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We’re taken to the Domus Transitoria, Emperor Nero’s palace, our group hemmed in by the many guards around us.

I try not to gape as we enter the massive structure, but even among the opulence of Rome, this is unprecedented—marble floors, lavish frescos, gilded columns, statues of gods and rulers so masterfully crafted they could be the real people.

Our footfalls echo through the space as the Praetorian Guard take us deeper into the structure. Finally, we stop before a portiere, the curtains a rich Tyrian purple, and the prefect turns to us.

“Your men can come no farther,” he tells Memnon.

Memnon nods. Without glancing at his men, he says in Sarmatian, “Wait here for me. Accept no offerings from these men; they are known for their deceit. Should any Roman move against you, strike them down. I will handle the rest.”

I manage to keep my expression carefully blank, but inside I quake at his words.

Memnon’s men move away from our backs. Only then does the prefect sweep aside the curtained doorway to let us through.

The receiving hall we step into is just as richly adorned as the rest of the palace, the floors marble, the walls painted with various myths of Rome.

Low couches and side tables are scattered throughout the room for men to recline in and chat.

Even with the gilded throne situated at the back, it hardly seems like an appropriate room to face off with an intruder such as Memnon.

The space is currently empty, save for the emperor’s guardsmen that file in behind us, the prefect among them. I eye the men warily.

You are safe, my amage, Memnon insists again, his hand going to the small of my back and lingering there, his touch like a brand.

I glance up at him, and as soon as my eyes take in his profile, I cannot seem to look away, ensnared by his violent beauty.

Will you tell me now what that endearment means? I manage to ask.

Memnon glances down at me, the corner of his mouth curved up, like he might know I’m fawning over him. Is it not obvious? he asks. It means queen .

My eyes widen. I always assumed the term meant something like dearest or beloved . Some sweet sentiment that didn’t have a proper Latin translation. Instead, he’s been giving me a title I knew nothing of. And gods, he’s been doing so for years .

I’m so caught up in the revelation, I don’t notice the older woman who strides through the far doorway, flanked by more guards. Not until she speaks.

“You’ll need to disarm yourself before you speak with my son,” she commands, her face pinched in displeasure. She’s dressed in all the opulence of a ruler herself, adorned in reds and golds and dripping in jewelry.

So that must be Nero’s mother, Agrippina. I’ve heard whispers about her—that her son might rule the empire, but she rules him .

Memnon looks vaguely amused at the order, but nonetheless, he removes his bow and the arrows strapped to his side, the weapons clattering as he drops them to the ground. Next, he removes his sword, then a dagger from his waist, tossing the blades away from him, the sound echoing loudly in the room.

He holds his now-empty arms out at his sides.

“Step away from your weapons, King,” Agrippina demands.

Memnon steps forward, arms still stretched out at his sides. Without thinking, I move along with him, the action earning me a snicker from one of the many guards stationed along the edges of the room.

“Am I harmless enough now?” Memnon asks.

“There is no such thing as a harmless Sarmatian,” Agrippina says. But she still nods to the prefect. He breaks away from the rest of the guards and heads to the back curtained doorway. When he returns, the emperor is with him.

“Emperor Nero Caesar Augustus,” the prefect announces, “Head of Priests, Holder of the Tribunician Power, and Father of the Fatherland.”

Nero is…not as I imagined him. Not as big, not as heroic, not as noble—but then, perhaps I pictured the emperor to be the personification of Roman might, larger and grander than the rest of us mortals.

But not even Nero’s golden armor nor his rich purple toga and the cape he wears can offset his soft, boyish frame or the baby fat that still clings to his face.

Despite his innocuous appearance, the hairs along my arms rise. He may look young, but he does have a brutish set to his features that makes me want to avoid his attention.

He crosses the room while the prefect breaks away to take position nearby.

It may not matter that Nero does not look like some hero of our empire because he wears his power like a mantle.

It’s there in his swagger and his loud, echoing footsteps, in the obstinate set of his jaw and the strange shine of his eyes.

When he gets to us, the emperor barely registers my existence, even as I dip my head. Instead, he openly stares at Memnon.

“A barbarian warlord,” he says with awe. “I’ve heard stories of your kind.”

“Nero,” Agrippina cautions at his side, her expression a great deal more wary.

The emperor looks at his mother, who glances back at the gilded chair behind them. Nero scowls at her until Agrippina casts her eyes to the ground. Even then, he continues to stare at her, his expression growing colder.

