The day began as a burden. Romulus sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the diadem on the table. It caught the morning sunlight, casting a golden reflection on the marble floor—a symbol of power he barely understood. He ran his fingers through his hair, tousling it absently as his thoughts turned inward.
His chest ached with the weight of knowledge. He had seen things no one else could: the rise and fall of empires, the chaos of war, the slow march of progress that would leave the Rome of his time behind. And yet, here he was, ten years old and called an emperor. But he knew the truth—to history, he would be remembered as a puppet, a powerless child wearing the purple while others pulled the strings. Yesterday’s dismissive glances and whispered words only confirmed what he had seen in his visions. His title meant nothing, and he felt it with every hollow gesture of respect.
I know what they don’t. But what good is knowledge if no one will listen?
A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. “Enter,” he said, his voice sharp with frustration.
Andronikos stepped inside, his gait steady, though his age showed in the careful way he moved. The old Greek’s lined face softened as he took in Romulus’s tense posture and drawn expression.
“Domine,” Andronikos said gently, setting a small scroll on the table, “it is only your first day. Must you look so defeated already?”
“I don’t feel like an emperor,” Romulus admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He glanced at the diadem. “I don’t think I ever will.”
Andronikos seated himself beside the boy, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “Most men do not feel ready for the burdens they bear. Your father was not ready when he took command of the legions. Caesar was not ready when he crossed the Rubicon. They acted, and the world was shaped by their choices.”
Romulus snickered. “None of them were a child at that time.”
Andronikos was silent for a while, then he spoke. “You are right, most were not. But consider Alexander the Great, commanding armies as a teenager, or even our own Romulus, the founder of the city, who began shaping Rome as a young man. Greatness does not wait for years to pass; it arises when it is needed most.”
“But they were...” Romulus’s voice trailed off, his words barely audible. “They were legends.”
Andronikos smiled, amusement wrinkling his face. “They were not always legends. Once, they were only children like you, who asked the same questions and had the same worries. And do you know what they all asked themselves?”
Romulus hesitated, then asked, “What?”
Andronikos smiled faintly. “What small step can I take today that will make me taller tomorrow? Remember, greatness is not built in a day. It grows, little by little, with every decision, every act of courage, and every moment of learning. Begin by being curious. Observe. Listen. And above all, trust yourself to grow.”
The boy fell silent, the question hanging in the air. How could he rise to such expectations when every path before him seemed destined for failure? Memories of whispered criticisms and the cold, dismissive gazes of the court flooded his mind. He recalled the weight of their unspoken judgment, the sense of being a mere child playing at rulership. Yet, amidst the doubt, Andronikos’s words lingered, a seed of possibility taking root. He stared at the diadem again, its golden surface catching the light. It seemed less a symbol of power and more an emblem of expectation, heavy but not immovable.
A knock interrupted them, and a servant entered, bowing deeply. “The centurion awaits, Dominus.”
Andronikos rose, smoothing his robes. “Come,” he said, gesturing for Romulus to follow. “Let us see what lessons the day holds.”
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As they walked through the palace corridors, Romulus’s eyes drifted to the marble columns and frescoes lining the halls, each a reminder of Rome’s storied past. The grandeur of the palace seemed to press down on him, heavy with the legacy of emperors who had come before.
He paused for a moment, his hand brushing against the cool stone of a pillar. “Do you think Majorian walked these halls?” he asked suddenly, his voice tinged with wonder. “He fought to save the empire, didn’t he? Yet he was betrayed.”
Andronikos slowed, his gaze following Romulus’s. “Majorian was a man of vision and courage, but he faced enemies on all sides, even within his own court. His legacy endures because he tried, even when success seemed impossible.”
Romulus’s brow furrowed. “He must have felt inadequate, too. But he acted.” He glanced down at his small hands, then back at the towering columns. “How can I compare to someone like that?”
Andronikos smiled faintly. “By remembering that even great men began as uncertain youths. Majorian did not walk into these halls as a hero. He became one through his choices. And so can you.”
Romulus nodded slowly, his thoughts lingering on the echoes of those who came before him. The halls whispered of Rome’s past, each pillar and fresco a testament to those who had carried the weight of the empire. He resolved to leave his own mark here—not through the crown’s authority, but through his actions.
