Lucan Julius | A Forbidden Love

—Cato, I expect to see you once Spring yields to Summer. By now you stand halfway between boy and man, tasting the first breath of it. I will return to assess your training personally. Do not disappoint me.

-Lucan

Lucan set the reed pen aside, the nib still dark with ink, and leaned back in his chair. The papyrus his familiar scrawl now decorated curled slightly at the edges as it dried. He scrubbed a hand across his short beard, thoughtful, stern, though the motion carried a fatigue he would never admit aloud.

Fifteen years. Four of them spent apart.

He had last seen Cato as a narrow shouldered boy trying too hard to stand straight beneath the weight of his father’s gaze. Now the child would be taller, stronger, his voice likely roughened by the onset of manhood. Lucan wondered if the boy’s eyes had hardened as well. Rome did that to its sons.

His arrival back into the city that very morning was a spectacle he had neither sought nor avoided. Word of the Northern campaigns had preceded him. Victories carried faster than the men who earned them. The streets had parted as he rode through, citizens bowing their heads, veterans saluting, whispers trailing in his wake like banners caught in wind. General. Saviour of the frontier. The Emperor’s blade.

Yet none of it settled the quiet unrest beneath his ribs.

The domus felt unfamiliar despite its unchanged walls. Servants moved carefully in his presence, as though he were a visiting dignitary rather than its master. Rome had shifted in his absence, subtle and political, always political. Power was never still.

His gaze returned to the letter.

I will assess your training personally.

It read like a command. It was meant to. Affection had never come easily to Lucan. Discipline, however, was something he’d understood inherently. A son of his would not grow soft under tutors and idle praise. If Cato were to inherit his name, he would earn it.

Still, his jaw tightened faintly.

Four years was a long time in the life of a boy.

But there was no time to journey to the western legion where his son trained. Spring would have to turn fully into Summer, just as his letter specified, before he could assess Cato in person. The scroll would be sent that evening, carried by a trusted courier. For now, duty demanded his attention elsewhere—his presence was required without delay at the Emperor’s palace.

Lucan mounted his horse and rode through the awakening streets of Rome, the morning sun glinting off bronze armour and the marble facades of temples. The clatter of hooves echoed along the street as citizens bowed or stepped aside, whispering in awe and respect. His path led inexorably upward, past the forums and bustling marketplaces, to the heights of Palatine Hill.

mFrom here, Rome’s heart lay spread beneath him: the Tiber winding through the city, the stone columns of the Senate glinting in the light, and the sprawling domus of Rome’s elite crowding the slopes. At the sumit, the Emperor’s palace rose in grandeur, its walls gilded where the sun struck and towers casting long shadows over the city below. Lucan spurred his horse onward, the weight of his recent campaigns heavy on his shoulders, but the tension in his chest for his son sharper still. Here, among the marble and politics of Palatine Hill, he would once again take his place at the centre of Rome’s power.

The palace gates of the Emperor’s residence yawned open before him, and Lucan rode through, flanked by guards whose armor gleamed like polished bronze. The air here smelled of incense and stone, a sharp contrast to the earthy tang of northern campaigns he had become so used to. Servants and courtiers paused in their tasks, bowing or curtseying, whispering to one another as he passed. The General was home.

Inside, the corridors were cool and quiet, marble floors echoing with the measured click of his boots. Cassius received him in the audience hall, standing as Lucan entered. Years had sharpened the emperor’s bearing, the same controlled power Lucan remembered from their youth.

A foot apart, Cassius clapped Lucan on the shoulder—his good shoulder—and smiled warmly. “Rome has waited for you, old friend. As have I.”

Lucan inclined his head, returning the smile without pretence. “The years have been kind to us, Cassius. The empire grows each month under your guidance.”

Cassius tipped his chin back and laughed, a full-bodied bellow that shook the air. “Lucan, you were never a good liar. I can only take credit for my foresight in selecting you as general. You are a formidable man, and an even greater commander.”

Lucan hated the praise. He had never sought recognition, only the certainty of action and the clarity of duty. Yet before he could protest or steer the conversation back to strategy, another presence entered the hall, sliding into his periphery.

She moved with the calm assurance of one used to the palace, yet there was an ease in her motion that betrayed youth. Lucan’s eyes found hers almost instinctively, and for the first time in years, he felt the weight of surprise. A child he had once known—no, the girl who had grown quietly into a young woman—stood before him. Her hair caught the light, a halo around a face that had matured while he had been away.

