Dr. Aris Thorne existed in a world of verifiable facts, of carbon-dated pottery shards and the carefully cross-referenced accounts of long-dead historians. Her office at Oxford University was a testament to this structured reality, a small, book-lined sanctuary smelling of aging paper and academic rigor. Her specialty was the Julio-Claudian dynasty, a period of Roman history rife with enough documented drama—assassinations, conspiracies, incest, and madness—that there was no need for fictional embellishment. Aris dealt in truth, in the tangible echoes of the past.
Which was why the dreams were so profoundly unsettling.
They had started a few months ago, as fleeting, sensory impressions. The scent of bay leaves on a hot breeze, the specific coolness of marble under bare feet, the weight of a woolen stola. Initially, she had dismissed them as the byproduct of professional immersion. When one spends twelve hours a day translating Latin texts about the Vestal Virgins, it was only natural for the subject to seep into the subconscious.
But the dreams had grown, evolving from simple sensations into fully-formed narratives, vivid and startlingly coherent. In these dreams, she was not Aris, the 32-year-old academic with a penchant for cardigans and strong tea. She was Lyra, a priestess of Vesta, her life bound to a sacred, eternal flame in the heart of Neronian Rome.
The dream always began with the fire. It was a living entity, its warmth a constant presence against her skin, its light casting flickering shadows on the polished marble of the circular temple. This was her charge, her sacred duty. The knowledge was innate, as fundamental as breathing. The dreams were filled with details Aris had never encountered in her research. She knew the precise pattern of the mosaic floor hidden beneath a ceremonial rug, the unique, off-key creak of a specific bronze door, the way the late afternoon sun would strike a particular statue, making the carved marble face of the goddess seem to smile.
Tonight, the dream had been the most intense yet. She was Lyra, standing before the sacred flame, the air thick with the heady scent of mola salsa, the salted flour she was about to offer. But she was not alone. A presence behind her, a man. She knew his approach without turning, a familiar, comforting solidity in a life defined by ethereal vows. He was a Praetorian Guard; his name was Cassian. His shadow fell over her as he reached out, his large, calloused hand covering her own as she held the small offering bowl.
The touch was a cataclysm. A jolt, electric and profound, shot up her arm. It was a touch that violated every sacred law she was sworn to uphold. A Vestal’s vow of chastity was absolute; its breach was punishable by the most horrific of deaths—live burial. Terror should have been her only response. But instead, as Cassian’s thumb gently stroked the inside of her wrist, a wave of defiant, all-consuming love washed over her. It was a love that felt more real, more vital, than the sacred fire itself. It was a love that was worth dying for.
Aris awoke with a strangled gasp, sitting bolt upright in her bed. Her quiet Oxford flat was drenched in the cool, grey light of dawn. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. The dream clung to her like a shroud, potent and visceral. She could still smell the incense, still feel the phantom warmth of the fire on her face, and most unsettlingly, she could still feel the ghost of Cassian’s touch on her wrist.
“Get a grip, Thorne,” she muttered, swinging her legs out of bed. The rational part of her brain, the part that wrote peer-reviewed articles and debunked historical myths, was screaming for an explanation. Stress. Oversaturation. A mind playing tricks on itself. She ran a hand through her tangled brown hair and walked towards the bathroom, determined to wash away the lingering fantasy with the cold water of reality.
She stopped in front of the full-length mirror on her wardrobe door, intending to assess the sleep-deprived mess she undoubtedly was. But her eyes were drawn to her right wrist. She lifted her hand, her breath catching in her throat.
There, on the pale skin of her inner wrist, was a faint, pinkish mark. It was a slight discoloration, no bigger than a thumbnail, in the exact spot where Cassian’s thumb had caressed her in the dream.
She stared, her mind refusing to process what her eyes were seeing. It was impossible. A psychosomatic reaction, perhaps? A stress-induced mark? She rubbed at it furiously, but the faint blemish remained. It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t a rash. It was simply… there. A physical artifact from a world that didn’t exist.
A chill, colder than any morning draft, seeped into her bones. She thought back to the other dreams, the wealth of specific, trivial details. The crack in the marble near the altar. The name of the other Vestal she shared duties with—Aelia. The senator with the cruel eyes and a faint scar above his lip who always watched her with unnerving intensity. His name was Frugi. Senator Vitellius Frugi.
Aris stumbled back to her desk, her legs unsteady. She switched on her lamp, the sudden pool of light illuminating stacks of books and research notes. With trembling fingers, she typed the senator’s name into the search bar of a digital classics archive. She knew most of the major political figures of the era. Frugi was not one of them. The name was likely a fabrication of her subconscious.
The search results loaded. Her blood ran cold.
There he was. Vitellius Frugi. Not a major player, not a consul or a famous general, but a minor senator listed in the acta senatus of 65 AD. A historical footnote. A man whose existence was confirmed only by a handful of obscure inscriptions and a passing mention in a letter by a lesser-known contemporary. There was no way she could have known that name. She had never studied senatorial records to this depth. She had never even heard of him.
She sank into her chair, the academic foundation of her entire life beginning to crumble. The dreams were not just dreams. They were memories. The scent of incense, the face of a forgotten senator, the forbidden touch of a Praetorian Guard—and now, the scar to prove it.
The rational historian in her was at war with a terrifying, impossible truth. She was not just studying the life of a Vestal Virgin. She was remembering it. And the story of Lyra, she felt with a sudden, gut-wrenching certainty, did not have a happy ending. The love she had felt in the dream was overshadowed by a profound sense of impending doom, of betrayal and fire. But this time, the fire was not the calm, sacred flame of Vesta. It was the fire of a funeral pyre. Or worse. The suffocating darkness of a tomb.
