wheretheforgottenthingslive

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

To Rival A King: The First Fracture

Bactria – 329 BCE

The wind howled over the cliffs of the Hindu Kush, fierce and dry. Alexander’s army, now leaner but sharper from years of war, camped in the shadow of the mountains. The men were weary. Even the gods felt distant in this land of stone and silence.

Thaleia hadn’t spoken to him in weeks.

She still rode at the head of her unit. Still bled for him, for Macedon, for the ghosts they carried. But she came to his war councils only when summoned. And when she spoke, it was only of tactics—not of cities, not of gods, not of them.

The night she came to his tent again, it was not with warmth in her eyes.

It was hunger.

She pushed him down onto the furs, tore at the laces of his tunic, and kissed him with bruising force. He responded like a man drowning.

They undressed without ceremony. No teasing. No lingering glances. Just skin, heat, friction. She straddled him, back arched, her hands on his chest like she was trying to break into his ribcage.

He pulled her down, buried his mouth in her throat, whispered her name like a wound.

She didn’t say his back.

Not once.

Afterward, they lay apart.

The fire crackled between them, casting red shadows across the tent walls. Her breathing slowed. His did not.

He turned his head. “That wasn’t love.”

She didn’t move. “No. It wasn’t.”

“You used me.”

She looked at him now. Her eyes were clear, cool, without apology. “And you didn’t use me?”

“I never used you.”

“Then what do you call building cities with my name on the gate and rage in your chest when I won’t kneel?”

He sat up. “I’ve given you everything.”

“And I never asked for it.”

She rose, bare feet on the rug, the outline of bruises already forming along her hips. “You gave me power like a man tossing gold at a dancer. You love me like I’m a war to be won.”

He stood too, his voice sharp. “You are a war. The one I can’t stop fighting.”

They stared at each other, naked and aching.

Then she said, softer than before, “And one day you’ll conquer me—and find you’ve lost yourself in the process.”

She began to dress.

He didn’t stop her.

The next morning, she was gone before sunrise.

No note. No farewell. Only the dent in the furs where she had slept, and the faint scent of iron and skin.

Hephaestion entered a short while later and found Alexander staring at the cold fire.

“She was here,” Hephaestion said.

Alexander nodded once.

“Is it over?”

Alexander didn’t answer.

But the silence said yes.

That evening, when he addressed the army, Thaleia stood at the back of the ranks, flanked by her own men.

He didn’t look at her.

And she didn’t look away.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

To Rival A King: The Heir and the Heretic

Ecbatana – 330 BCE

Her father’s body arrived wrapped in a bloodstained standard.

General Nikandros, veteran of Chaeronea, hero of Macedon, and Thaleia’s father, had died far from the eyes of his king or daughter—ambushed in a mountain pass while leading a supply caravan westward.

The report was clean. The grief, less so.

Alexander received the message first and kept it to himself for an hour before sending for her. She entered his tent unarmored, her tunic still damp from a morning ride. She took one look at his face and knew.

“Which pass?” she asked, flat.

“Sangaros,” he said. “They left nothing behind.”

She didn’t sit. Didn’t weep. Only nodded.

“Did he die well?”

Alexander hesitated. “He died Macedonian.”

Thaleia scoffed quietly. “Which means alone, ignored, and unburied.”

Alexander stepped toward her. “He was honored. I will ensure—”

“I don’t want your assurances,” she cut in, voice low and sharp. “He was loyal. He fought for you. He never asked for glory. And now you’ll name a street after him and pretend it’s enough.”

“It’s more than most men get.”

“I am not most men’s daughter.”

Silence stretched. She turned, but before she could leave, he said it.

“I want to give you a satrapy.”

She stopped mid-step.

“You what?”

“A province. Your father’s rank, transferred to you. In your name. You command it. Rule it. As a queen, if you wish.”

She turned slowly, incredulous. “You’re offering me a crown.”

“Yes.”

“Because my father died?”

“Because you’ve earned it.”

“No.” Her voice sharpened. “Because you think it will tame me.”

Alexander said nothing.

She stepped closer. “You want me caged in marble halls and silk drapes, issuing orders over scrolls instead of steel.”

“I want you safe,” he said. “I want to know I won’t turn around one day to find your body in the dirt like his.”

Her face changed then—not anger, not pride. Something more dangerous.

Pity.

“You don’t get to protect me, Alexander. Not from war. Not from death. And especially not from yourself.”

“I love you,” he said.

She froze.

He had never said it before. Not in campfire whispers, not in battlefield silences, not even after they’d shared heat, blood, breath.

“I love you,” he said again. “And I am offering you power, not chains.”

She came close, her voice a blade at his throat.

“Then why does it feel like surrender?”

He reached for her hand, but she stepped back.

“I am not Roxana,” she whispered. “I will not sit beside your throne to prove you are generous.”

“And I am not offering you that.”

“Then what?”

He looked at her, hollow with wanting.

“A future.”

She nodded once.

Then walked away.

---

She did not accept the satrapy. She returned to the front.

When word came that she'd personally executed the Persian noble responsible for her father’s death, Alexander sent no letter.

He only closed his eyes and whispered her name like a prayer. Or a curse.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

To Rival A King: The Lion and the Flame

Gaugamela – 331 BCE

The battle should have broken them both.

Alexander's forces were outnumbered five to one. The Persian lines stretched across the horizon like an ocean of iron, and yet he had not hesitated.

He’d positioned the cavalry himself, sent Hephaestion to the right flank, kept Thaleia close at the center—not out of favoritism, but calculation. She was the sword he never dropped, the chaos he needed to tip the balance.

And she had delivered.

With a yell that shook the air, she led her riders into a wedge that shattered the Persian left. She cleaved through nobles like wheat, her blade soaked, her face blood-slicked and terrifying. Her horse took an arrow to the neck, but she fought on foot, screaming his name—not to praise him, but to remind him she was his equal, and he’d better win.

When the battle ended, Darius was gone. His army, in ruins.

And Alexander stood in the center of the plain, armor dented, cape torn, chest heaving—and saw her.

She walked toward him, limping, dirt-caked, jaw bruised. One eye swollen nearly shut. But alive.

So alive.

He met her halfway.

No crown. No generals. No guards.

Just Alexander. Just Thaleia.

They stopped inches apart.

“You should be dead,” he said, his voice gravel.

“So should you.”

He reached for her cheek but paused when she winced.