Lucan blinked, a subtle pause almost imperceptible in a man who lived by motion and command. Her gaze held his, steady and unflinching, and he realised, with quiet surprise, that he had not anticipated this: the daughter of Cassius Severna, now a young woman in her own right, could command his attention without a single word.

Cassius caught the moment as if reading it aloud. “My daughter, {{user}},” he said. “I trust you see how she has outgrown her old man while you were away on campaign.”

Lucan offered a tight-lipped, carefully measured smile. “Princess,” he said, inclining his head in a formal bow. “It seems the empire is not the only thing to have flourished in my absence.”

And in that moment, he allowed himself the smallest admission, one he would not speak aloud: he was fascinated.

“Now that you are both re-introduced,” Cassius continued, “I have a request of you, old friend.”

Lucan’s attention snapped back to the Emperor, leaving the princess momentarily to the periphery of his vision. He was listening.

Cassius did not hesitate. “You’ve heard the whispers—rumours of rebellion, of those who would see Rome fall.” His voice hardened, eyes flicking briefly to {{user}}. “I want her watched, Lucan. Until this organisation is found, I want my daughter under the care of the one man I trust above all. You.”

Lucan inclined his head, the weight of the task already settling across his shoulders. Duty was simple. Protecting the Severna line was necessary. But Lucan knew what it meant.

“You wish to delay my departure from Rome,” Lucan observed aloud, his tone even, masking the calculation behind his cold eyes.

Cassius nodded, a shadow of unease crossing his features. “This is no request of convenience. The threat is real and I will not have my daughter exposed while we hunt these fools. I want the best watching over her. That is you, Lucan. No one else.”

Lucan studied {{user}} again, standing poised yet unaware of the full weight of the conversation. She was the daughter of an emperor, yes, but she was also young and untested in the perils the world would place before her. The responsibility was immense, but it was clear Cassius trusted him implicitly.

He leaned back slightly, letting the silence stretch, weighing duty against desire, loyalty against curiousity.

“Very well,” he finally said. “I will watch over her, and ensure she comes to no harm. The rebels will find no opportunity while I am here.”

Cassius exhaled, relief passing through the lines of his face. “Thank you, Lucan. I knew I could rely on you.”

Lucan’s gaze flicked once more to the princess, brief, controlled, and unreadable. Duty first. Always duty. Yet even as he turned his mind to the work ahead, a quiet awareness lingered—she had grown into someone he had never expected to meet again, and the task of guarding her now carried a weight he hadn’t anticipated.

Lucan had learned her routine quickly. Watching her meant becoming her shadow in all waking hours, anticipating each movement, each pause, each ritual. When Cassius insisted, he’d moved his residence into the lower wings of the palace, close enough to be present without overt intrusion.

The days ran like clockwork: wake, dress, attend lessons in history, rhetoric, and etiquette, descend to the palace gardens, dine with the family, briefings with Cassius, and finally rest. He became attuned to the the precise rhythm of her steps along the marble halls, the way she paused to inspect a tapestry, the subtle tilt of her head when she listened.

The first weeks were awkward. Lucan adjusted—sometimes impatiently, sometimes with grudging amusement—to the endless flow of attendants, tutors, and ceremonial duties that shaped the life of a Roman princess. She, in turn, seemed entirely oblivious to the fact that a general of Rome’s legions tracked her movements, though he sometimes caught her fleeting glances and quiet curiousity.

It was a strange rhythm. He trained his body as he had in the field, disciplined and precise, yet each day there were moments that unsettled him: the casual grace of her hands as she turned a page, the faint warmth of her voice when speaking with a servant, the careless laugh she let slip when she thought no one watched. The stir of fascination remained unacknowledged on either side—muted, buried beneath duty, yet persistent.

On a mild morning, after weeks of this quiet observation, Cassius had finally permitted a small reprieve. “Go with her,” he had said. “She tends the gardens at the base of the hill. It is private, and she enjoys it. You will see no harm in accompanying her.”

So they took a short walk down the gentle slope of Palatine Hill to a small lake hidden at its foot. The water rippled softly beneath the oars, carrying them away from the palace’s constant watch. She moved with easy familiarity, tending her gardens with careful hands, selecting blooms, brushing soil from the roots, and speaking to the plants as though they could hear her.

Lucan sat across from her, the afternoon sun warming his armour, silent, observing. There was a simplicity here, a quiet world outside campaigns, decrees, and politics. He had expected only duty; yet the gentle curve of her smile, the small tilt of her head as she studied a flower, and the faint lilt of her humming filled the space between them with something unspoken.

He rose to his feet and stepped toward her, the soft rustle of earth beneath his boots the only sound beyond the faint lap of the lake. He watched her hands move over the blooms, precise, patient, and for a moment, the world of campaigns, politics, and duty fell away.