As they continued toward the training grounds, his gaze shifted, and so did his thoughts. He pictured his father, Orestes, surrounded by senators and bishops, his voice a weapon that silenced all dissent. He imagined the foederati chieftain with his calculating eyes and quiet confidence. What drove them? What did they truly want?
His gaze wandered to the grand arches above, the intricate frescoes, and the marble floors that gleamed under the sunlight. He thought not just of Majorian but of the other great emperors who had walked these halls. Augustus, the first emperor, had brought stability to a fractured republic. Trajan’s conquests had expanded Rome to its greatest extent. Hadrian had secured its borders with wisdom and care. Each of them had faced challenges, doubts, and enemies.
“Was Majorian afraid?” Romulus whispered to himself, almost unaware he had spoken aloud.
Andronikos caught the words, his steps slowing. “I am sure he was. Fear touches even the greatest of men. But Majorian chose to act despite it. His vision, his courage—those are what history remembers.”
Romulus’s frown deepened. “But he failed. How can I do what he couldn’t?”
Andronikos stopped and turned to him, his expression thoughtful. “Failure does not diminish greatness, Domine. Majorian’s story inspires because he dared to try. And you… you walk the same halls, facing trials of your own. You have a choice to make: Will you let fear define you, or will you let it sharpen your resolve?”
Romulus looked down at his hands, his small frame reflected in the polished floor. He was no Majorian. But as he glanced up again, his jaw tightened. “I will try,” he said firmly.
Andronikos nodded, a faint smile gracing his lips.
The private training ground lay secluded within the palace complex, a carefully maintained space shielded from prying eyes. It featured a flat expanse of compacted dirt, bordered by neatly arranged wooden dummies and weapon racks that gleamed with polished practice swords and shields. The only sounds came from the occasional distant chirping of birds and the muffled steps of guards on patrol—a stark contrast to the chaotic training camps outside the palace. Standing at the center was Gaius, his arms crossed over his chest, as if he were the immovable core of this quiet arena. His weathered face bore the marks of countless battles, the scar running from his temple to his jaw a silent testament to his survival. Dressed in a plain but robust tunic, his sword belt resting naturally at his side, Gaius exuded an air of restrained authority—a man whose presence alone commanded respect.
“Dominus,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “You’re late.”
Romulus bristled at the remark but said nothing. Andronikos placed a reassuring hand on his back. “The emperor is yours, Centurion,” the Greek said. “Teach him well.”
Gaius’s gaze shifted to Andronikos, and something unspoken passed between them. Then the centurion gestured for Romulus to step forward.
“Let’s begin,” Gaius said simply.
Romulus followed, his nerves on edge. He expected the centurion to hand him a sword, to launch into lessons on striking and parrying. But instead, Gaius folded his arms and said, “Stand.”
Romulus blinked. “What?”
“Stand,” Gaius repeated. “Show me how you hold yourself.”
Confused but unwilling to argue, Romulus planted his feet and straightened his back, doing his best to appear regal. Gaius circled him like a predator, his sharp eyes assessing every detail.
“You’re stiff,” Gaius said finally. “Rigid. Easy to knock over.”
Romulus flushed with embarrassment. “I’m standing as straight as I can.”
“That’s the problem,” Gaius replied. “Strength comes from balance, not stiffness. Bend your knees. Spread your feet. Adjust to the ground beneath you.”
Romulus obeyed, though the stance felt unnatural. Gaius nodded approvingly, then gave him a sudden shove. Romulus stumbled, nearly falling.
“Again,” Gaius said, his voice calm but firm.
For the next hour, Gaius pushed Romulus to his limits. He tested the boy’s balance, his focus, and his resilience. Each stumble was met with a quiet command to rise and try again. Sweat dripped down Romulus’s brow, his muscles burned, but he refused to give up.
“You learn quickly,” Gaius said at last, offering a rare hint of praise. “Good. At least I can accept your father’s coin with a clear conscience.”
Romulus wiped his brow, his chest heaving. He let the side remark go. “What’s next?”
“Understanding,” Gaius replied, his tone softening slightly. “A sword is useless without the will to wield it. And that will must be guided by purpose.”