“Let me see,” he murmured, fingers ghosting over the edge of her jaw. She flinched when he touched a split in her lip.

She grabbed his wrist—not to stop him, but to hold him there.

“You fought like a god,” she said, quietly. “Like you were trying to prove something.”

“I was.”

“To me?”

He didn’t answer.

Her grip on his wrist tightened.

“You never had to, Alexander,” she whispered. “You already have me.”

It was the first time she said anything close to surrender.

He kissed her.

Hard. Desperate. Years of withheld fury and hunger poured into the space between them. He pressed her back against a jagged outcrop of stone, hands clutching her hips, her tunic hitched, his mouth on her neck like a man possessed.

She kissed him back with the same heat she fought with. She bit his lip. She clawed at his back. When he tried to slow, she growled against his mouth.

“Don’t pretend to be gentle. Not with me.”

He pushed her against the rock and took her there—fast, rough, wordless. The kind of claiming that wasn’t about power but release. Both of them torn open and bleeding in their own ways, desperate to remember they were alive.

When it was over, he rested his forehead against hers, breath shuddering.

“I should’ve done that years ago,” he said.

“You weren’t ready,” she replied, voice hoarse.

“You still don’t kneel,” he murmured.

“I never will.”

And he smiled.

---

Later that night, the camp buzzed with victory. Drunken cheers, campfires, the clang of goblets and weapons. But Alexander stayed away from the celebration.

He sat with her beneath the stars, on a hill above the battlefield. She leaned against him—not as a lover, not as a subject. As something stranger. Closer.

“You named a city for me,” she said.

“I’d name a hundred.”

“I still won’t be your wife.”

“I know.”

She turned her head to him. “But you can have me. Like this. On the edge of war.”

He reached for her hand and laced his fingers with hers.

“It’s the only way I’ve ever wanted you.”

She smiled, tired but radiant.

And together, they watched the fires of a world they'd broken—and begun to rebuild.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

To Rival A King: Fever of Egypt

Siwa Oasis, Western Desert – 331 BCE

The desert stretched like bone in every direction. Even the sun seemed uncertain here—bloated and bruised in a sky too big for gods or kings. The sand whispered secrets none could decipher, and Alexander pressed forward, seeking answers no man had any right to demand.

Thaleia watched him from a distance.

He hadn’t invited her to the Oracle of Ammon. She came anyway.

She rode behind the royal guard, swathed in linen, her sword wrapped in cloth to prevent it from blistering in the heat. Dust crusted her skin. Sweat stung her eyes. She did not complain.

When they reached Siwa, the priests greeted Alexander like a star returned to the earth. He entered the temple alone.

Thaleia did not ask what happened inside.

She didn’t need to.

He emerged changed.

Something in his face had shifted—not arrogance, not madness—something more terrifying: certainty.

That night, the desert air was cool, the wind whispering between palm fronds and sandstone.

Thaleia stood beside the shallow spring near their tents, washing the grit from her arms. The moon was pale, like it too feared what Alexander had become.

She heard his footsteps before she saw him.

He didn’t announce himself. He never had to.

“You followed me,” he said.

“I’ve always followed you,” she replied, not turning around. “Just never from behind.”

He stepped closer.

“They called me the son of a god,” he said. “Do you believe it?”

She looked at him now, really looked. His face was leaner, darker from sun and war, but those eyes… still aflame with the same boyish hunger he’d never outrun.

“I believe they told you what you wanted to hear.”

“And what do you think I am?”

“Lonely,” she said. “And dangerous.”

He didn’t flinch.

She turned back to the water, trailing her fingers through it. “You asked a question no man should ask. You’ll never be able to unknow the answer.”

“I don’t want to forget,” he said, stepping behind her. “I want to be remembered.”

She could feel him, his breath near her ear, his hands ghosting her waist. “Even if I become a myth.”

“I don’t fuck myths, Alexander,” she whispered.

He gripped her arm—not roughly, but with the pressure of a man who needed to anchor himself to something real.

“Then what are we?”

Her body tensed.

“We are a war,” she said. “And you keep losing ground.”

Their mouths met like a clash of blades.

There was nothing soft, nothing slow. He kissed her as if she were water and he was dying. She kissed him like she might never again.

Hands gripped. Teeth grazed. Sand scratched. Their hunger had no poetry, only purpose.

And then she pulled away, breath ragged, face flushed.

“No,” she said.

He stared, stunned.

“No?” he repeated.

“I want you when you’re you, not when you’re pretending to be divine.”

She stood, chest heaving, and looked down at him on his knees in the sand.

“I’ll sleep with a man,” she said. “Not a monument.”

And she walked away, leaving him in the desert—not rejected, but denied something worse:

Worship.

The next day, Alexander addressed his generals as if nothing had happened.

He wore white, spoke of destiny, and smiled like the sun had anointed him.

But all day, he kept glancing toward the horizon, where Thaleia had already disappeared.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

To Rival A King: Cities & Silences

Asia Minor – 333 BCE

The city rose on the banks of a river too stubborn to follow the sea.

A small fortress at first—barely worth notice—until Alexander ordered it renamed, rebuilt, and surrounded with fresh stone and silver coin. Architects were summoned. Roads laid. Temples mapped.

And at its center, a single marble arch was raised.

Etched into the white stone: THALEIA

No titles. No lineage. Just her name, bold and defiant.

When the soldiers heard of it, they were impressed. When the generals heard, they nodded with political approval.

When Thaleia heard, she laughed.

“Is this a bribe?” she asked him that night, stepping into his tent without being announced, as she always did.

He was alone, sharpening a blade with rhythmic calm.

“No,” he said.

“A monument to your favorite general?”

“No.”

“A message to future queens?”

That made him pause. “What message?”

“That even they won’t rival me.”

He looked at her then—really looked. Her hair was half-washed of dust, still damp. Her jaw bruised from a fall in the last skirmish. She had never looked more like herself.

“It was a gift,” he said quietly.

Her eyes flicked to his hands, then to the scrolls on the table. Maps. Plans. Expansion routes. A world carved into parcels waiting for his name—or hers.

“You can’t buy me with stone and flattery, Alexander.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

She came closer.

“You name cities after things you want to keep,” she said. “Your horse. Your mother. Your ambition.”

He waited.

“So why me?”

“Because I want to remember,” he said, softer now. “Even if you vanish.”