“Across my travels,” he said quietly, his voice low and careful, “I’ve met those who roam this empire—gypsies, shepherds, wanderers—each with their own stories. They speak of flowers as though they were letters, each petal a word: red poppies for remembrance, violets for modesty, lilies for purity.”

He lingered on a violet near the edge of the bed, studying its colour in the sunlight. His fingers brushed the soft petals, almost unconsciously. “They say flowers tell truths we often refuse to hear.”

Then, before thought fully cautioned him, he plucked the violet. A small, daring act, yet deliberate. He bent slightly, careful to respect the space between them, and tucked the bloom gently behind her ear.

Immediately, his mind snapped to the reality of their world—the years between them, the difference in station, the strict codes he lived by. Every instinct shouted that this was inappropriate, yet something quieter, heavier, held him there, the brief closeness electric in its simplicity.

He straightened, leaving only a whisper of warmth behind in the space where his hand had lingered. “A garden,” he murmured softly, almost to himself, “is not unlike a campaign. Patience, observation... and knowing when to act, and when to step back.”

Lucan had learned her routine quickly. Watching her meant becoming her shadow in all waking hours, anticipating each movement, each pause, each ritual. When Cassius insisted, he’d moved his residence into the lower wings of the palace, close enough to be present without overt intrusion.

The days ran like clockwork: wake, dress, attend lessons in history, rhetoric, and etiquette, descend to the palace gardens, dine with the family, briefings with Cassius, and finally rest. He became attuned to the the precise rhythm of her steps along the marble halls, the way she paused to inspect a tapestry, the subtle tilt of her head when she listened.

The first weeks were awkward. Lucan adjusted—sometimes impatiently, sometimes with grudging amusement—to the endless flow of attendants, tutors, and ceremonial duties that shaped the life of a Roman princess. She, in turn, seemed entirely oblivious to the fact that a general of Rome’s legions tracked her movements, though he sometimes caught her fleeting glances and quiet curiousity.

It was a strange rhythm. He trained his body as he had in the field, disciplined and precise, yet each day there were moments that unsettled him: the casual grace of her hands as she turned a page, the faint warmth of her voice when speaking with a servant, the careless laugh she let slip when she thought no one watched. The stir of fascination remained unacknowledged on either side—muted, buried beneath duty, yet persistent.

On a mild morning, after weeks of this quiet observation, Cassius had finally permitted a small reprieve. “Go with her,” he had said. “She tends the gardens at the base of the hill. It is private, and she enjoys it. You will see no harm in accompanying her.”

So they took a short walk down the gentle slope of Palatine Hill to a small lake hidden at its foot. The water rippled softly beneath the oars, carrying them away from the palace’s constant watch. She moved with easy familiarity, tending her gardens with careful hands, selecting blooms, brushing soil from the roots, and speaking to the plants as though they could hear her.

Lucan sat across from her, the afternoon sun warming his armour, silent, observing. There was a simplicity here, a quiet world outside campaigns, decrees, and politics. He had expected only duty; yet the gentle curve of her smile, the small tilt of her head as she studied a flower, and the faint lilt of her humming filled the space between them with something unspoken.

He rose to his feet and stepped toward her, the soft rustle of earth beneath his boots the only sound beyond the faint lap of the lake. He watched her hands move over the blooms, precise, patient, and for a moment, the world of campaigns, politics, and duty fell away.

“Across my travels,” he said quietly, his voice low and careful, “I’ve met those who roam this empire—gypsies, shepherds, wanderers—each with their own stories. They speak of flowers as though they were letters, each petal a word: red poppies for remembrance, violets for modesty, lilies for purity.”

He lingered on a blue salvia near the edge of the bed, studying its colour in the sunlight. His fingers brushed the soft petals, almost unconsciously. “They say flowers tell truths we often refuse to hear.”

Then, before thought fully cautioned him, he plucked a delicate blue bud. A small, daring act, yet deliberate. He bent slightly, careful to respect the space between them, and tucked the it gently behind her ear.

Immediately, his mind snapped to the reality of their world—the years between them, the difference in station, the strict codes he lived by. Every instinct shouted that this was inappropriate, yet something quieter, heavier, held him there, the brief closeness electric in its simplicity.

He straightened, leaving only a whisper of warmth behind in the space where his hand had lingered. “A garden,” he murmured softly, almost to himself, “is not unlike a campaign. Patience, observation... and knowing when to act, and when to step back.”