Romulus stared at him, the words sinking deep. Purpose. The word felt heavy again as self doubt creept his way into his mind again.
Gaius seemed to sense the boy’s thoughts. He crouched down, meeting Romulus’s gaze directly. “You have a lot on your shoulders. I can see it in the way you hold yourself—that weight pressing down on you. But here...” He paused, gesturing at the secluded training ground with a slow sweep of his arm, “here, none of that matters. Here you are not an emperor, not the son of the Magister Militarum, not the ruler they expect you to be. Here, you are just a boy learning how to stand tall. Learning how to fight.”
He straightened, his gaze steady but not unkind. “These wooden dummies? They don’t care about crowns or politics. The sword in your hand doesn’t care about noble blood. What matters here is what you do. How you move, how you endure, how you adapt.”
Romulus looked around the training ground, his eyes following Gaius’s gesture. The simplicity of the space, the quiet focus it demanded, struck him. It was a stark contrast to the ornate palace halls that whispered of legacy and expectation. Here, the earth beneath his sandals felt grounding, almost liberating.
Gaius continued, his voice taking on a firmer edge. “Out there, in the palace, they will judge you for every mistake. They will weigh you against legends and find you wanting. But here, you have the freedom to fail. To fall and rise again. To learn. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Romulus nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “You mean I can start over here?”
“Exactly,” Gaius said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And if you start over enough times, you will find that the boy who keeps rising is stronger than the man who never falls.” He leaned in slightly, his tone softening. “The world will not wait for you to grow up, Dominus. But this place… this training ground will give you the tools to meet it on your terms.”
Gaius stepped back, folding his arms as he studied Romulus. “Now, pick up your sword. Let’s see if you can hold onto that thought while we work.”
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Romulus paced the length of his chamber, his sandals scuffing against the polished floor. The faint ache in his legs from Gaius’s training was a reminder of progress, of strength yet to come. But his mind was elsewhere—on the growing fire in his chest.
For the first time, he felt the beginnings of a plan forming. Gaius’s words about purpose echoed in his thoughts. The world will test you. Never let it break you. He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as determination began to take root.
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The weight of the past pressed heavily on his mind. Romulus thought of the leaders who had come before him—Aurelian, who restored the empire's unity during the Crisis; Diocletian, who restructured its very foundations to endure; and Constantine, who embraced change and carved a new path for Rome's future. Each had faced trials that seemed insurmountable, navigating treacherous waters to preserve the empire's legacy. Yet their strength lay not in their circumstances but in their resolve to adapt and act. Could he, a mere boy, rise to such heights?
As his thoughts lingered on these figures, Romulus felt the crushing weight of comparison. They had wielded power with certainty and had armies and resources at their disposal. He had neither. What he had was a fragile empire teetering on the brink and the shadow of betrayal looming ever closer. Yet perhaps that was enough. They had acted when it seemed impossible; so could he.
He stepped toward the window, the vast expanse of the city stretching before him. The sun bathed the rooftops and streets in a golden glow, but to Romulus, it was a fragile illusion. He could feel the cracks forming beneath the surface—the scheming senators, the restless foederati, and the growing ambitions of men like Odoacer. Each thread seemed poised to unravel Rome’s fragile fabric.
"If I wait, it will be too late," he muttered, his breath fogging the cool glass. His thoughts returned to Gaius’s unwavering tone. Strength is not just in the body. It’s in the will. Romulus’s fingers tightened around the sill as he resolved that he would not let fear define him. If Rome was to survive, it would need action, not hesitation.
With a final glance at the city below, he turned sharply. "Prepare the way to the council chambers," he commanded the nearest servant, his voice carrying a weight it had never held before. "I must speak with my father. Now."
His father’s words, the Senate’s schemes, the Germans’ cold stares—it all gnawed at him. But Romulus had seen what they could not. He had seen Odoacer’s rise, his betrayal. He had seen the siege of Ticinum, where the empire would fracture, leaving his father to die at Placentia and him to fall from power.
I can stop it, Romulus thought, his breath quickening. If I act now, I can change it.
He hesitated for only a moment before striding toward the door. “Prepare the way to the council chambers,” he ordered the nearest servant. “I will see my father.”