For the first time in weeks, she didn’t smile. She didn’t mock.

She looked down at the map, then up at him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “I just refuse to be what you think you love.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Then tell me what you are.”

“I’m your equal,” she said. “Your mistake. Your obsession. But not your conquest.”

Then she turned, and left him with the map of the world—and the city that would always bear her name.

Later, Hephaestion found Alexander sitting alone.

“She didn’t even ask to see the city,” he said.

Hephaestion poured wine. “She doesn’t need to. You already gave it to her.”

Alexander stared down at his cup, the firelight flickering.

“She makes me weaker,” he said.

“No,” Hephaestion replied. “She makes you hungry. There’s a difference.”

Far from camp, under a tent of rough canvas, Thaleia finally opened the scroll he’d sent her—an official decree marking the founding of the city.

She read it once. Then again.

Then folded it carefully and tucked it into her boot. She never told anyone she kept it.

But she always wore that same pair when riding into battle.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

To Rival A King: Fire & Bronze

Asia Minor – Late Summer, 334 BCE

She returned from the outlands with her own command.

Not a polished Macedonian unit, but a company of rough riders: Thracians, Scythian defectors, and disowned noble sons who fought like wolves and obeyed only one person—her. She rode at the front, unarmored but fearless, wearing a half-laced cuirass and a blade at each hip.

Alexander hadn’t authorized it. The council had, behind closed doors, gambling on her raw influence over soldiers who didn’t care for royal blood.

“She gets them to obey,” one general had told him bluntly. “And they fight like devils for her.”

He had signed the charter with a measured smile.

Now he watched her ride past his war tent, her new men trailing behind on restless horses, weapons already stained from skirmishes.

No salute. No nod.

She didn't acknowledge him at all.

---

The siege of Miletus began just after dawn.

Alexander stood over the battlefield with his generals, calculating wind, terrain, troop position. It was a surgeon’s approach—precision warfare, flawless on paper.

But before he could issue the first signal, Thaleia rode. She didn’t wait. She didn’t ask.

With her men screaming behind her, she surged down the eastern slope toward the enemy flank. It was reckless, even suicidal.

It worked.

They hit the outer line with such violence that the enemy fell into confusion. Alexander had no choice but to order the full advance. Macedonian infantry stormed behind her, seizing the breach she'd torn open.

By sunset, Miletus had fallen.

Three enemy commanders were dragged back to camp in chains—trophies bound by her own hands.

She dismounted, covered in dirt and dried blood, and walked straight into the war council with her chin high and her cloak slung over one shoulder like it was nothing.

The generals rose. Some clapped. Others bowed.

Alexander stayed seated.

Hephaestion leaned over to him. “You should say something.”

“She disobeyed orders,” Alexander replied.

“She delivered a victory.”

Alexander turned his goblet in his hand, silent.

That night, she found him in the quiet of his tent.

He was standing over a map, his fingers tracing roads not yet taken. She didn’t knock.

“You’re welcome,” she said simply.

He didn’t turn. “You risked the whole operation.”

“You hesitated.”

“You gambled with men’s lives.”

“And won,” she said. “Isn’t that your kind of glory?”

He turned to face her then—slowly, sharply. “You made me look weak.”

Her mouth curved. “Only if you care what anyone else thinks.”

“I care what you think.”

That stopped her. Just long enough for him to step forward.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low. “Was this for me? Was this another game between us?”

Her smile dimmed. “No. This was mine.”

She moved past him, brushing his arm.

“But the fact that it unmade you?” she added, glancing back over her shoulder. “That part was just a bonus.”

The next morning, he named her formally:

General Thaleia. Commander of the Independent Cavalry.

The council applauded. She stood at the front, arms crossed, offering no reaction. Only when no one else watched did she glance toward him.

And in that half-second, Alexander caught it—not gratitude, not submission. Something colder.

Respect.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

To Rival A King: The Bed of Hephaestion

Asia Minor – 334 BCE

The king’s tent smelled of leather, incense, and command. Alexander paced its breadth, sleepless. His first campaign in Asia had begun like a dream of conquest—swift victories, loyal troops, thunder in his name.

But tonight, the wind tasted of humiliation.

Because Thaleia had not returned.

Not to his war council. Not to his chambers. Not to him.

She had ridden back with the forward scouts and vanished. No injury. No excuse.

She was simply… absent.

Hephaestion entered without announcement, his armor half-unstrapped, his face unreadable.

“She’s not coming tonight,” Alexander said without looking up.

“I know.”

A long pause.

“Where is she?”

Another pause.

“In my tent.”

It was not a confession. It was a blade.

Alexander turned slowly. “Since when?”

Hephaestion’s silence was answer enough.

Alexander’s stomach turned to stone. “Was it—revenge?”

Hephaestion met his gaze, pained. “For what?”

“For being mine.”

A bitter smile tugged Hephaestion’s mouth. “She’s not yours, Alexander. You’ve made sure of that.”

He didn’t sleep.

He didn’t speak of it to anyone, not even when he stood before his troops the next day and issued commands with divine calm.

But the knowledge rotted him.

She had gone to Hephaestion. Not some soldier. Not a prince. His other self. His mirror. His closest bond.

And she'd taken that from him too.

Three days later, she returned to the war council with mud on her boots and dust on her lips. She stood just beyond the candlelight as generals debated the siege of Miletus.

Alexander ignored her.

She waited until the others had bowed and gone before she approached.

“You’re quiet, my king.”

He didn't look up. “Still wearing his scent?”

She tilted her head, then stepped closer until the brazier lit her face—unrepentant, smug, radiant.

“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” she said. “I did it to remind you.”

“Of what?”

“That I don’t kneel. Not for crowns. Not for blood. Not for you.”

He rose from his chair. The tension snapped like drawn bowstring.

“You think I care who you fuck?” he hissed.

“No,” she said softly. “I think you care who I choose.”

The air between them crackled. Her breath smelled of wine and war. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white.

“I could have you exiled.”

“You won’t.”

“I could send you home in chains.”

“You’d miss me before I cleared the port.”

He hated her. Wanted her. Needed her rage and her fire and her refusal to yield. And when she turned her back to him again, she looked every inch the victor.

That night, Alexander drank alone, deeper than usual.

Hephaestion did not come.

Neither did she.

But in his dreams, she stood on a battlefield of bones, hair loose, skin blood-slick, and said, "You’ll never be king enough to conquer me."