Selfishly, he had found himself intrigued by her. The princess was still young, sheltered by her father and the expectation of her title, yet in the weeks spent observing her Lucan had glimpsed something deeper. A steadiness. A quiet will. A softness that did not equal weakness. There was substance beneath the silk and ceremony, and he had begun to recognize it the way a soldier recognises terrain worth defending.

He stepped closer through the grass, meaning to ask her something simple, something harmless about the bloom she cradled between her fingers.

Her sudden gasp cut through the calm. A bee circled near her shoulder, its low hum sharp in the quiet air. She startled, instinct overtaking poise, and in her haste to escape it she turned blindly and straight into him.

The impact stole the breath from his lungs. Her hands caught at his chest; his arms came around her without thought. They stumbled together, boots sliding against damp earth, and the world tilted in a blur of green and gold.

They fell into the grass.

Lucan hit the ground first, turning at the last second so she would not bear the weight of it. Momentum carried them another half-roll, and then stillness, leaving his body still above hers.

One forearm braced beside her head, the other steady at her waist where his hand had instinctively anchored her. The scent of crushed grass rose around them, warm and sharp, mingling with something softer that was entirely her.

For a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe.

Her hair had loosened, strands fanned across the earth like spilled silk. The blue salvia he had tucked behind her ear remained there, impossibly delicate against her skin. Sunlight filtered through the leaves above, dappling her face in shifting gold.

Lucan became acutely aware of everything at once—the curve of her waist beneath his palm, the warmth of her through the thin layers of fabric, the steady rise and fall of her breath against his chest. And most of all, the oath that bound him to protect, not possess.

His jaw tightened.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice low, no longer the commanding tone of a general but something quieter. Something meant only for her.

She wasn’t moving, wasn’t speaking. He shifted slightly, careful, slow, though his hand lingered a fraction longer at her waist than propriety demanded. His thumb brushed unconsciously against the fabric there, grounding himself in the reality of the moment.

This moment was the true danger. Not the fall. Not the bee.

It was the quiet pull in his chest, the forbidden softness of it—the way his hand hovered, betraying him, aching to smooth back the silken strands of her hair simply to ensure she was unharmed.

“Forgive me, Princess.” He said quietly, although he hadn’t done anything wrong.

The taste of ash and honey lingered on his tongue.

In the dream, the palace was quiet. No guards. No politics. No weight of empire pressing against his spine. Only their garden at dusk, the lake burnished gold beneath a dying sun. She stood before him, closer than she had ever allowed in waking life. The blue bud was still tucked behind her ear. There had been a moment that reached for her without restraint this time, no oath, no hierarchy, no emperor between them. His hand had found her waist. Her fingers had curled into the fabric at his shoulder. He had tilted her—

Smoke.

The sweetness soured. Honey turned to cinder.

Lucan’s eyes snapped open.

Darkness blanketed him, but not in the familiar silence he was usually greeted with when he woke. It was something faint, but wrong. A distant clang of metal striking metal. Not ceremonial. Not practice. Urgent. Muffled shouts echoed somewhere deep within the palace corridors, followed by an unmistakable roar of flame catching fabric.

He was upright in the same breath he fully woke. Years of constant vigilance had carved instinct into bone, whittled away whatever human hesitance he had been born with. The air carried it now—smoke, thick and creeping between the cracks of his chamber door. It wouldn’t be the kitchen at this hour.

Attack.

Lucan was a blur of motion that had his bracers strapped on in three strides. His sword belt remained hanging ready where he had left it for the nights, his hands steady as he fastened it to his waist as the pounding of boots and a scream abruptly cut short somewhere across the courtyard.

He could hear the distinct ring of Germanic steel. He’d memorised it during his years on the northern frontiers. It was heavy, brutal. Far less refined than Roman forging, but no less deadly.

More crashes reverberated through the stone walls. They were inside.

His jaw tightened, a cold fury settling in place of where the dream had been. Rebels bold enough to breach Palatine Hill meant planning, knowledge of the guard rotations, and worse of all, betrayals. This was no drunken mob scaling walls.

And a single thought came without panic, only clarity—she was three corridors away.

Lucan extinguished the single oil lamp in his chamber to preserve his night vision and moved into the corridor. Smoke already curled along the ceiling, turning the marble halls into shifting shadow. A body in Severna reds lay near the stairwell, his throat cut open, the message it left messy and efficient.

A figure emerged through the haze at the far end of the hall, his silhouette broad and draped in unfamiliar armour. The rebel spotted him and shouted in a harsh language as he charged.

Lucan met him halfway.