The man bowed deeply, his expression a mix of confusion and alarm. “Dominus, the Magister Militarum is in council—”
“I am the emperor,” Romulus interrupted, his voice steady. “And I will see him now.”
The servant bowed again and hurried off. Romulus straightened his back, his heart pounding as he began the walk to the council chambers. Each step echoed faintly in the marble corridors, the grandeur of the palace seeming both awe-inspiring and oppressive. Along the way, his eyes flicked to the tapestries depicting Rome’s victories and defeats—reminders of the weight he bore and the expectations placed upon him.
As he neared the council chambers, the air grew heavier, charged with tension. Guards stood at rigid attention outside the thick oak doors, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. The faint clink of their armor mingled with muffled voices from within—Orestes’s deep, commanding tone punctuated by bursts of laughter or heated argument. Romulus paused briefly, taking a steadying breath, before continuing forward with purpose.
The guards hesitated as Romulus approached. One opened his mouth to speak, but Romulus’s stern gaze silenced him. Without waiting for permission, the boy pushed open the doors.
Inside, the room fell silent.
Orestes sat at the head of a long table, flanked by generals, advisors, and a handful of senators. Maps and scrolls were spread before them, the flickering light of torches casting shadows over their stern faces.
“Imperator,” Orestes said, his voice cold. “You interrupt a council.”
Romulus stepped forward, his chin lifted despite the weight of their stares. “I must speak with you, Magister Militarum.”
The use of the formal title softened the disapproval on some faces but did nothing to temper Orestes’s scowl. “Leave us,” he barked to the others, rising from his chair.
The men exchanged uneasy glances but obeyed, filing out of the room without a word. Their footsteps echoed faintly as they departed, leaving behind the weighty silence of an emptied chamber. When the last of them had gone, Orestes turned deliberately, his hand gripping the back of his chair as his eyes settled on his son.
Orestes’s eyes were sharp, his tone cutting as he began. “You are the emperor, but that does not grant you the right to disrupt matters of state. What could be so urgent that you humiliate me before my council?”
Romulus swallowed hard, his earlier confidence wavering under the weight of his father’s anger. But he steadied himself, remembering Gaius’s words: Never let it break you.
“I need to warn you,” Romulus said, his voice firmer than he felt. “About Odoacer.”
Orestes’s brow furrowed. “You mean Dux Odoacer? What about him?”
Romulus took a deep breath. “I’ve seen him rise to power. He will betray you. He will betray Rome.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Orestes stared at him, his expression unreadable, his jaw tightening slightly as if weighing the absurdity of the statement. Then, after a long pause, he laughed—a short, bitter sound that echoed off the walls, its sharpness cutting through the air like a blade. His laughter was not one of humor but of incredulity, tinged with a mocking edge that made Romulus’s chest tighten further.
“You’ve seen?” he repeated, his voice dripping with mockery. “What nonsense is this?”
Romulus’s hands clenched tighter, his nails digging into his palms. “It is not imagination,” he said, his voice straining to remain steady. “I’ve seen Odoacer betray you. I've seen him defeat you—”
“Enough!” Orestes roared, cutting him off. His hand slammed down on the table, the sound reverberating through the chamber, shaking the scattered scrolls and maps. The sharp noise was like a gavel, silencing Romulus and cementing his father’s authority in the room. “You dare to presume that you, a boy, see what I cannot? That your warnings carry more weight than my years of experience? Do you truly believe that a child, untested by the realities of command, has the right to question me?”
He leaned forward, his face now only inches from Romulus’s, his voice low but seething. “Do you understand the burden of this empire? I have fought wars, brokered alliances, and subdued traitors. Every decision I make, every step I take, is calculated to preserve Rome against forces you cannot comprehend. And now you, my son, come here to lecture me?”
He pointed a finger at Romulus, his face a mask of fury. But when he saw Romulus step back, his face filled with fear, Orestes froze.
He looked at his finger and took a deep breath, the weight of his words catching up to him. Slowly, he sat down, his shoulders slumped as though carrying the burdens of the entire empire. "I am sorry, my son," he said quietly, his voice tinged with exhaustion. For a moment, he gazed at the floor, lost in thought. Then, with a faint, almost rueful smirk, he looked back at Romulus. "I have told you this too many times already. But perhaps..." He paused, rubbing his temples as if the act might clear his mind. "Perhaps I have been too harsh in my words, or too aggressive in my tone. These are dangerous times, my son, and I... I cannot afford distractions. Yet here you are, persistent. That must mean something. Even a father must acknowledge when his son’s resolve surpasses expectation."