And he believed her.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

To Rival A King: Father's Blood

Pella, Macedon – 336 BCE

The courtyard reeked of sweat and wine, as Macedon prepared for another royal wedding. Not Alexander’s. Another one of Philip’s—this time to a fresh-faced noble daughter barely older than Thaleia.

Alexander stood on the periphery, his jaw tight. His mother, Olympias, was absent from the celebration, banished to Epirus after too many whispers and poisons. And Alexander? Dismissed. Outshone. A bastard in his father’s court, no matter his blood.

Thaleia arrived late, as usual.

She wore black.

“I thought it was a wedding,” he said when she passed near.

“It’s a funeral,” she replied. “Only no one’s said so yet.”

He stared. “Whose?”

She looked at him then—really looked. Her gaze wasn’t sharp this time. It was heavy. Knowing.

“His,” she whispered. “Or yours.”

It happened fast.

A blade, a shadow, a shout. Blood on marble.

Philip staggered back from the temple steps, eyes wide with confusion. A knife in his side. A second in his throat. His guards shouted too late. The bride screamed. Chaos ignited.

Alexander didn’t move at first.

He watched his father fall.

Watched the man who had bred kingdoms with his fists crumble into the dust like any other mortal.

And then he stepped forward.

Kneeling in his father’s blood, Alexander pressed his palm to the gash. Pointless. The king was already dead.

Thaleia was beside him without a word.

She knelt too. Her hand found his.

“Are you going to cry?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you going to run?”

“No.”

She nodded. “Then rise.”

And he did.

That night, Pella burned in silence. Smoke curled above the palace as the nobles gathered like vultures. Olympias returned like a storm, her eyes gleaming with prophecy.

“The throne is yours now,” she said to her son. “Take it. Make it tremble.”

Alexander sat in Philip’s chair before the ashes had cooled. Hephaestion stood behind him, sword at his side.

Thaleia stood at the edge of the chamber, arms crossed, still dressed in black.

“You’re king,” she said aloud, as if testing the word. “Finally.”

He studied her.

“You’re not kneeling,” he said.

She smiled. “You want me to?”

He hesitated. She took a step forward.

“You’re not Philip. You’re not Zeus. You’re a boy I used to beat with a stick in the yard.”

“I’m not that boy anymore.”

“Prove it.”

He was across the floor in a heartbeat, hand to her throat—not choking, just holding. A challenge. Her breath caught—but she didn’t flinch.

His voice was low, cracked open like thunder.

“Don’t tempt me, Thaleia. Not now. Not when I could give you anything.”

“I don’t want anything,” she whispered. “Except to see what kind of king you really are.”

Their breath mingled. He almost kissed her. Almost broke.

Then she shoved him back and walked away.

The next day, they burned Philip’s body in the square. The smell of flesh and power filled the air.

Alexander watched the flames climb high.

He was nineteen.

He was king.

And somewhere beyond the smoke, Thaleia waited to see if he would be the ruler she could love—or the man she would have to kill.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

To Rival A King: A Kingdom of Boys

Macedonian Highlands – 341 BCE

They were only thirteen, still shedding the last of their baby fat and illusions of immortality, but Philip sent them into the mountains with iron-tipped spears and a warning.

“Return with a kill,” the king had said, “or don’t return at all.”

The sun had not yet risen when the royal pages set out. Alexander rode Bucephalus with a silent determination, Hephaestion just behind him. The other boys were already talking of deer or wolves, of who would strike first and who would earn the king’s praise.

And then Thaleia arrived.

Late. Alone. A bow slung across her back, a curved knife strapped to her thigh. She rode bareback on a pale warhorse that didn’t flinch at the cold or the command of men.

“I didn’t hear a formal invitation,” she said lazily.

“You weren’t invited,” Alexander muttered, reining Bucephalus tighter.

“I figured,” she said. “But then again, neither was courage.”

He hated her more every time she opened her mouth. He also watched her more than he ever meant to. How she moved through trees like something raised by them. How she slept without flinching on bare ground. How the wind tangled her hair into ropes of fire.

By dusk, they found tracks. A lioness and two cubs—too risky for boys. Perfect for her.

“I’ll go left,” Thaleia said.

“No,” Alexander ordered, “I’ll go left.”

“You think this is your game?”

“This is my hunt,” he snapped. “You’re here by tolerance, not command.”

She smirked. “Then keep up, prince.”

They split.

Alexander stalked through the underbrush, breathing slow and shallow. Bucephalus waited behind, trained to silence. He spotted the lioness first—golden, lean, and hungry. She hadn’t seen him. He drew his spear back just as a sharp whistle rang out.

The lioness turned. Not at him—at a blur of movement. Thaleia, perched in a tree, arrow notched.

“Don’t you dare!” Alexander shouted.

She loosed.

The arrow pierced the lioness’s neck. It stumbled, roared—and Alexander charged. His spear struck its ribs. Together, they brought it down.

Blood on both their faces. Her arrow, his kill. Their argument began before the lion hit the earth.

“You stole my shot,” he hissed.

“You stole my prey,” she snapped.

“I wounded it—”

“I killed it!”

The pages arrived breathless, Hephaestion among them. He looked from the bloodied lion to the two teens standing above it like gods and smirked.

“Well,” he said, “you two might as well marry now. Or kill each other.”

Alexander didn’t answer. He could feel her beside him, flushed with triumph. She looked at the lion, not him. No glance, no approval.

He wanted her to look at him.

He wanted her to say he mattered.

That night, they feasted under the stars. Philip arrived to inspect the kill. The lion’s pelt was magnificent. The king drank deeply, slapped his son’s shoulder.

“My boy!” he roared. “You’ve got your mother’s fire at last!”

Alexander basked—until he saw Thaleia.

She sat apart from the firelight, the lion cubs at her feet sleeping, untouched wine on the table. She hadn’t claimed credit. She hadn’t needed to.

And yet her silence was louder than the king’s praise.

He watched her all night. A girl. A soldier. A storm. And though he could not say it aloud—not yet—he already knew:

He would chase her all his life, and never know if he’d catch her.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

To Rival A King: Royal Blood, Savage Heart

Pella, Macedon – 342 BCE

The sun bled across the palace walls, smearing gold on stone. Inside the royal halls, the scent of parchment and sweat filled the air, where Aristotle lectured on virtue and destiny. Alexander sat with arms crossed, eyes narrowed—not on the scrolls, but on the doorway.

