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Rome

45 A.D.

The villa hummed with quiet life, the faint murmur of voices from the upper chambers, the flap of linen in the breeze, the distant giggle of children. Amaranthine’s hands moved instinctively, sweeping the marble floor with quick, efficient strokes. Her body knew this rhythm well, though she couldn’t recall ever learning it. The sun poured in past the columns, dappling her skin with gold, but its warmth didn’t reach the hollowness inside her. She paused, watching as the children—Aurelia and Lucius—darted through the courtyard, their laughter like birdsong.

            For a moment, she let herself listen to that laughter and wondered what it would be like to feel that unburdened. To run, to play, to chase the light without a care for the shadows. But she couldn’t remember if she’d ever been like them, carefree and filled with the world’s endless possibilities. Her past was a fog, an endless stretch of nothingness that she could not penetrate. It was only now that she existed, in this villa, in this moment.

            She set down the broom and stood still for a long time, her gaze drifting across the courtyard until it landed on the figure at the far end. He was there again, leaning against the archway with the same casual arrogance he’d had the last time she saw him. His eyes, dark and sharp, traced the space between them, and Amaranthine’s heart beat faster. She knew who he was—one of the cousins, visiting for a few weeks. His name floated just out of reach, but it didn’t matter. It was his presence that mattered. His presence and the way he looked at her, as if he could see something hidden beneath the surface, something she hadn’t yet uncovered herself. And then his name floated up from the depths of her mind, beautiful like poetry upon her tongue; Marcellus.

            Amaranthine’s fingers twitched by her side, betraying the stillness of her posture. She had spent her days wrapped in the quiet routines of the villa, the tasks so small, so predictable, that she’d almost believed herself invisible. But when Marcellus looked at her, she felt herself unravel. There was an invitation in his eyes, a challenge wrapped in dark curiosity, and she found herself unsure whether she wanted to turn away or step forward, closer to whatever unknown waited in that gaze.

            Marcellus straightened from his lean against the archway, the lazy elegance of his movement drawing her in further. He hadn’t spoken to her yet, not directly, but there was a thread that wove between them ever since his first arrival. It was dangerous, this game they played without words. She could feel it in the pit of her stomach, a low thrum of something like fear—no, not fear, something deeper, as though she were standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable. He took a step toward her, his expression flickering behind the ease of his smile.

            “I’ve seen you here before,” he says, his voice low. The words stretched across the courtyard as though meant for her alone. She’d watched him from the corner of her eye for weeks but hearing him speak felt like breaking the surface of water after holding her breath too long. Amaranthine’s lips parted, the instinct to respond quick and simple, but instead she found herself locked in place, caught in a silence that felt too revealing, too fragile. He smiled, and a small pulse of recklessness responded, helping her forget for a moment the weight of her life here. “You’re always watching,” he added, the edge of a tease in his voice.

            Amaranthine’s cheeks flushed and she smiled—a soft, shy thing she felt immediately foolish for. She pressed her lips together, trying to stifle the expression, but the warmth remained, coloring her face. She struggled to think of something, anything, to say in response. The way his presence filled the space between them left her fumbling.

            Before she could gather herself, Aurelia tugged at her sleeve. “We’re thirsty,” the little girl announced, with the certainty only a child could have in such a moment. Lucius, the younger of the two, nodded vigorously, eyes wide. Grateful for the interruption, Amaranthine quickly turned her attention to the children. “Of course,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. She threw one last glance in Marcellus’ direction—he was still watching her, a knowing smile playing on his lips—before hurrying toward the kitchen.

            She returned a few moments later with a cup of posca, the watered-down vinegar drink common in the household. The children eagerly shared it before dashing off to chase each other once more, leaving Amaranthine standing alone again. She smiled at their carefree joy, until a familiar shadow crossed her peripheral vision. Marcellus had moved closer, lingering at the edge of the courtyard.

            “I didn’t mean to scare you off,” he said. “You’ve been quiet, but I’d like to hear your voice. What’s your name?”

