Rome Wasn't Destroyed in a Day

"Great results cannot be achieved at once; and we must be satisfied to advance in life as we walk, step by step."

— Samuel Smiles

———

The infirmary's antiseptic smell couldn't mask the underlying scent of old blood and fear that permeated the academy's medical wing. I lay propped against starched pillows, my torso wrapped in white bandages that pulled tight with every breath. The medic had done his work well—two broken ribs set properly, pain dulled to a manageable throb by whatever potion they'd forced down my throat.

But it was the visitor sitting beside my bed who held my attention.

Lyra perched on the edge of a wooden chair, her black hair falling forward to frame her face as she leaned over a small ceramic bowl. Steam rose from the mixture she stirred—some herbal concoction that smelled of mint and something sharper, more medicinal. Her crimson eyes remained fixed on her task, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers gripped the wooden spoon too tightly.

"The medic said you could return to your room tonight." Her voice carried that careful servant's tone she used around others, but we were alone now. The infirmary stretched empty around us, other beds vacant in the afternoon light filtering through tall windows.

"Good." I shifted against the pillows, wincing as the movement pulled at my ribs. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Six hours." She set down the spoon and finally looked at me. "The entire academy's talking about the match. They're calling it the most pathetic display in academy history."

I couldn't help but smile, despite the pain it caused. "Perfect."

Her eyebrows drew together in that way they did when she was trying to understand my reasoning. "Master, I still don't see how humiliating yourself serves our purpose. You could have—"

"Could have what? Defeated Vance cleanly? Impressed the crowd with hidden skills?" I shook my head carefully. "That would have drawn attention to me. Made people wonder where a failure like Kaelen Leone suddenly learned to fight."

She dipped a clean cloth into the bowl, testing the temperature against her wrist before wringing it out. "But now they think you're even more worthless than before."

"Exactly." The word came out rougher than intended as she began unwinding the bandages around my torso. "The best hiding place for a predator isn't in shadows—it's in plain sight, wearing the skin of something harmless."

Her hands stilled for a moment at my words, then resumed their careful work. The bandages fell away to reveal the spectacular bruising that covered my left side. Purple and blue dominated the landscape of my flesh, rimmed with the angry red of the impact's epicenter. It was a spectacular work of art, painted in pain.

Lyra's breath caught as she took in the full extent of the damage. "Master..."

"It's worse than it looks." I studied her face as she stared at my injuries. "The ribs will heal. And I got what I came for."

She folded the bloodstained bandages. "The skill."

"Power Strike. E-rank, but functional." I flexed my right hand experimentally, feeling the new knowledge settled in my mind like a perfectly cut gem. "My first stolen ability."

"Was it worth this?" She gestured at my battered torso, her voice tight.

"Ask me again when we're standing over the corpses of our enemies."

The cloth she'd prepared was warm against my skin as she began cleaning around the edges of the bruising. Her touch was gentle but sure, the movements of someone who'd tended wounds before. I watched her face as she worked, noting the way her jaw tightened whenever she encountered a particularly dark patch of damaged skin.

"You're angry," I observed.

"No, Master. I'm—"

"Don't lie to me, Lyra."

Her hands stilled against my ribs. For a long moment, she didn't speak. Then: "I'm furious. Not at you—at them. At this place that forced you to break yourself for scraps of power. At a world where someone like you has to hide and scheme and bleed just to survive."

I reached out and caught her chin with my fingers, tilting her face up to meet my eyes. "And what would you do about it?"

The crimson depths of her gaze burned with an intensity that would have made lesser men step back. "Burn it all. Every last stone of this academy. Every noble house that thinks they own the world. I'd reduce it to ash and build something new from the ruins."

"Patience." I released her chin and settled back against the pillows.

Rome wasn't built in a day, and it wasn't destroyed in one either.

She returned to her ministrations, applying some kind of cooling salve to the worst of the bruising. The relief was immediate—a blessed coolness that seeped into the inflamed tissue. Her fingers moved with reverent care, tracing the edges of each mark as if memorizing their shape.

"Tell me about the crowd's reaction," I said, partly to distract myself from the strange intimacy of her touch and partly because I needed to know how well my performance had landed.

"House Aurum was horrified. Leo looked like someone had forced him to watch a public execution." She moved to a particularly dark patch near my ribs, her thumb brushing along its border. "House Argent found it amusing—they were laughing and placing bets on how long you'd stay conscious."

"And House Onyx?"

"Fen wanted to climb into the arena and finish what Vance started. Marcus and Thomlin had to physically restrain her." A ghost of a smile played at her lips. "She called you several things that would make any normal adventurer blush."

"What about Rhys?"

Her hands paused in their work. "He watched the whole thing. Didn't cheer, didn't laugh. Just... watched. Like he was studying you."

Perceptive. That could be useful or dangerous, depending on how much he'd seen through my act. I'd have to be more careful around him.

Lyra finished with the salve and reached for fresh bandages. As she began wrapping them around my torso, her movements brought her closer. I could smell the lavender soap she used, could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Her hair fell forward again, brushing against my shoulder as she worked.

"There's something else," she said quietly. "Vance has been telling anyone who'll listen that you deliberately moved into his strike. He seems genuinely disturbed by it."

