filled with dread, as though wounding you would shatter what remains between you. You take his hands and guide them to the dagger, still pressed between you both.

"One of many foolish ideas we’ll share—if fate allows it," you murmur, locking eyes with him before you lean into the blade, placing your life in his hands. "Don’t make me beg for this."

He hesitates, still unable to bring himself to hurt you. So you reach up, your fingers trailing along the contours of his face, down to his lips, where they linger as if rediscovering a truth buried beneath pain.

"Don't ask this of me," he whispers, eyes closing beneath your touch—revealing that you still hold power over the mighty General Acacius.

"It must look like someone else did this to me. Don't fail me again," you breathe, inching even closer to him.

His eyes open—dark, resolved. And then you feel it: the cold bite of the blade as it pierces your abdomen. The pain is sharp, but shallow. He tries to pull away, to stop before it becomes dangerous, but you grab his hand and press forward into the blade. A muffled gasp of agony escapes your lips as you cling to him, resting your head on his shoulder, enduring the burning pain.

He kisses your forehead gently. “This will hurt.”

You silence him with a kiss—intense, desperate—focusing on the warmth of his lips to drown out the pain. When the kiss ends, he pulls the blade free. Your hand flies to your wound, blood spilling beneath your fingers.

"Now take me to Geta," you whisper, your strength already beginning to slip away. You only hope the price you’ve paid will be enough.