            Amaranthine’s fingers tightened around the empty cup in her hands, the warmth of her earlier embarrassment still clinging to her skin. She glanced up at Marcellus, his presence feeling heavier now that he was so near. Her name—it should’ve been an easy answer. It was a simple thing to give, but the moment his question reached her, it felt as if the very air around her shifted, a reminder that she didn’t truly know who she was. Amaranthine. That was the name the family called her when she’d found herself in their home. It was the only word she had to hold onto in the strange emptiness of her memory.

            “Amaranthine,” she finally said. It felt unfamiliar on her tongue, even after all these months, like a word borrowed from another’s life. She looked down, embarrassed again, unsure if her name sounded odd to him, a name without the history or lineage so valued in families like his.

            Marcellus tilted his head, his smile softening. “Amaranthine,” he repeated, as if testing it out for himself. “It suits you and your golden hair.” His hand moved as if to touch it but then he pulled it back to his chest. He stepped a little closer, and she felt her breath catch. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but you always seem so far away.” His words made her heart race. She wasn’t used to being the center of attention—certainly not from someone like him. “Do you always keep your distance, or is it just with me?” he teased lightly, though his gaze stayed steady on her, curious, expectant.

            Amaranthine swallowed, her gaze flickering between the ground and his face, caught between wanting to answer and the sudden awareness that every word might reveal too much. Keeping her distance—yes, that felt safe, even necessary. She’d grown used to being invisible, slipping unnoticed through the household, always watching but never seen. It was easier that way, less complicated. But now, with Marcellus standing so close, his attention fully on her, the rules seemed different.

            “I don’t mean to,” she said quietly. Her thumb traced the rim of the cup nervously, an excuse to look away. “I just… I don’t always know what to say.” The admission felt both too small and too large. When she glanced up, the teasing in his eyes was replaced by something she couldn’t quite name.

            “Well,” he said after a long pause, his voice quieter now, “you don’t have to say much. I think I understand.” He took a step closer, and the space between them felt impossibly small. “Sometimes words just get in the way.” His hand brushed hers lightly, almost accidentally, but the touch sent a shiver up her spine. She felt that pull again, the one she couldn’t explain, a strange tension just under her skin, like a spark waiting to ignite. “You don’t have to hide, Amaranthine,” he added softly, as if the world outside the villa wasn’t filled with responsibilities or arranged marriages or whatever it was that kept them apart. As if, in this moment, it was just the two of them.

            She knew what he would ask before he said it, and a part of her—the cautious, responsible part—wanted to turn away. But then there was the other part of her, the one that always stirred when she saw him. That part wanted more than this life of errands and duties. It wanted to feel something real, something hers.

            “Meet me tonight,” Marcellus said while his eyes searched hers. “After the household is asleep. We’ll slip away—just for a little while.” His hand brushed hers again, lingering just long enough to make her breath catch. “No one will notice. I’ll wait by the olive trees, where we won’t be seen. What do you say?”

            She hesitated, her logical side reminded her of the risks, the rules she’d been taught not to break. But those warnings felt distant and thin beneath his gaze. She nodded, the answer bubbling up from somewhere deep in her chest. “I’ll come,” she whispered, the words soft but final. She had crossed some invisible threshold, and there was no going back.

            Marcellus smiled, that dangerous, intoxicating smile that made her feel like anything was possible. “Good,” he said, his voice low and full of promise. “I’ll be waiting.”

            The hours that followed dragged like sand slipping through clenched fingers. Amaranthine moved through her tasks in a daze, her mind elsewhere—already in the darkness of the night, beneath the olive trees, with Marcellus. Her hands trembled when she poured water or folded linens. She stole glances at the sun sinking lower in the sky, willing it to set faster, her impatience pressing against her skin.

            As evening came, the villa quieted. The household settled into the rhythms of sleep, the pregnant mother resting early, the children finally tucked away in their beds. Amaranthine lay under the thin blanket in her small, simple room, her heart pounding in the silence. Each passing moment felt like a decision—stay, where she was safe, where the rules kept her invisible, or go, and step into something unknown, something dangerous.

