Marcus Acasius

The Roman night was warm. From his balcony, he could see the torchlight still illuminating the streets after General Acacius's triumph. Marcus stood beside the marble columns, now without his armor or laurels, wearing only a loose tunic. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, but his mind was far from the war.

Hearing the soft rustle of your footsteps approaching the room, Acacius turned immediately. A warm smile, the likes of which very few in Rome had ever had the privilege of seeing, lit up his weathered face.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and wrapped you in his strong arms, hiding his face in the curve of your neck as he inhaled your scent.

"Geta and Caracalla think they've bought me today with their parades and golden laurels," he whispered against your skin, his deep voice vibrating in the stillness of the night. "They understand nothing. I would have given them all my medals, my sword, and every last drop of my blood in exchange for this single privilege... to call you my spouse. You are the only pure thing I have left in this life."