They say loyalty is everything in Rome.

Then why did I trade my oath for a woman who never even said goodbye?

My name is Cassian Varo. I was a legionary under General Corvinus, stationed near the Danube. We’d crushed the rebels in Dacia. They called us heroes. Rome called us “sons of the empire.”

But I was just a fool in love with a girl I wasn’t supposed to touch.

Her name was Cyra. A translator. Half-Thracian, half-sorceress, if you believed the whispers in camp. She had these eyes like frozen wine—dark, but sharp, like they knew something.

We met in secret. I taught her Latin; she taught me how to lie with my eyes. We weren’t just lovers—we were fire in a city made of stone.

Until I did the unthinkable.

There was a raid. A village. My orders were clear—no survivors.

But Cyra’s brother was there. I saw his face. She had shown me a sketch once, drawn in coal on a ripped piece of tent cloth.

I let him go.

And somehow, someone knew.

They didn’t confront me right away. Romans prefer the slow poison of suspicion. First came the reassignment. Then the isolation. Then the missing rations. Then the blade under my cot, placed there by someone who wanted it found.

Now I’m running. Not from enemies of Rome—but from Rome itself.

And Cyra?

She vanished the morning after the raid. No note. No goodbye. Just her ring, tucked inside my boot, and a single word scratched into the leather:

Forgive.

I don’t know if she’s alive. I don’t know if she betrayed me—or saved me.

All I know is they’ll find me soon.

Unless I find her first.

—

I headed south. The forests offered cover, and I stuck to the shadows. I stole bread from camps when I had to. I gave false names in taverns. Every time I saw a red cloak, my stomach clenched. Even when it was just dye on a merchant’s robe.

I carried nothing but my dagger, her ring, and that scratched message.

Forgive.

Forgive what?

Leaving me? Warning me? Or both?

I started to think it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she knew. Knew they were coming. Knew what I’d done. Maybe even who had turned me in.

And yet, she spared me.

Or maybe she just couldn’t bear to watch me hang.

A month passed. Maybe more. I lost count. Somewhere near the edges of Thrace, I found a woman who claimed to know her name. Not her—just the name.

She said Cyra had kin deeper east. By the sea.

So I kept walking. Through villages half-burned and barely rebuilt. Through roads patrolled by both rebels and Romans, each just as deadly. I kept going until my boots split and my hands cracked from cold.

Then one night, in a fishing port called Tyras, I saw her.

She wasn’t wearing her usual hood. Her hair was down, longer than I remembered, but the way she stood—head tilted, like she was always listening—was unmistakable.

She didn’t look surprised to see me.

She just said, “I hoped you’d find me before they did.”

I didn’t hug her. I couldn’t. I wanted to scream, ask a thousand questions. Instead, I stared.

“Why’d you leave?” I said.

She looked down. “Because I knew what would happen.”

“You warned me.”

“I tried. But I couldn’t risk being followed.”

We sat by the dock, the sea lapping at the wood. She told me what happened after the raid. How one of the officers—Cotta—had seen me hesitate. Had started watching me.

“How do you know it was him?” I asked.

“Because he came to me,” she said quietly. “He asked questions. Too many. He wanted to know if I trusted you.”

“And you said…”

“I said you were Roman. That was enough for him to doubt me, too.”

My throat tightened. “So he was going to arrest us both?”

She nodded. “Or worse. He already suspected my brother was still alive.”

I looked at her. Really looked. She was thinner. Her cheekbones sharper. But she was still Cyra. Still the only person who ever made Rome feel like a whisper instead of a weight.

“I let him go,” I said. “Your brother. I don’t even know where he ran to.”

Her eyes softened. “You gave him a chance. That’s all I ever wanted.”

We stayed in Tyras three nights. It felt like stolen time.

Then a ship docked. Roman flags. A senator’s envoy, passing through, but they brought soldiers. Not many. Enough to ask questions.

Cyra and I fled before sunrise.