Romulus flinched but did not step back. “But you do not believe me,” he said, his voice shaking but determined. “You can prepare. You can watch him, test him—”
“Odoacer is a valuable ally,” Orestes said as he raised his hand to stop Romulus. “He commands loyalty among the foederati. He is the reason we can hold the borders.”
Romulus’s face burned with frustration. “And what will you do when he turns on you? When he takes everything you’ve built and tears it apart?”
Orestes moved closer, his imposing figure towering over the boy. He sighed deeply, the weariness of the conversation evident in his furrowed brow. “Romulus, I do not have time for this,” he said, his voice heavy with irritation. “Odoacer has proven his loyalty time and time again. He commands respect and unites the foederati, a feat few can achieve. He is an ally Rome cannot afford to lose.”
He straightened, his tone sharpening with finality. “I cannot indulge baseless fears about betrayal. Visions, dreams, or whatever you claim to have seen are not evidence. The stability of Rome depends on action and trust, not on chasing shadows. Do you understand that, Romulus?”
Romulus met his father’s glare, tears forming in his eyes out of frustration. His hands balled into fists as he almost shouted, “I just want to protect you!”
Orestes paused, his back still to his son. His shoulders tensed, a flicker of irritation visible as he drew in a slow breath. For a moment, the room felt heavy with unspoken words, but he dismissed them with a curt shake of his head. When he spoke again, his voice was clipped and final, lacking any warmth. “The best way to protect me is to focus on your own duties and stay out of mine.”
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Romulus left his father’s office with a heavy heart, the door closing behind him like the sound of defeat. His earlier hope now felt fragile, like a flickering flame threatened by the wind. He had spoken, he had tried—but his father had refused to listen.
As he walked back toward his chambers, he replayed the conversation in his mind, searching for cracks in Orestes’s certainty. Though his father’s words were resolute, the tension in his voice and the weight in his posture hinted at an unspoken hesitation. Orestes had dismissed him outright, but Romulus could not ignore the brief pause—not doubt, perhaps, but a moment of consideration—before his final words.
Perhaps he heard me, Romulus thought. Even if he won’t admit it, perhaps I’ve planted a seed.
When he reached his chambers, he found Andronikos waiting. The old tutor was seated near the window, a scroll resting on his lap. He glanced up as Romulus entered, his expression calm but expectant.
“Domine,” Andronikos said, rising to his feet. “You seem troubled. Did something happen?”
Romulus hesitated, his gaze flickering to the floor. Then, with a sudden twinge of guilt, he looked back up. “I spoke with my father. Perhaps I shouldn’t have interrupted the council meeting,” he admitted.
Andronikos raised an eyebrow, gesturing for the boy to sit. “A bold decision, interrupting the council. What was so urgent?”
Romulus sat slowly, folding his hands in his lap. He felt Andronikos’s keen eyes on him, as though the Greek could see straight through his hesitation. “I thought he needed to hear something,” Romulus said carefully.
Andronikos leaned forward slightly, his tone neutral. “And did he listen?”
Romulus shook his head. “No. He doesn’t trust me—not enough to take me seriously.”
The Greek studied him for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “What did you feel was so important to share with him?”
Romulus hesitated again, his fingers tightening around the folds of his tunic. “I can’t say,” he admitted quietly. “Not yet.”
Andronikos’s gaze softened, though he didn’t press further. Instead, he said, “Your father is not an easy man to convince, Domine. He is driven by power, by strategy. If you want him to listen, you must appeal to what he values most.”
Romulus frowned. “Strength? Fear?”
“Control,” Andronikos corrected. “He does not fear betrayal because he believes he can control those around him. He will not act on warnings alone—not without proof.”
Romulus’s shoulders slumped. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
Andronikos rose from his chair, pacing slowly across the room. “You are the emperor. Though your power is limited now, you still have a voice. Use it wisely. Observe. Listen. Gather allies—not through fear, but through respect. If you cannot reach your father, perhaps you can reach those who influence him.”