            For what felt like an eternity, she lay there, staring at the ceiling, summoning the courage to move. The house was still now, the only sound the distant moan of the wind outside. Finally, she couldn’t bear it any longer. She slipped from her bed, her breath held tight in her chest as she crept to the door. Every step felt like a betrayal, a thrill that shot through her veins, sharp and sweet. She moved through the hallways, past the sleeping forms of the villa’s other servants, her bare feet silent against the cool stone floors. The night air greeted her with a soft chill as she stepped outside, the stars winking above, bright and indifferent to the quiet rebellion she was about to commit.

            The olive trees stood like shadows in the distance, swaying in the night breeze. Amaranthine’s steps were cautious, her eyes scanning the darkness, but as she reached the edge of the grove, there was no sign of him. Her breath hitched in her throat, a sudden pang of doubt freezing her where she stood. Had she waited too long? Her heart sank as she looked around. She’d been foolish to think this was possible, that someone like her could step outside the boundaries of her life, if only for a moment.

            But then Marcellus stepped forward, his form emerging from the darkness and appearing in front of her like a dream. His smile was slow, knowing, and when his eyes met hers, she felt that rush all over again, more powerful this time for the waiting.

            “I thought you might change your mind,” he said, his voice cutting through the night.

            Amaranthine exhaled, the tension leaving her body in a soft, trembling breath. “I almost did,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but then she smiled, feeling the same reckless pull that had brought her here. “But I’m here.”

            Marcellus took her hand, his touch warm, and without a word he led her deeper into the olive grove. The trees closed in around them and the world outside the grove disappeared, leaving only the two of them beneath the cover of night. The air smelled faintly of the earth and the lingering sweetness of ripening fruit, but all Amaranthine could focus on was the heat of his hand against hers, the certainty in his steps as he drew her farther away from the villa, away from everything she knew.

            When he stopped, she nearly stumbled, caught off guard by the sudden stillness. Marcellus turned to face her, his gaze sweeping over her with an intensity that made her catch her breath. His eyes roamed her face, her body, lingering as though his look could somehow touch her skin. It wasn’t just a glance; it was deeper, heavier.

            Slowly, deliberately, Marcellus ran his fingers up her arm, light as a breeze. The touch sent a shiver down her spine, thrilling and delicate all at once. His hand traveled over her shoulder, warm and sure, before brushing against her neck, where her pulse raced beneath his fingertips. He cupped her face, his thumb grazing her cheek as his other hand slid into her hair, gently cradling the back of her neck. The closeness of him—his soft breath against her skin, his scent unfamiliar and intoxicating—made her dizzy.

            When he pressed his body against hers, she didn’t hesitate. Amaranthine’s arms wrapped around him as though it was the most natural thing in the world, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. She could feel the heat of him through the thin cloth, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the thrilling, terrifying anticipation that hovered in the air between them. He leaned in, his lips so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath, and her body instinctively tilted forward, closing the last distance between them.

            The kiss began softly, their lips brushing with a delicate hesitance, as though both of them were testing the boundaries of something new. It was sweet, tender, like a whispered secret exchanged in the dark. Amaranthine’s heart fluttered, the warmth of his mouth against hers sending gentle waves of pleasure through her body. Her hands tightened their grip on his tunic, pulling him closer, and for a moment, everything else faded away—her worries, her fears, even the nagging sense of not belonging. Here, in this kiss, she felt connected, as though they shared something deeper than words.

            Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the kiss deepened. Marcellus’ arms wrapped around her waist, his hands pressing her closer, and the softness between them gave way to something more intense, more urgent. Passion overtook them both, their lips moving with a fervor that surprised her. Amaranthine had never kissed anyone before, but she felt as though she’d always known how, the way their mouths fit together, the way their breaths mingled in the cool night air. Her heart pounded faster, and a strange heat pooled in her chest, spreading through her veins in a way that made her feel alive.

            Then something within her awoke. At first, she didn’t recognize it, mistaking the growing intensity for the natural progression of a kiss. There was a pull, a sensation inside her, almost like the drawing of breath, but deeper, fuller. She thought it was part of the magic of kissing, the way it could make someone feel as though they were floating, untethered from everything. No wonder people kiss, she thought, her mind hazy with the thrill of it. It’s wonderful. She let the sensation sweep over her, unaware of what she was truly doing. But then, after a moment, she noticed something different. Their lips had stopped moving. The rhythm they had found, the tender push and pull, had stilled.

