Prologue
The basement of the Memorial Library was where silence went to die. Usually, I loved it—the scent of vanilla-tinged rot from old paper and the hum of the HVAC system were my sanctuary. But today, the air felt heavy, like the atmospheric pressure had dropped right before a summer thunderstorm.
I ran a frustrated hand through my curls, feeling the frizz start to react to the weird static in the room. I was five aisles deep into the Ancient Civilizations section, looking for a supplementary text on Roman governance that wouldn't make me want to face-plant into my latte.
Just give up, I told myself. Take the C and go get a burger.
I turned to leave, but a physical sensation—like a hook snagging the center of my chest—jerked me backward. My shoes squeaked against the floor. My eyes locked onto a gap between two massive leather-bound volumes.
There, sitting where a book should be, was a glass case.
My breath hitched. I’d walked this aisle three times in the last ten minutes. That case hadn’t been there. It was narrow, the glass rippled with age, and inside lay a single, weathered scroll of papyrus.
"What the...?" I whispered. My hand moved before my brain could veto the decision.
The glass felt unnervingly warm. I slid the case out from the shelf; it was heavier than it looked, the wood base carved with symbols that seemed to pulse under my thumb. I hurried back to my secluded study table, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Here goes nothing.
The moment my fingertips brushed the parchment, the world turned white.
A jagged bolt of heat surged through my palms, racing up my arms and lacing through my spine. It was like some kind of recognition. My entire body vibrated like a struck tuning fork. I gasped, collapsing into my chair, my vision swimming with purple afterimages.
"Get it together, Sophie," I muttered, shaking out my hands. "It’s just... static electricity.”
But the scroll was already open. The script was archaic, sharp Latin characters inked in a faded, reddish-brown. I groaned. "Great. I can’t even read this stupid thing."
I reached to shove it back into the case, but the pull returned, stronger this time. It forced my chin down, pinning my gaze to the page.
Then, the impossible happened.
The ink began to swim. The Latin characters detached themselves from the fibers, swirling like a colony of disturbed ants. They blurred, elongated, and snapped into focus as crisp, modern English.
"What the fuck?" I blurted out.
"Ssh!" a sharp hiss echoed from three rows over.
"Sorry," I mouthed automatically, though my brain was currently melting. I stared at the page, my pulse thundering in my ears. Was I having a stroke? Had I inhaled some weird mold spores from the 1800s?
The words sat there, mocking me in bold, elegant lettering.
THE LAST WISH OF GENERAL CLAUDIUS
My brow furrowed as I began to read, my internal voice trailing off as the gravity of the words took hold.
If you are reading this scroll, you are now cursed—but not in the way you may think. You are the one who will answer my prayers. I fear that I am going to die soon, and I need your help.
I swallowed hard. My thumb traced the edge of the paper.
I write this from the year 100 in Rome. Time is a thief, and mine is running thin. For years, I have bled for this Empire. I have built a career on the corpses of my enemies and the adoration of the plebeians, all for one purpose: to get close enough to the Emperor to tear the life from his throat. He slaughtered my sister—the only light in a world of iron—and for her soul to find peace, his blood must water the earth.
I prayed to the gods, but they are silent. I have turned, instead, to the Old Magic. I have had a witch bind these words so they might seek a savior. If you can read this, the binding has worked. You can understand my tongue because your mind is no longer your own—it is tethered to mine.
"Binding?" I whispered, a chill creeping up my neck. I looked up to check for the librarian, but the library was... gone.
The dull hum of the fluorescent lights had vanished. The smell of old books was replaced by a sharp, metallic scent—dirt and cedarwood. The aisles were swallowed by a pitch-black void. I was sitting at my wooden table, floating in a sea of nothingness.
A voice, deep and resonant, suddenly filled the vacuum. It wasn't in my ears; it was inside my skull.
"You have likely realized by now that you are no longer in your world," the voice rumbled. It was masculine, weary, and carried the weight of a man who had commanded legions.
On the scroll, new words began to appear in real-time, matching the rhythm of the voice.
"I am sorry for the deception. But the witches have bound our souls. As I write this, you are being pulled through the veil. I need you, stranger. I cannot finish this vengeance alone. Forgive me for what I am about to do."
A blinding light erupted ten feet in front of me. I squinted, shielding my eyes, as the darkness tore open like a wound.
Through the shimmering rift, I saw a room lit by the flickering amber glow of oil lamps. And there, sitting at a heavy oak desk, was him.
He was massive. Even seated, his presence filled the space. His skin was bronzed, the color of a sunset, and his chest was a map of hard-won muscle, partially obscured by the elegant folds of an off-white toga. Golden-brown curls spilled to his shoulders, one stray lock falling over hazel eyes that were narrowed in intense concentration.
He looked like a god carved from marble, brought to life by a desperate prayer.
"General Claudius?" I breathed.
The man’s head snapped up. His pen—a reed stylus—slipped from his fingers. His hazel eyes locked onto mine across two thousand years of history. He looked utterly stunned, his lips parting as he took in my jeans, my tangled hair, and my modern face.
Before I could say another word, the pull became a violent shove.
The chair flew out from under me. I wasn't sitting anymore; I was falling. The light of the portal rushed up to meet me, a roar of wind deafening my ears. I was launched through the veil, my limbs flailing.
I was a projectile, hurtling directly into the broad, muscled lap of one of the most powerful men in Rome.