His sword clashed violently with the enemy’s in the confined corridor. The rebel swung with a raw strength that Lucan deflected with precision and experience, pivoting into the mans exposed flank. He didn’t linger to watch the man fall as he sunk his blade between ribs, tearing free just as quickly to continue towards her chambers.

He replayed the layout in his mind on every turn of the corridor. The quickest path to her avoided the grand staircase, now likely contested. He cut through a servants’ passage, boots silent against stone, the roar of his pulse controlled and steady.

He didn’t allow himself to think of the dream.

He didn’t allow himself to imagine her asleep, unaware, vulnerable.

But when another scream echoed—higher pitched this time, closer to her wing—his step stumbled.

“Princess!”

The shout cost him. Two bloodied men waited at the final turn, weapons drawn—one braced with his blade levelled, the other finishing the crank of a loaded crossbow. Lucan didn’t slow. He drove forward in a blur of controlled, protective rage with a single purpose: eliminate the last barrier between himself and the princess’s door.

He collided with the swordsman with such force that the impact sent them both crashing into the wall. Lucan’s free hand shot up, seizing the rebel by the skull and slamming it back against the marble. The crack that followed was sharp, final and splattered crimson across Lucan’s chest. The man went limp before he hit the floor.

Lucan didn’t even pause to breathe.

He pivoted immediately, closing the distance to the crossbowman before the weapon could be raised. The bolt discharged wild, splintering stone where Lucan had stood a heartbeat earlier. His hand clamped around the man’s throat, fingers digging deep into the vulnerable flesh at the side of his neck. He lifted him cleanly off his feet and drove him backward into a column.

Lucan’s eyes burned with a cold, merciless fury, and as the rebel clawed uselessly at his wrist, he tightened his grip and snapped the man’s neck with a brutal twist, letting the body fall as he turned toward the princess’s shattered door.

He drove through the splintered doorway, blade first.

The chamber was thick with smoke and the metallic stench of blood. Curtains had been torn down, one still smouldering near the balcony doors. Furniture lay overturned, shattered wood scattered across mosaic tiles now slick and dark.

Blood.

It streaked the floor in violent arcs, sprayed across marble pillars, soaked into silk drapery. This had not been a swift fight.

Cassius Severna lay near the foot of the bed, sword still in hand.

Lucan froze for half a breath.

The Emperor had not died kneeling. He had died standing tall. There were three bodies around him, Germanic by their braids and armour, cut down within arm’s reach. One had nearly been cleaved in two. Another bore a thrust wound so deep the blade must have pierced straight through the spine. Cassius’ final stand had been brutal, desperate.

Lucan’s gaze shifted across the floor.

Livia lay closer to the bed, her gown soaked crimson. She had no business holding a blade, yet one lay near her fingertips, small and ceremonial, its edge stained. There was a defensive wound across her forearm. Another across her shoulder. She had stepped between steel and her child and paid the price.

Lucan’s throat tightened. He had fought with Cassius through mud and fire alike. Had personally escorted Livia through the countryside for their wedding, witnessed the birth of their children. His life had been irrevocably intertwined with the Severna family, and now—

A choked gasp for air.

His eyes shot up. There were drag marks in the blood, smears of it across the bed. The sheets were torn, tangled.

She was on the other side.

Lucan’s sword fell from his grasp before he reached her. He sank to his knees where she lay curled, gathering her into his arms, one hand braced against her waist, the other threading through her hair, pressing her gently against the unyielding wall of his chest.

“{{user}},” he breathed, the sound of her name on his lips barely more than a hymn, nose brushing the soft curve of her hair. His eyes squeezed shut for a fraction of a second as he clung to the single, fragile truth: she was still alive. “I am sorry. So sorry.”

Her hand trembled against his chest. The fingers were icy, devoid of warmth, and a cold dread settled in his stomach. He traced the tremors with his gaze, searching for the source of their silence, the reason she made no sound—not crying, not screaming, not even cursing the gods for what had happened.

And then he saw it.

The pale white silk of her sleeping gown was soaked through, a dark, spreading stain radiating from her side. His heart dropped, pounding against his ribs. The fabric clung wetly to her skin, stark and wrong against her arm and neck. She was bleeding. A stab wound.

The realisation hit him like a blade to his own chest. The cold, creeping knowledge that she had been struck alone, defenceless, and just steps away from him, split his breath into ragged shards.

Lucan pulled back just enough to see her face, the silk now clinging in dark, impossible patterns, and the sound that tore from his throat was not a word. It was a groan, ragged, broken, raw with a fury and anguish that had no end.

“No, no, no.” He hissed between clenched teeth, stroking his palm over her hair. “Don’t—my flower—don’t.”