“If you like the throne so badly, why don’t you sit at it?” he says to her, his words biting, challenging .

My eyes dart between the two of them as the suddenly tense moment stretches on.

When Agrippina says nothing more, Nero returns his attention to Memnon. “My mother thinks you are a threat,” he says. “And that it’s unbecoming of an emperor to stand so close to a barbarian.

“But I know better. Only a fool would think of attacking me openly.” Nero tilts his head. “Isn’t that right?”

I sense Memnon studying the emperor, and it’s all I can do to not look over at the Sarmatian king. My king. A thrill runs through me at the thought.

“Indeed,” Memnon says.

Nero turns to his mother, who has only just lifted her head. “See?” he says, gesturing to Memnon. “The man is no fool. He even speaks the common tongue.” Nero turns back to us. “Not many brutes do. No wonder you are king.”

There’s a mocking edge to Nero’s words, though I cannot tell if the young ruler is aware of it himself.

His eyes trail up and down Memnon. “I hear you shoot from horseback. You’ll have to give me a demonstration.”

“Nero,” Agrippina again cautions.

The emperor laughs, as though purposefully goading her. “Maybe we can make my mother the target. Then we’d see just how good of a shot you really are.”

The earlier tension in the room ratchets up, and magic sifts out from my palms. Memnon is carefully scrutinizing both mother and son.

“I am not interested in starting a war,” Memnon finally says.

“You would be ending one,” Nero corrects, his casual tone chilling me. His mother’s lack of reaction while her son openly discusses her murder is just as unsettling.

“But you surprise me,” Nero continues. “You rode into Rome armed and dressed for battle, yet you don’t want war? How very interesting.”

Memnon says nothing to that, though to me he admits, I wanted to impress you.

My eyebrows rise, an action that shrewd Agrippina notices, her eyes narrowing and her lips pursing. But Nero is still captivated by Memnon and pays me no mind.

“What is your name?” Nero asks Memnon. The emperor’s eyes keep dropping to his scale mail and perhaps the few scars and tattoos that peek out from beneath his clothing and armor.

“Memnon the Indomitable, ruler of the Sarmatians.”

Memnon the Indomitable? I say across our bond, remembering that he mentioned this title earlier as well. I don’t know if I’m teasing or curious.

Please tell me you’re impressed , he says.

Oh, very. Normally, I’d have a wittier response, but right now, I feel like I’m in the jaws of some great predator, and managing a light tone at all is an effort.

“Well, Memnon the Indomitable ,” Nero says, cutting into the silent conversation happening between me and the Sarmatian, “I was told you entered my city uninvited and unannounced with a small contingent of men, then proceeded to enter the house of one of our citizens. Sometime later, you then left it with a woman,” he says.

“A woman who, I’m told, was to be married on this very day. ”

For the first time since he entered the room, the emperor finally turns and takes me in. His eyes have barely settled on me when Memnon’s indigo magic begins circling around my body protectively.

Nero cocks his head as his eyes slide up and down my form.

“Orange veil, flower crown, stark white tunic, a belted knot of Hercules, and—” Without preamble, he reaches out and lifts my skirts.

Memnon’s magic streams out of him then, and he takes an ominous step toward me and the emperor as Nero finishes, “Matching orange sandals. This looks to me like a fucking stolen bride.”

Nero’s eyes still have an unsettling gleam to them, but the levity he carried only moments before is gone when he drops my skirts and returns his attention to Memnon. If the emperor notices the Sarmatian king is now closer to him, he doesn’t let on, though Agrippina looks positively alarmed.

“So,” Nero continues, “I am perplexed when you say you are not interested in war. Because entering my city armed for battle and stealing away one of my citizens’ wives is a call to war.” The emperor’s eyes briefly flick to me again before returning to Memnon. “Should I view it as such, Sarmatian?”

Memnon stares the emperor down, his brown eyes almost luminous. Whatever hopes of diplomacy either man had, they rapidly dwindle as Memnon’s magic begins to pour out of him, gathering like storm clouds around us.

“No,” Memnon says, “that was not an act of war.” His magic shoots out of him, the arms of it reaching across the room in an instant, enveloping Agrippina and the guards posted along the edges of the room. “This is.”

In unison, the eyes of Nero’s mother and his guards roll back, and their legs fold.