Chapter 395: Saving Arsinoe!

Marcus’s smirk faltered.

Because standing just a few paces away, framed by the fractured light of the dusk-stricken city, was a figure he hadn’t expected.

Clad in dark leathers marked with the faint insignia of Pharaon—but bearing none of its pride—stood Nathan.

Or rather, the man the Romans and others knew as Septimius.

Nathan wandered through the polished marble corridors of the palace, his steps echoing in the empty halls. He had left the throne room deliberately, wanting no part in the droning voices and ceaseless bickering of court politics. The air inside had grown suffocating, thick with schemes and false smiles. He sought silence—solitude, perhaps—but the moment was abruptly shattered by the unmistakable sound of a scream.

It wasn’t just any scream.

It was raw, broken, and filled with a terror that made Nathan freeze in place.

He turned his head sharply toward the sound, instincts already stirring. Curiosity warred with dread as he followed the noise, his pace quickening. As he rounded a corner, his eyes widened at the sight that awaited him.

A woman stumbled into view—barefoot, bruised, and trembling. Her dark hair was in disarray, strands clinging to her tear-streaked face. Her garments, once regal, were now in tatters. One half of her tunic had been ripped open, exposing her bare breast, which she frantically tried to cover with shaking hands and what scraps of clothing remained. Her lips trembled, her breath shallow and panicked.

It was Arsinoe.

Of all people, he hadn’t expected to see her here—like this.

The last time he had laid eyes on Arsinoe had been in the halls of the royal palace, where she’d still managed to carry herself with a measure of dignity, even in defeat. Before that, she had been captured by Apollodorus’s soldiers. And now… now she looked as though she had been discarded like a toy.

His gaze shifted to the man behind her.

Marcus Antoinus.

There was no mistaking the smug expression on his face, the way his hand gripped Arsinoe’s wrist with bruising force, dragging her like some animal he had claimed. The rage that bubbled inside Nathan was immediate, white-hot, and suffocating.

How cruel could fate be?

Arsinoe had always been a tragic figure—torn between her older sister Cleopatra and her brother Ptolemy, never truly aligning with either. And yet, in the end, everyone believed she had sided with Ptolemy, branding her a traitor. It was an impossible position to be in. No matter which path she chose, she was bound to be condemned.

And now she had fallen into the clutches of Marcus, a brute masquerading as a general.

Nathan had no affection for Arsinoe—truthfully, he didn’t know her well enough to harbor any. But what he saw in her eyes now—the utter helplessness, the silent plea for someone to care changed his mind.

She didn’t deserve this as much as he knew it and besides she was Cleopatra’s sister. He doubted Cleopatra would appreciate that since from what Nathan had seen Cleopatra still held care for her sister.

He stepped forward.

“Release her,” Nathan said, his voice low but clear.

Marcus turned his head slowly, his expression twisting into one of disbelief. He looked Nathan up and down as if he were a minor nuisance that had suddenly grown fangs.

“What?” Marcus spat, as though the very notion was absurd.

Nathan stood his ground. His gaze was steady, his voice firmer now. “I said, release her.”

There was silence for a moment—then Marcus scoffed, the sound harsh and humorless. “You again?” he muttered. “You’ve been a thorn in my side all day, and now you think you can tell me what to do?” His eyes narrowed, venomous. “You’re picking a fight you can’t win, boy.”

“I’m not here to fight,” Nathan replied coldly, “but I won’t stand by and watch you do this.”

Marcus’s expression twisted into a sneer. “Get out,” he growled. “Before I lose what little patience I have left.”

But Nathan didn’t move.

Marcus turned, tugging harshly on Arsinoe’s wrist, intent on dragging her deeper into the palace—somewhere far from prying eyes, where his cruelty could go unchecked.

But when he turned, Nathan was already there.

Standing directly in his path.

“You little bastard…” Marcus hissed, his voice low and venomous. His hand clenched into a tight fist, the knuckles whitening. The other hand, still gripping Arsinoe’s slender arm, tightened with brutal force.

Arsinoe cried out in pain, her body twisting in his grasp as she tried to pull away. Her terrified eyes locked on Nathan’s, pleading silently—desperately.

“She is Cleopatra’s sister,” Nathan said suddenly, his voice slicing through the moment like a dagger through silk.

Marcus paused.

“What?” he asked, the raw edge of his anger wavering, replaced for a heartbeat by surprise.

Nathan took a deliberate step forward, gaze unwavering. “She’s Cleopatra’s blood. The sister of the new Pharaoh. Queen of Amun-Ra’s court. Do you really want to bear the responsibility of harming a member of the royal family?” His tone was sharp, cold—like steel forged in ice.

A flicker of uncertainty crept into Marcus’s eyes.

He turned his gaze toward Arsinoe, studying her more closely now. And yes—now that he actually looked—there was a resemblance. The high cheekbones. The proud nose. The same shape in the eyes, though Arsinoe’s were wide with fear and Cleopatra’s burned with fire. She carried herself differently than a common slave. Her posture, even in shame and pain, still held a shadow of nobility.

So she really was a princess.

That explained the elegance she exuded, even while disheveled and broken.

But Marcus’s pride screamed at him not to back down. Especially when this came from him—from Nathan— Septimius, the man whose mere presence seemed to provoke Marcus’s irritation. To yield now would feel like handing over another victory to someone he couldn’t stand.

“So what?” Marcus spat. “She’s a traitor princess. She betrayed her kingdom. She’s nothing but a prisoner of war. And frankly, I’m being generous. I could’ve slit her throat the moment I laid eyes on her, but I didn’t.” He sneered, lips curling cruelly. “She should be thanking me. I have every right to do what I want with her.”