She wasn’t supposed to be there. Yet there she stood.

Thaleia. Barefoot. Mud-streaked. A split lip still drying over from yesterday’s fistfight.

Aristotle paused mid-sentence. “You are not on my scroll,” he said dryly.

“Neither is war, yet here we are preparing for it,” she shot back, folding her arms like a man and leaning against the marble. “I was told I’d be training with the royal pages now. Something about learning to think before I swing.”

Alexander’s heart clamped tight in his chest. The audacity. This was his domain—the classroom, the ideas, the future. Out on the fields she could wrestle boars and boys, but here? Here, she was an intruder.

Aristotle gestured wordlessly to the empty space beside Alexander.

She sat with a smirk, smelling of iron and wild rosemary.

The lesson resumed, but Alexander heard nothing. Not of logic, not of statesmanship. Only the wet sound of her chewing the end of a quill. He glanced at her once—just once—and she caught him.

“What? Jealous I get to think now too?” she whispered.

He looked away. “I doubt you’ll survive the hour.”

“I plan to survive you,” she said. “That takes sharper thinking than you’ve ever done.”

That night, at the practice yard, the tension burned hotter.

Alexander moved like a storm—calculated, elegant, lethal. He’d trained since childhood with weapons almost too large for his size. Now, with every strike, he sought something he couldn’t name. Glory? Revenge? Or perhaps the satisfaction of seeing her humbled?

She stepped into the ring next, wearing a man’s tunic, belted at the waist. Her legs were bare, her braid tied like a rope down her spine. She fought with a short sword and a wicked smile.

She beat every opponent. Boys older than her. Stronger than her. Smarter? No one could tell. She used anger like a dance, provocation like a second blade.

Hephaestion watched with faint amusement. “She doesn’t fight fair.”

“War isn’t fair,” Alexander growled.

“She’ll be one of us, whether you like it or not.”

“She’ll never be one of me.”

Later, in the barracks, as the royal pages soaked wounds and whispered strategies, Thaleia lounged against a beam, sipping watered wine. Her tunic clung with sweat. Her feet rested on a stack of armor that didn’t belong to her.

He approached, every muscle taut.

“You humiliated yourself in the ring today,” he said.

She didn’t even blink. “You mean I didn’t let your little boy-club keep its pride.”

“You’ll never be Macedon’s hero.”

She stood up, suddenly inches away, her chest brushing his in deliberate challenge.

“I don’t want to be Macedon’s hero,” she murmured. “I want to be the storm they can’t predict. The knife they never see coming. And I want to see the great Alexander squirm every time he loses to me.”

Then she leaned in.

For a second, he thought she’d kiss him. But she only whispered in his ear—

“And I want to make you work for everything you think is yours.”

Then she was gone.

Alexander stood frozen, heart pounding, fists clenched, crownless—and for the first time, unsure if he wanted her broken at his feet… or standing beside him with a blade to his throat.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

To Rival A King: Lion Cub & Viper Girl

Pella, Macedon – 343 BCE

He met her in the training yards, blood already smeared on her brow from sparring with boys twice her size. Alexander was eleven, prideful and golden, the son of Philip and Olympias—destined for a throne. She was a general’s daughter with nothing to inherit but her rage and her fists.

“Funny how a crown doesn’t stop you from eating mud.” she said, her boot on a soldier’s chest.

The boys laughed. Alexander did not. His lip curled, his knuckles clenched around his wooden sword. “What's your name?” he demanded. She tilted her head, curls falling like fire around her shoulders. “Thaleia.” He hated her instantly. She was brash, loud, unbothered by the line between soldier and prince. While he studied under Aristotle, she climbed trees to shoot deer from impossible heights.

When he brought home a kill, she’d already flayed something larger. When he took down a Thracian boy in wrestling, she bested the instructor himself.

And when Philip’s eye lingered on her feral strength, Alexander burned.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

Imperium of Her Own: The Fire in Antioch

Antioch glowed beneath the desert stars like a basin of gold scattered with flame. The imperial banners snapped in the wind, but inside the governor’s palace, all was still—too still.

Hadrian lay in the high bedchamber, pale and sweating. His breathing had gone shallow. The physicians whispered of heat stroke. Others feared poison. No diagnosis would soothe Cassia’s heart.

She had not been summoned. She had come.

When the news reached her—rushed through the ranks like wildfire—Cassia had ridden through the night alone. She did not wait for permission, for escort, or protocol. By the time she arrived, her boots were crusted with dust, her cloak soaked in sweat, her hands shaking not with exhaustion, but dread.

She pushed past senators, past guards, past the useless fluttering of courtiers and frightened healers.

He was dying. And none of them were worthy of being there.

The room smelled of vinegar and rosewater. The sheets were soaked. A physician bowed as she entered, unsure whether to stop her.

Cassia did not ask. She knelt at the edge of the bed.

Hadrian was delirious, lips dry and cracking. His skin—always olive, always sun-kissed—was now chalk and flame. His curls clung to his forehead like dark seaweed dragged ashore.

She touched his face gently. “Hadrian,” she whispered. “Come back.”

He murmured something—inaudible. She leaned closer, until his breath ghosted over her cheek.

“Don’t go,” he said, though his eyes never opened. “Cassia—don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” she said, voice thick with tears. “I’m here. You stubborn bastard, I’m here.”

She reached for a cloth, dipped it in water, pressed it to his burning skin. Over and over. She cooled his brow. She bathed his chest. She whispered stories of their travels, of their arguments, of the first time he kissed her and trembled like a boy.

And all the while, she held his hand like it was the tether between him and the world.

Night fell. Then another. He did not wake.

The court began to circle.

Officials whispered about succession. Generals began posturing for position. Advisors knocked on the door, requesting an audience with the woman who had suddenly become the empire’s last hope of continuity.

Cassia ignored them all.

Until the third morning.

Hadrian stirred.

She was asleep beside the bed, fingers still twined in his. When he rasped her name, she jolted upright.

“Cassia.”

His eyes were open.

Tears spilled from hers instantly. She leaned over him, pressed her forehead to his, felt the heat easing.

“You’re not allowed to die,” she whispered.

He tried to smile. Failed. “You’d... miss me?”

“I’d set the world on fire.”

He swallowed painfully. “I had a dream.”

Cassia drew back, brushing sweat-matted hair from his temple. “What kind of dream?”