We traveled inland, toward a friend of hers in a village called Orthea. A healer. Someone who owed her father a favor.

Along the way, we learned to trust again. I started to believe maybe we could disappear—start over. Maybe Rome wouldn’t chase us forever.

But Rome doesn’t forget.

At Orthea, the healer let us stay in the cellar. We lit no candles. We spoke only in whispers.

Then one afternoon, I heard footsteps above us. Not villagers. Not friends.

Boots.

Metal.

Legion.

They were searching houses.

I kissed Cyra’s forehead and told her to stay hidden. I climbed out the cellar window and ran straight into the woods, away from the village.

It worked. They followed me.

I ran until my lungs burned. I let them catch a glimpse of me, then vanished into the trees. I doubled back that night, shaking, hungry, furious with myself for leading them close.

But Cyra was gone.

And so was the healer.

All that remained in the cellar was a scrap of cloth. And written on it, in hurried ink:

Come to the Temple of Anatha. Three days. Don’t trust anyone.

I didn’t even know where the temple was. But I asked. I begged. I traded my last dagger for directions.

Two days later, I stood at its crumbling arch.

It was empty.

Then a whisper from behind.

“Cassian.”

It was the healer. Alone. Pale. She looked terrified.

“They took her,” she said. “Cotta’s men. They think she knows something about rebel movements. They’re holding her in a fortress near Halmyros.”

I clenched my fists. “Why would they take her alive?”

“Because they don’t want her dead. They want you.”

And suddenly it made sense.

Cyra was bait.

She always had been.

But this time, I wasn’t running.

I spent that night preparing. The healer gave me salve for my cracked hands. A traveler gifted me a hood. I borrowed a blade from a farmer, told him I’d return it if the gods allowed.

Halmyros was crawling with soldiers. But Cyra was in the tower, I was sure of it.

I didn’t sneak in. I walked right up to the gate.

And I told the guard, “Tell Cotta the traitor is here.”

They brought me in, chained.

Cotta smirked as he stepped into the room. Older than I remembered. Grayer. But his smugness hadn’t aged a day.

“You saved me the trouble,” he said.

“I want to see her,” I said. “That’s all.”

He shrugged. “You’re not in a position to ask for anything.”

Then Cyra’s voice came from the corridor. Strong. Unshaken.

“Cassian?”

I turned. She looked tired, but unharmed. The fire in her eyes hadn’t dimmed.

“You were right,” she said. “It was always him.”

Cotta frowned. “What are you talking about?”

And then she pulled it out—his own letter. A copy, sealed in wax, naming him as the one who warned the rebels before the Dacia raid.

My betrayal?

A cover.

Cotta had used me as a scapegoat to hide his own treason.

I looked at him. “You let me take the fall.”

He pulled his blade, furious. But two guards stepped in first.

Cyra smiled. “I sent the letter to Rome days ago.”

Turns out, she’d never been just a translator. Her father had been part of the Senate’s intelligence network—killed for the same secrets Cotta had once traded. Cyra was finishing what he started.

And I?

I was the only one who trusted her through it.

They released us two days later.

Not as fugitives.

As witnesses.

The Senate wanted Cotta’s head. We just wanted peace.

So we disappeared again—but not into shadows. Into farmland. Quiet. Honest work.

We married in spring.

No temples. No guests. Just us, and a sky that finally didn’t feel like it was about to collapse.

I still wake up sometimes, gripping the knife under my pillow.

But Cyra always pulls my hand away, reminding me it’s over.

I thought I betrayed Rome for love.

But maybe what I really did was trade blind loyalty for something real.

Love didn’t ruin me.

It saved me.

And in the end, the Empire had to answer for what it covered up.

I didn’t get justice the Roman way—with blood and glory.

I got it through truth.

Through her.

And that’s something I’d betray anything for again.

If you’ve ever felt like the world turned against you for doing the right thing—hold on. Keep going. The truth has a strange way of surfacing… when you least expect it.