            Amaranthine opened her eyes, confused, and pulled back. Her breath caught in her throat. Marcellus staggered away from her, his face ashen, his once bright eyes dull and clouded. He looked gaunt, hollow, as though something had been drained from him. His skin sagged against the bones of his cheeks, and before her eyes, he aged—twenty years, maybe more—his youthful vibrance withering into something frail and brittle. He gasped, his hands reaching out toward her as though for help, but no words came. Then, with a final shuddering breath, Marcellus crumpled to the ground, motionless.

            The world around her seemed to tilt, the ground beneath her feet suddenly unsteady as she stared at Marcellus’ lifeless body. Her chest tightened, a wild panic rising inside her, but she couldn’t move. Her legs felt rooted to the spot, her mind unable to comprehend what had just happened. Only moments ago, they had been so close—he had been so alive. Now, the boy who had held her in his arms, who had smiled at her like she was a secret worth keeping, lay motionless at her feet, his face hollow and pale, drained of life.

            Amaranthine’s breath came in short, shallow bursts. She knelt beside him, her trembling fingers hovering over his face, unsure whether to touch him, to wake him, to fix whatever had gone wrong.

            “Marcellus,” she whispered, her voice cracking as shook him gently. “Marcellus, wake up.” Her hands were trembling too much to stop, her fingers brushing his cold skin. His eyes were still open, staring up at the sky, blank and empty. She pulled her hand back, startled by the chill of his flesh, her stomach turning with a nauseating mixture of guilt and confusion.

            This couldn’t be real. It didn’t make sense. A kiss couldn’t do this—she couldn’t do this. But her mind returned to the strange pull she’d felt, the way his warmth had seemed to flow into her, filling her up with something that had felt so good, so right, at the time. And now, here he was, his youth stolen in a way she couldn’t explain. She pressed her hand against her chest, where her heart pounded violently. What have I done? she thought, panic tightening its grip around her throat. The world had splintered around her, and the only thing left was this horrible, impossible truth: she had stolen something from him. Something vital. And now, he was dead.

            She staggered back, eyes darting around the grove as though the shadows could offer her an answer. But the olive trees swayed in the breeze, indifferent to her horror, their dark shapes hovering over Marcellus’ still form. No one was coming to help. No one could undo what had just happened. A sob caught in her throat, and she swallowed it down. There was no time to cry. The villa would wake soon, and when they discovered he was missing, they would search for him. They would find him, and they would know. Amaranthine couldn’t stay. She had to get away—now.

            Her legs carried her before her mind could catch up. Amaranthine fled the olive grove, the cool night air rushing past her as her bare feet hit the ground in desperate, hurried strides. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. The image of Marcellus, gaunt and lifeless, burned into her mind as if carved there, a ghost that would haunt her every step. Her heart pounded, the sound of her own pulse roaring in her ears as she ran through the shadows, the villa looming ahead like some distant sanctuary that felt both too close and too far away.

            When she reached the side entrance, her breath came in ragged, uneven bursts. She paused only for a moment to clean her feet, dirt-streaked and betraying the wildness of her escape. She used a broom to swipe the soil away, bristles hard against her skin. The villa was still, silent in its slumber. She slipped inside, creeping back through the dimly lit halls, her heart thudding in time with each step. Reaching her small room, she closed the door behind her as quietly as she could, though the latch echoed like a hammer in the silence.

            Amaranthine crawled into bed, pulling the blanket over her as though it could shield her from the terrible truth of what had happened. But the moment her head touched the pillow, grief hit her like a wave. Her body shook and she pressed her hands over her mouth to muffle the sobs that threatened to spill out. She could still feel his lips on hers, still feel the warmth of his touch before it had turned cold. The memory of his eyes, once so full of life, now empty, hollow—her fault. She wept silently into the darkness, her body curling in on itself, hiding from the horror that lingered just outside her door. But even as her tears flowed, exhaustion weighed her down, and her sobs faded into quiet gasps until, at last, she slipped into a fitful, broken sleep.