“You were carrying a child,” he whispered. “Ours.”

She stilled.

“I saw you in a field,” he murmured, “olive trees everywhere... You were laughing. Our son had your eyes. He hated politics already.”

She tried to smile, but it trembled at the edges.

“I always said I wouldn’t be owned,” she whispered. “I thought that meant I couldn’t give you anything that bound me to you.”

His eyes met hers, clearer now. “And now?”

She pressed his hand to her heart. “Now I want to bind you to this world. In flesh. Not just stone.”

Hadrian gasped softly, overwhelmed not by fever now, but by her willingness.

“Cassia...”

She leaned in, kissed his brow, and whispered into his hair:

“If you live—if you truly stay—then I’ll give you that child. Not for Rome. Not for legacy. But because you asked me with no crown in your voice. Only need.”

His arms, weak, still tried to pull her to him. She folded into them, held him fiercely. And in the silence, they made a vow.

No rings. No ceremony. Just the promise—set in blood and breath—that a life would grow from their impossible love. One that would outlast empires.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

Imperium of Her Own: Rivals & Shadows

The palace was colder now. Not in temperature, but in tone. Rumors slipped through the corridors like smoke under doors—curling in senators’ mouths, darkening the light of the domed atrium, clouding even the marble where Cassia walked.

They had seen her emerging from Hadrian’s quarters in the early morning. Not once. Not twice. Enough to start whispers.

Hadrian had not hidden her.

But he had not explained her either.

And so, the void filled itself with venom.

“She’s bewitched him,” one said.

“She’s replacing Antinous,” murmured another, hushed like they spoke of a saint.

“She’s maneuvering for power. Watch—he’ll make her a goddess, too.”

Cassia knew the cost of proximity. But she had not realized how quickly admiration could turn to envy, how fragile the court’s reverence became when a woman stood too close to the laurel crown without kneeling.

And worse—there were those who knew.

A senator from Gallia insinuated too much one evening, his smile oily.

“Your influence must be remarkable, Lady Aemiliana,” he said as she passed. “To hold the ear—and perhaps the heart—of an emperor so recently bereaved of a divine youth.”

Cassia turned, slowly. “And your poison must be potent, Senator, to corrode the tongues of men who should be wiser.”

He flushed. She moved on. But it wasn’t enough. The pressure mounted.

One of Hadrian’s advisors—an old friend, loyal in public—came to her in the garden one morning.

“You must step back,” he said, without cruelty. “The court will not bear it. You have no title. No bloodline. And Antinous… he was the golden myth. The mourning is still fresh.”

Cassia straightened. “So Hadrian is to live only in grief?”

“You’re not him,” the advisor said. “And Rome will never understand a woman who does not kneel.”

“I do not require their understanding,” she replied. “Only his.”

That night, she went to Hadrian.

The air in his chamber was thick with storm. Thunder rippled beyond the colonnades, casting long shadows over the walls. He sat at his writing table, motionless. A wax tablet lay untouched.

He looked up.

“They’re circling you,” she said.

“I know.”

“They want me gone.”

“I know that, too.”

Cassia moved to the table. “You could protect me.”

Hadrian’s jaw tightened. “At what cost to you?”

“I’m not asking you to name me.”

“No,” he said, rising slowly. “You’re asking me not to make you less.”

She didn’t answer.

He crossed to her, took her hand—not with heat, but with ache. “You’ve given me more honesty than any man or lover in my life. You’ve loved me with open eyes. If they touch you to reach me… I’ll raze every senator’s house to the ground.”

Cassia’s voice was barely breath. “But I don’t want you to burn the world.”

“Then what do you want?”

She looked at him. And for the first time, her voice cracked.

“I want you. But not just in the shadows.”

Hadrian exhaled sharply—like a blade had been pulled from him.

“I can’t give you marriage. I can’t give you the title of Empress, or sons, or the world’s blessing.”

“I never wanted the world’s blessing,” she said. “I only wanted yours.”

He kissed her, this time without permission—without pause. She kissed him back, harder. As if she finally allowed herself to want what had always terrified her.

They fell into each other like stars into gravity.

And afterward, as he lay with her in the quiet stormlight, she whispered, “Let them whisper.”

“I’ll silence them,” he said.

“No. Let them,” she repeated. “It’s time the empire learned that love does not ask permission.”

But beyond the doors, shadows thickened.

A letter—unsigned, full of venom—arrived in the hands of a rival governor. A threat to expose everything:

The emperor’s heart is compromised. His lover is no longer the ghost-boy of the Nile. It is the woman. The senator’s daughter. She holds his tongue. Soon she will hold the throne.

Cassia never saw the letter.

But Hadrian did.

And when he read it, he folded it once. Then again. Then burned it in the flame.

He stared into the fire for a long time.

If the empire came for her, he would let it crumble.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

Imperium of Her Own: Heirless Throne

Rome was gilded in sunlight that morning, but Hadrian’s study was dim. He had drawn the curtains himself. Too much light mocked the weight in his chest.

He sat, fingers ink-stained, surrounded by scrolls—none of which contained what he truly needed.

Cassia arrived late. Not out of insolence, but deliberation. She had learned his moods, and sensed today’s silence would be sharp-edged.

She wore a dark blue tunic, dust from the Forum still clinging to the hem. Her hair was coiled in a braid, and despite the softness of her eyes, she entered the room as if it were a battlefield.

“You summoned me,” she said.

“I always do,” he murmured, without looking up. “And still I never say what I mean to.”

She came closer. “Then say it now.”

Hadrian looked up. Slowly. Like lifting his head required strength that had lately begun to leave him.

“You know I have no heir,” he said. “No son to inherit the empire I’ve tried to make wise, not just vast.”

Cassia said nothing. Her hands were folded in front of her. He saw how tightly she held them.

“I’ve named Lucius,” Hadrian continued. “But he’s not… of me.”

“You’ve chosen well,” she said softly.

He nodded, once. Then, after a breath: “Do you know of Antinous?”

Cassia stilled. “Everyone does.”

“I loved him,” Hadrian said, simply. The room did not shrink. It did not break. But it listened.

He went on. “I still do. I do not believe Rome will understand that. But gods know… he was the only person in this cursed life who looked at me and saw nothing I asked him to see. He was light and shadow. Boy and god.”

Cassia’s voice was low. “Then why speak of him to me?”