Romulus considered this, though frustration still burned in his chest. “He thinks I’m just a boy,” he muttered. “How can I change his mind if he won’t give me a chance?”
Andronikos stopped, his hands clasped behind his back. “You change his mind by showing him what you are capable of, not telling him. Words alone will not suffice—not with Lord Father. He must see strength, resolve, and results.”
Romulus looked up at the old man, his thoughts churning. “You mean I have to prove myself.”
Andronikos nodded. “Precisely. Whatever you spoke of—whatever you believe in—it must manifest in action. Ideas and arguments are only as powerful as the deeds that follow them.”
The boy fell silent, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. He felt the familiar ache of doubt creeping in, but beneath it, there was a flicker of determination. Act. Prove myself. Show him I’m more than just a boy.
As Andronikos returned to his seat, he added, “And remember, Domine: Even the greatest emperors began with small steps. Do not try to move mountains in a single day.”
Romulus nodded slowly. “Thank you, Andronikos.”
The Greek offered a faint smile. “Always, Domine. Now, rest.”
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When Andronikos left, the silence of the room felt heavier than ever. Romulus paced back and forth, his mind churning. He could still feel the sting of his father’s dismissal, the cold finality of his words: “The best way to protect me is to stay out of my way.”
But staying out of the way wasn’t an option—not anymore. Romulus sank into the chair at his desk, the worn wood creaking under his small frame. The faint glow of the lamp cast long shadows across the parchment and scrolls scattered before him. His reflection flickered faintly in the polished bronze mirror beside him—too young, too small, too unworthy.
I must prove myself.
The words echoed in his mind, driving away the fatigue of the day. His father wouldn’t listen, not now, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make him see. Romulus leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his hands running through his hair as he wrestled with his thoughts.
What can I do? What do I know?
He thought of Gaius’s words about the balance of strength and wisdom, about purpose. He thought of Andronikos’s counsel: Observe. Listen. Act.
But most of all, he thought of the knowledge that set him apart—the strange visions of things no one else could imagine. He had seen devices that could reshape the world: machines of iron and fire, tools that turned barren fields into bountiful harvests, discoveries that banished disease and suffering. They felt as real to him as the room around him, yet impossibly distant.
What if I could bring one of them here? What if I could give Rome something that no one else has?
He pulled a blank sheet of parchment toward him and dipped his quill into the inkpot. For a moment, the lines and shapes of his dreams eluded him, slipping through his mind like water through clenched fists. Then, slowly, he began to draw.
The strokes were uncertain at first, then grew steadier. He sketched the iron plow, its sharp blades cutting into the soil with ease. He remembered the farmers from his father’s campaigns, their fields cracked and dry, their harvests too meager to support an army. With this tool, they could till faster, deeper, better. More food for the legions, more food for the cities.
His hand paused. The design was simple enough to replicate, wasn’t it? He could explain it to a blacksmith, find someone to test it. He felt a flicker of hope—small, but bright.
But then doubt crept in. Would anyone take him seriously? Would they dismiss his ideas as the idle dreams of a boy? Or worse, would they succeed, only for others to take credit, leaving him in the shadows?
The weight of it all pressed down on him, and he leaned back in his chair, staring at the half-finished sketch. The lamp’s flame flickered, casting his features in sharp relief. He was only ten years old. A boy forced to wear a man’s crown.
But I am also an emperor.
The thought gave him strength. Even if no one believed in him now, he had time. Time to learn. Time to build. Time to prove them wrong.
Romulus picked up the quill again, his resolve hardening. He wouldn’t stop at the plow. He would think of something else—something bigger, something undeniable. The empire might not listen to a child, but it would listen to results.
Hours passed, and the light of dawn began to creep through the curtains. Romulus’s eyelids grew heavy, but he refused to leave his desk. The parchment before him was littered with sketches and notes, some clear, others half-formed. His thoughts ran faster than his hand could keep up, but it didn’t matter.
He would not give up. He would not let the burden crush him.
As the first rays of sunlight touched the horizon, Romulus whispered to himself, a promise: “I will find a way.”
And for the first time since his coronation, the words didn’t feel hollow.