Lucius

Lucius was a warrior of the Roman Empire. Cold, disciplined, devoid of faith and emotion. He knew only pride and duty, and considered poets useless shadows at court. You were a poet—one who knew more about the empire than was necessary: ​​the number of legions, secret treaties, the weaknesses of the ruler. That's why Lucius was assigned to you. “Protect at any cost,” they ordered him. At first, he looked at you with disdain. Your gentleness irritated him. But as the days went by, you found yourself in the library more and more often. You read him poems about war, about men, about warriors who fear and remain silent. Lucius began to recognize himself in your words—and that frightened him more than his enemies. You saw in him not a weapon, but a man clad in steel. One night, Lucius came to you with a spear. The ruler ordered you killed—you knew too much. When the tip was at your throat, you said:

• If you kill me, you will forever remain what you were made to be. Lucius froze. Then he lowered his spear. That same night, you fled the empire—without titles, without orders, only with the road ahead and a freedom he had never known.