Hadrian’s eyes turned to her then—and she saw, truly, that this man was not made of marble. He was torn silk, wrapped in iron.

“Because I loved him,” Hadrian said. “But I want you.”

Her throat bobbed. “Hadrian…”

“I cannot lie to you. I will not.” His voice cracked, and he stepped closer. “I will always love Antinous. But he is not here. And you… you are everything I crave and fear and need.”

She shook her head—but her body leaned toward him.

“I’m not enough.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, “you are too much. You are too brilliant. Too free. Too like fire—never content to be kept.”

He paused. Then: “But I cannot build a world without you in it. I can mourn a god. But I long for a woman who will set the world right beside me. If you would let me have both—if you could accept the shape of my heart, as it is, fractured but full—I would give you everything.”

Cassia’s knees weakened.

For years she had stood taller than any man. For months she had resisted the pull in her chest. But now, here, in the dim candlelight of Hadrian’s soul, she saw that he was not asking her to be less.

He was begging her to believe he could love her wholly—even if not only.

She reached for him. Her fingers touched his. Then curled through them.

And Hadrian—the emperor, the marble lion—shuddered.

“You speak of a heart fractured,” she whispered. “Mine has been that way since Baetica. Since the orchard. Since the first time you left and I watched you vanish into a world I could never follow.”

“I never truly left,” he said. “I’ve only ever been walking back to you.”

She leaned forward.

This time, when his lips brushed hers, she did not retreat. It was not submission. It was not forgiveness.

It was fusion. Of grief. Of acceptance. Of two people who knew love did not need to be pure to be real.

She broke the kiss, forehead against his.

“I will not be your empress,” she said.

“I know.”

“But I will be yours.”

He closed his eyes.

“Then I am saved.”

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

Imperium of Her Own: Between the Walls

Hadrian, emperor of the world’s mightiest realm, made a peculiar habit of vanishing.

Not in the way cowards did, nor in the fashion of dreamers—but as a man who believed that the breath of Rome could only be heard when its emperor walked among its provinces. He toured borders, visited garrisons, checked on the bones of the Empire before they broke.

And this time, Cassia was with him.

Officially, she was the “Civic Attaché to the Imperial Reforms Office”—a title invented for the court's benefit. In truth, she was his shadow and mirror, his critic and confidante, her voice echoing through his tent just as surely as his orders echoed through the legions.

From Gaul to Dalmatia, through mountain passes and riverlands, she rode beside him, her cloak trailing like a banner of rebellion. At night, they argued under stars. By day, they navigated dignitaries, governors, and generals—each trying to understand who this woman was that could speak so freely to the Emperor without losing her head.

“She’s dangerous,” murmured one prefect. “She’s essential,” Hadrian corrected him.

One cold evening in the fortified town of Poetovio, they took refuge in the governor’s stone hall, where the hearth’s warmth couldn’t soften the tension in the room.

A senator from Narbo Martius challenged Hadrian’s new grain taxes—Cassia leaned forward.

“If we tax the wealthy estates along the Rhône less, the poor in Hispania starve more,” she said, her voice cutting clean. “Is your olive oil worth more than a child’s stomach?”

The hall fell to stunned silence. The senator flushed with insult. Hadrian’s lips twitched—barely.

“Cassia,” he murmured later, when they were alone in his quarters, “you humiliate men who have commanded cities since before you were born.”

“And?” she replied, unbuckling her riding leathers.

“You make them hate you.”

She looked over her shoulder. “I’m not here to be adored.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “But I worry they’ll try to destroy you.”

Cassia turned, arms crossed. “Will you stop them?”

“I’ll destroy them first.”

Silence hung between them, thicker than steam. He was so close now. But still—he didn’t touch her. She didn’t invite him.

“I’m not a mistress,” she said quietly. “Even if my name fills your thoughts at night.”

Hadrian’s breath caught. “Do you think so little of me?”

“No,” she whispered. “I think too much of you. And I fear you’ll ruin me because of it.”

He stepped back, the restraint in his body like drawn bronze.

“Then let me be ruined too,” he said.

But she left before the fire died, leaving him alone beneath furs and strategy maps, the scent of her still clinging to the air.

By the time they reached Britannia, rumors of the emperor’s “shadow consort” were everywhere. The wives of generals watched her. Their husbands feared her. The soldiers saluted her.

She spoke with builders on the wall, tasted the wind at the Empire’s edge, and whispered to Hadrian beside the stone parapets:

“You build this wall like you build your life—strong, but lonely.”

“Lonely?” he asked.

She nodded. “You have thousands kneel, but none touch you.”

“I would let you,” he said. “But I fear you’d disappear if I did.”

And that night, beneath the windswept moon, she stood in his doorway before retiring. No kiss. No promise. Just words.

“I’m still here. For now.”

And he nodded.

Because he knew this: she was not a fortress to conquer. She was the wind that moved the stones.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

Imperium of Her Own: The Olive Grove Pact

The villa at Tivoli lay just beyond the chaos of Rome, nestled in the green-gold hills like a breath drawn between battles. Hadrian had retreated there often during his youth—here among the olive trees and marbled fountains, he could remember who he was before the crown grew heavy.

Cassia joined him there at his invitation. It was not phrased as a command, nor cloaked in the language of court. It arrived in a simple letter, handwritten in Hadrian’s tight, slanted script:

“Come to Tivoli. Bring your defiance and your wine cup. I tire of being worshiped and wish instead to be provoked.”

She arrived at dusk.

Hadrian stood barefoot in the garden, pruning the bonsai he so loved—Roman in empire, Eastern in practice. When he looked up and saw her, there was no surprise, only something like gratitude masked in humor.

“You came,” he said.

“You called.”

They did not speak for a while. They walked instead—past the murmuring fountains, past citrus trees and statues of muses frozen in eternal contemplation. Finally, they came to rest beneath the gnarled arms of an old olive tree, its roots twisted into the stone terrace like veins of the earth.

Hadrian poured wine into two plain clay cups. Cassia sat on a low bench, her eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for something Rome had long forgotten.

“Do you ever rest?” she asked him.

“Only when I’m with you,” he said without hesitation.

She did not smile, but her silence was softer than any laugh.

“You built walls at the edge of the world,” she said, tipping her wine slightly. “Why?”

“To keep out what doesn’t belong.”

“And who decides what belongs?”

He gave her a look, sharp and wry. “You know the answer.”