Nathan stared at him in disbelief.

How had someone like him risen to become Caesar’s right hand?

He was all brawn, no reason. Brutal, proud, impulsive—so much like Ajax, the kind of man who thought power gave him the right to anything. He lacked even a sliver of the intelligence and composed authority Octavius possessed, Caesar’s other confidant. Marcus was nothing more than a wild dog let loose with a Roman crest.

Nathan’s voice dropped, now sharp as a blade drawn in shadow.

“Do you really want to force this?” he asked, his tone ice-cold. “You lay a hand on her again, and Cleopatra will know. This won’t be forgotten. It’ll cause friction between her and Caesar. And when that tension becomes a threat to Rome’s alliance with Amun Ra… who do you think Caesar will blame for endangering his vision of the East?”

That struck home.

Nathan watched Marcus carefully, saw the exact moment the words hit him. His bravado faltered. A twitch at the corner of his mouth, a subtle tightening in his jaw.

He knew.

He knew Nathan was right.

Their campaign in Alexandria was hanging by a thread—fragile diplomacy disguised as military triumph. Caesar had come not just to conquer, but to stabilize the region by aligning with Cleopatra. Any scandal, any scandal this stupid, could jeopardize everything they’d built. And Caesar had never been forgiving of liabilities.

Marcus’s jaw clenched. Hard. Nathan could hear the grinding of his teeth like the slow creak of splintering wood. The general’s glare bore into him with pure hatred.

And then—finally—he let go.

With a shove.

Arsinoe stumbled forward, her balance lost—but Nathan moved swiftly, catching her in his arms before she hit the ground.

Marcus stood there for a breath, chest heaving with rage.

“One day,” he muttered, venom dripping from every word, “I’m going to kill you.”

And with that, he turned and stormed off—though not far. His eyes caught sight of a young woman nearby, a servant perhaps, frozen in fear as she watched the confrontation unfold. A slow, predatory grin stretched across Marcus’s face. He adjusted his stride and stalked toward her.

The woman flinched, her eyes wide like a trapped animal sensing the wolf.

Nathan looked away.

His hands tightened around Arsinoe’s trembling form, but he made no move to interfere further.

Not again.

He knew the limits of his intervention. To push any further would mean provoking chaos—maybe even war.

He wasn’t a savior.

He wasn’t a hero.

“Can you walk?” Nathan asked, his hand still gently supporting Arsinoe’s arm.

“I… I can,” she replied, her voice trembling with a brittle determination.

But the moment Nathan let go, her legs buckled beneath her. She crumpled, barely catching herself before he quickly grasped her again, steadying her with ease.

His eyes narrowed.

Was she injured? He didn’t see any visible wounds on her legs—no blood, no awkward positioning that suggested a break. It must have been something else. Maybe the trauma—of war, of being captured, of nearly being violated. Maybe even the weight of the past she carried as a fallen princess. She looked as though she’d been barely holding herself together for days, maybe weeks.

Without a word, Nathan bent down and swept her up, lifting her effortlessly over his shoulder.

“Hya!” Arsinoe gasped, the sudden motion drawing a yelp from her lips.

He didn’t respond. Just turned toward the palace, his pace steady and sure as he walked through the wide stone corridors. Neither of them spoke for a time, the silence stretching like a taut string.

Then finally, her voice broke the quiet.

“…Why did you save me?” she asked, her tone uncertain, fragile—like someone afraid of the answer they already suspected.

She knew who Marcus Antoinus was. He was Caesar’s hound, the lion of Roman conquest, feared and powerful. For this man—Septimius—to stand against him… she couldn’t understand it. Not unless there was more to him than met the eye.

Nathan didn’t stop walking, but his grip around her legs tightened slightly.

“Save you?” he said evenly. “I’m delivering you to Cleopatra. She’ll be the one to decide your fate.”

“You know what I meant,” she replied softly.

She wasn’t stupid. Cleopatra wouldn’t kill her—that much she was certain of. Even if there had been betrayal, even if she’d been on the wrong side of history, they were still blood. Sisters. Arsinoe sensed Nathan knew this too.

A pause.

Then finally: “You’re Cleopatra’s sister.”

Arsinoe’s heart sank.

“So… you did it for her,” she murmured, a flicker of disappointment shadowing her voice. She turned her head slightly, though hanging over his shoulder made it impossible to read his expression. Did no one ever see her for who she was?Did they all only see Cleopatra’s sister, the political pawn, the lesser half of royal blood?

A long beat passed.

Then Nathan’s voice came again—quiet, but cutting through the air with the sharpness of conviction.

“That trash doesn’t deserve you.”

Her breath caught.

He didn’t need to name Marcus—she knew. The words landed like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the hollow ache she’d grown used to. She blinked, confused for a second by the sudden warmth in her chest.

“Apologize to Cleopatra,” Nathan continued, his tone more commanding now. “Help her rebuild Amun Ra. She needs someone she can trust beside her. What better choice than her own blood?”

Arsinoe opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. Instead, tears welled in her eyes and spilled silently down her cheeks. She didn’t wipe them away.

Because in those words—so simple and cold—they carried something more. Something he didn’t say aloud, perhaps didn’t know how to.

He hadn’t saved her just for Cleopatra.

He’d saved her.

“…T-Thank you…” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of their footsteps.

And for the first time in a long while, Arsinoe felt the faintest spark of hope flicker back to life inside her.