"Good." I watched her face as she secured the bandages. "Uncertainty is a weapon, Lyra. The more they question what they think they know about me, the less prepared they'll be for what's coming."

She sat back in her chair, surveying her work. The fresh bandages were neat and tight, professionally applied. But her eyes lingered on the small portion of bruising still visible above the white cloth, her expression unreadable.

"Master," she said finally, "may I ask you something?"

"Always."

"When we first met, when you saved me from Grundy's scheme—did you know this would happen? Did you plan for me to become... this?" She gestured vaguely at herself, a subtle movement that encompassed everything she had become since that fateful day.

Did I plan for this? The question was a logic problem.

Variable A: a discarded, traumatized servant with latent abilities.

Variable B: a chance at salvation offered by an unexpected source. Expected Outcome: loyalty.

My initial projection had been high, but this... this was a deviation that skewed the entire curve. She wasn't just loyal; she had been reforged. She was a weapon that had developed a soul, and that soul belonged exclusively to me. A priceless, terrifying asset that defied all my calculations.

"I knew you had potential," I admitted after a moment, weighing my words carefully. "I knew you were wasted in that kitchen, that you deserved better than to be sacrificed for someone else's crimes. But this—" I made a small gesture between us "—this goes beyond what I imagined. You've exceeded every expectation I could have reasonably held."

She lowered her gaze to her hands, perfectly folded in her lap, fingers interlaced with an unnatural stillness that spoke of years of servitude. "Sometimes I wonder who I truly am now. The frightened girl who scrubbed floors and lived in constant fear, or this creature you've shaped me into. Sometimes I don't recognize myself anymore."

"You're both." Without thinking, I reached out and touched her cheek, feeling warmth radiate from her skin like a banked fire. "You're the girl who endured the streets, survived the kitchens, and escaped Grundy's noose. And you're the woman who slips through windows, deciphers sealed correspondence, and would reduce the world to ashes if I asked. You're exactly who you've chosen to become. I merely opened the door."

She leaned into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat. When they opened again, I saw hunger there—raw and unguarded, burning with an intensity that would terrify anyone else.

"Master," she whispered, her voice barely audible, a confession in the sterile quiet of the infirmary, "I want—"

"I know what you want." My thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my fingertips. "But not while I'm battered and bleeding in an infirmary bed. Not like this."

Disappointment flickered across her features, darkening her crimson eyes, but I continued before she could protest.

"When I claim you, Lyra—and make no mistake, I will claim you—it won't be because I need comfort or because you feel sorry for my injuries. It will be because we've earned that moment. Because we've secured our victory against this world that tried to discard us both." I slid my hand to cradle the nape of her neck, threading my fingers through her silken hair. "You'll come to me not as consolation, but as conquest. And I swear to you—when that day arrives, I'll savor every second of taking what belongs to me."

Her breath hitched, lips parting slightly as crimson bloomed across her cheeks. For just an instant, she appeared young and vulnerable and completely overwhelmed by the promise in my words, the mask of the perfect servant cracking to reveal the woman beneath.

Then her expression transformed into something darker, hungrier, more dangerous—the predator that lurked beneath her demure exterior. "How long?" she asked, her voice hushed and intense, almost desperate.

"Until we possess the strength to seize what we desire instead of lurking in shadows. Until the Twilight Society becomes more than just a fragile dream woven from desperation." I released her and eased back against the pillows. "Until I've become worthy of what you're offering me."

She rose abruptly, smoothing her skirt with hands that weren't quite steady. "I should allow you to rest. The medic was quite insistent about it."

"Lyra."

She halted at the foot of my bed, her gaze not quite meeting mine, as if afraid of what I might see there.

"Patience may be virtuous," I said quietly, "but anticipation makes our eventual victory infinitely sweeter. Remember that."

A visible tremor passed through her at my words, a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature. She offered a perfect curtsy—the consummate servant acknowledging her master's command, but at the threshold, she turned back.

"Master? The next time you decide to let someone fracture your ribs for power, perhaps a warning would be appreciated? I nearly eliminated three innocent bystanders today simply for looking at you incorrectly. Their fear was... satisfying."

I laughed despite the pain that lanced through my chest. "I'll remember that."

After her departure, I lay in the deepening shadows of the infirmary, listening to the distant sounds of academy life filtering through the windows. Out there, students were attending evening lectures, hunching over ancient tomes in the library's hushed corners, exchanging excited whispers about the day's events. Normal activities for normal people living their scripted lives, blissfully unaware of the narrative chains binding them to fates they couldn't comprehend.

But I was anything but normal. I was a glitch in their perfect system, a rogue variable the author never planned for. And with each passing day, each carefully stolen skill and meticulously recruited ally, I was becoming increasingly dangerous to the story's predetermined path. The original plot was already beginning to unravel at the seams, and I was only getting started.

The pain in my ribs had subsided to a dull, persistent throb. I sat up gingerly, testing my limits. Everything worked as intended, though each movement sent sharp reminders of my encounter with Vance shooting through my torso. I had to admit—the academy medic knew her craft. At this rate, I'd be back to playing my pathetic role within days.

Weakness wasn't an option, even when no one was watching. The original Kaelen might have wallowed in self-pity, but that wasn't my style.

It was time to test out my first stolen power.