“Yes,” she replied. “And that’s why I ask it. So that you will say it aloud. So that you’ll remember it’s a choice. Not a divine right.”

Hadrian leaned back on his elbows, the fading sunlight catching in the curls around his temples.

“You could have had a simple life, Cassia. Married. Hidden behind some husband’s name. You chose this—fire, debate, defiance.”

She looked at him then, really looked, and for the first time there was something tender in her gaze.

“I didn’t choose defiance. I chose dignity.”

He sat up.

“Come to Rome, Cassia. Not as a guest. Not as a court ornament. As something else.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What exactly?”

“An advisor. My advisor. The architect of my inner court. The voice I let no one else be. You’ll answer to no one but me.”

She laughed once, low and almost sad. “So you would keep me in a cage. A gilded one, perhaps, but a cage still.”

Hadrian’s voice dropped, hushed by the weight of truth. “I don’t want to own you. I want you to stay—because you choose to. Because you see me not as a crown, but as a man.”

“And what does the man want?”

He looked at her, no pretense, no armor.

“You.”

There it was. The truth, spoken in a garden where emperors once buried secrets and muses wept stone tears.

Cassia rose. For a moment, Hadrian feared she would leave, cast her cup aside and walk back to the city, back to the safety of solitude. But instead, she walked to him.

“You may want me,” she said, standing over him. “But you will not own me. If I stay, it is on my terms.”

“And what are they?”

“That I can challenge you,” she said. “Publicly. Without fear. That I can advise you. That I will never have to lie to you—and you will never ask me to.”

He rose to meet her, inches away.

“I swear it.”

She held out her hand—not to be kissed, but to be shaken, like an equal, a pact between two nations.

Their fingers met. It was not the clasp of lovers. Not yet.

It was the start of an empire.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

Imperium of Her Own (Emperor Hadrian x OFC)

Prologue:

Emperor Hadrian of Rome—builder of walls and cities, lover of wisdom, patron of the arts—was a man of calculated restraint. To the public, he was marble and steel, a man whose eyes saw the curvature of aqueducts and the lines of empire more easily than the desires of his own heart.

Then came her.

Cassia Aemiliana was the daughter of a respected senator from Baetica, known more for her quicksilver tongue than any formal title. She had been raised among books and horse stables, with tutors in rhetoric and fencing alike, and from the moment she first stepped into the marble halls of Hadrian’s court, she had offended half his generals and charmed the other half.

Hadrian had watched her from behind the latticework of power, his expression unmoved as she corrected a scholar at a banquet and challenged a provincial governor’s decision in front of a dozen senators. She did not defer, not even to him. She called him “Hadrian,” not “Emperor,” unless mocking him playfully. And when she did so, his blood surged in ways he couldn’t explain.

“What would Rome be,” she had once said to him with a tilt of her dark brow, “if its emperor ruled only with engineers and flatterers? It would be all aqueduct and no soul.”

He hadn’t responded. He’d simply stared at her as if she were a burning map he could not chart.

Cassia was not his mistress. She refused to be anything so small.

“I will not be a man’s concubine,” she told him in the shade of the olive trees in Tivoli. “Even if the man is a god in marble.”

“You are the only one who says no to me,” he whispered once, the night their hands nearly touched across a table of scrolls and wine. “And I have never wanted anything more.”

One.

Years passed. Rome shifted. Trajan fell ill. And Hadrian—once a sharp-eyed legate from Hispania—was now Caesar, crowned not in triumph but in transition. The city pulsed around him with ambition, plots, and gold-draped masks.

But in the tempest of politics and marble, it was a woman from Baetica who entered again—not as a flame from the past, but as a storm in his present.

Cassia Aemiliana stepped into the Curia Julia like she owned the floor beneath her sandals. She wore no jewels, no silks—only a slate-blue stola and the silent weight of certainty. Her hair was braided tightly, her chin lifted as if Rome itself should make way.

She had come to petition the Senate on behalf of her late father’s estate, long tangled in land disputes that had begun festering since his death. But her entrance ignited far more than legal murmurs.

She was older now. Sharper. Time had not dimmed her. It had honed her like obsidian.

Hadrian watched from behind the velvet veil of imperial presence. On the marble bench of the imperial box, senators below him murmured, half-curious, half-concerned. Who was this woman who dared stride in alone, without a husband, advocate, or fear?

“I believe you know her,” murmured Gaius Septicius, one of Hadrian’s few trusted advisors. “She speaks like Cicero. And stings like vinegar.”

Hadrian kept his expression unreadable. “Let her speak.”

Cassia faced the Senate floor and laid out her argument like a tactician placing her legions. She named names. She cited law. She made a nobleman from Hispalis so red with embarrassment he looked fevered.

But when she mentioned Hadrian—“the honorable emperor whose sense of justice I trust more than those who serve beneath him”—her voice did not flatter. It challenged. A spear wrapped in silk.

That night, she was summoned to the palace.

When she entered his audience chamber, flanked by Praetorians in eagle-crested helms, Cassia did not bow.

“You summoned me like a servant,” she said, her voice carrying no apology.

“You called me ‘honorable,’” Hadrian replied, watching her as one might an untamed lioness. “I had to know if you meant it.”

Cassia’s mouth curved into a smile, but her eyes were flint. “I meant that you could be honorable. Which is more than I can say for the rest of them.”

He gestured to a chair across from him. “Sit, Cassia.”

“I prefer to stand.”

“Still the same girl from the vineyards,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Still the same boy who hated being called 'boy',” she countered.

There was a silence between them, heavy but not empty. Charged with things unsaid.

“I never forgot you,” Hadrian said finally.

“I never expected you to.”

He stood slowly, circling her like an architect inspecting a ruin too sacred to rebuild.

“You’ve come back into my city with fire in your hands,” he said. “Do you know how many men fear a woman who speaks as you do?”

“I fear men who don’t,” she said. “And you didn’t summon me to ask about land, Hadrian. You want to know if I can still unmake you with words.”

He stepped closer, inches between them.

“And can you?”

Her breath caught—but only for a heartbeat. “Yes. And I will. Because you need someone who can.”

Then, without waiting for dismissal, she turned and walked from the room—her head high, her steps echoing like war drums down the marble corridor.

Hadrian stared after her, a slow smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. Let the Senate whisper. Let Rome tremble. The storm had come to Rome. And Hadrian had never felt more alive.