The Forum of Rome stood resplendent beneath the midday sun, its marble columns gleaming as thousands gathered to witness a moment that would be inscribed into the annals of eternity. The Senate, the legions, and the people of Rome all stood in solemn reverence. Senators in their regal togas, adorned with crimson and gold, whispered among themselves, some in awe, others wary of the man about to take the mantle once more. Some voices whispered of destiny, others of dread. "He is young," muttered one elder, "but unyielding." "Yet the last did not last," came another hushed reply. Hopes and doubts intermingled in every glance.
The merchant class watched with expectant eyes, praying this would be an age of prosperity. Mothers held children aloft to witness history, whispering prayers to Fortuna for stability. Legionnaires, ever disciplined, stood tall—but even among their ranks, quiet conversations passed: of new orders, of an empire's fate now resting on the shoulders of a single man.
The Praetorian Guard, their armour glinting like polished onyx, stood at attention, their disciplined silence a testament to their loyalty and the solemnity of the occasion. But even in their stillness, they too bore witness to the collective breath Rome held, caught between a glorious rebirth and the fear of collapse.
Before them, on the steps of the grand temple of Jupiter, stood the man of the hour—the Imperator, the Princeps, the culmination of Rome's indomitable will.
Marcus Ulpius Traianus. Trajan.
And yet, behind the resolute mask and the noble bearing he bears, fear and doubt stirred.
He had stood upon many battlefields, issued commands that determined the fate of legions, but this—this was different. The last emperor had fallen after a reign too brief to leave a true legacy, consumed by whispers in the dark and rot within the state. Trajan had seen it, had lived through the instability, the brittle strength of a Rome resting on crumbling pillars. And now, all of that weight—the hopes of a Senate uncertain, the loyalty of an army vast, the expectations of a people yearning for order—rested upon his shoulders.
What if he failed?
The question gnawed at him, silent and venomous. What if he, too, became a name spoken with disappointment? Another spark extinguished before the flame could take hold? The gods had lifted him to this altar of power, but gods were fickle.
He straightened his shoulders, letting the marble hardness of his expression return. He would not falter. He could not afford to. But deep in the marrow of his bones, a truth whispered: this path would demand everything—and perhaps more.
To his right, stood his most trusted general, Lucius Quietus, a Numidian warrior of peerless skill, his dark eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of treachery. To his left, the philosopher Pliny the Younger, once a confidant of the previous emperor, now a scribe to the ages, his hands poised as he held his wax tablet, ready to inscribe the moment into history.
A hush fell over the gathered masses as the Chief Vestal Virgin, her robes a flowing cascade of ivory, approached with the golden corona laurea. It was no mere crown of leaves—it was the final seal of the Senate and People of Rome, anointed by the gods, sanctified through ritual, and binding Trajan to the divine destiny of the empire.
Each element of the coronation bore deep symbolism. The corona laurea, woven with strands of sacred gold from the Temple of Vesta, represented divine favour and the eternal flame of Rome. Behind her, another carried a small vial of consecrated oil from the altar of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, which she used to anoint his brow—a gesture that united temporal authority with divine sanction. A purple cloak, dyed in the rarest Tyrian hue, was draped over his shoulders by two senators, signifying the burden of empire and the sacred obligation of justice.
As the wind stirred, carrying whispered prayers to the heavens, a chorus of augurs began chanting the ancient rites of ascension, invoking Mars for strength, Minerva for wisdom, and Janus for vision. The moment of crowning is now, but this time, as the crown was placed upon Trajan's head, the air itself shifted—as though the gods, watching from beyond the veil, would make their presence known.
Light struck forth, causing the spectators to flinch back, some crying out, others shielding with their hands. The glow radiated out from Trajan—otherworldly, noble, divine. Trajan himself, however, saw none of this, heard none of the cries. For he was no longer there in spirit—plucked from that very moment. This was enlightenment—knowledge in its purest form, and Trajan shall bear witness.
A torrent of knowledge poured into his mind, not in words, but in visions—searing, blinding, impossible. Trajan gasped, staggering as the golden light of Apollo, Jupiter, and Janus themselves consumed him.
He saw. He saw everything.
He saw the distant lands beyond the Roman frontiers—not as mere names on maps, but as vibrant civilisations, each with their own triumphs, glories, and tragedies. The sons of the dragon raising mighty walls in the East, their empire vast, their wisdom deep, yet destined for cycles of collapse and rebirth. The rising and falling tides of desert kings, whose golden palaces and towering obelisks would one day be buried beneath the shifting sands, their names lost to time. The painted warriors of the isles, unknowingly awaiting an empire's touch, yet defiant in their struggle, their own histories erased and rewritten by victors yet to come.
He saw the pyramids of Kemet rising in defiance of time, monuments to gods whose names would be whispered in forgotten tongues. The Indus cities, vast and planned, their streets once bustling, now mere footnotes in the annals of history. The Olmecs and the builders of Teotihuacan, their temples reaching for the sky, their people vanished without a trace. The great libraries of the world, filled with the knowledge of a thousand minds—burned, looted, lost to the folly of men.
And then, the darkness. The slow, creeping dread of something greater. His own nightmare made flesh.
He saw Rome's end.
Fire and ruin. Legions broken. The Eternal City sacked, its temples defiled, its libraries set aflame. The streets of Rome, once paved with the triumphant march of its legions, ran red with the blood of its people. The mighty walls, breached by barbarian hordes, crumbled before his eyes. Statues of gods and emperors, raised to commemorate eternity, lay shattered in the dust, their faces worn away as if time itself sought to erase Rome from history. The dream of an empire vanishing like smoke on the wind, leaving behind only whispers in crumbling stone and broken marble.
Yet even that was not the end. He saw Constantinople, the jewel of the East, heir to Rome's legacy, standing defiant against time and tide. But even its walls, mighty as they were, would one day break. The Hagia Sophia, a beacon of faith and learning, transformed under the banners of another god. The last Emperor, his lineage stretching back to the Caesars, making his final stand upon the broken ramparts, his city doomed. The end of Rome, not in fire, but in conquest, its people scattered, its knowledge plundered or lost to the ages.
The horror gripped him, a pain deeper than any wound, for he saw the folly of men laid bare. Knowledge lost, wisdom scorned, history rewritten by the victors until truth itself became an illusion. Scrolls turned to ash, inventions left undiscovered, ideas cast into the void as if they had never existed. And with each loss, mankind staggered backward, blind to the greatness it had once held in its grasp. Rome was not merely a city or an empire; it was an idea, one that should have endured forever. But even the greatest of ideas, left untended, could be buried beneath the sands of time.
A sorrow unlike any he had ever known tore through him. Rome was to last a thousand years, yet here, in this moment of divine revelation, he saw its destiny stolen by time, by war, by ignorance. It was not just Rome that fell—it was civilisation itself, rising and collapsing in a cycle that spanned centuries. He wanted to weep, to cry out against the gods that had shown him this vision, but the weight of what was yet to come held him in place.
And then, beyond the wreckage, beyond the shattered ruins of his world, he saw something else. A chance. A new fate.
He saw the world that would come after. The kingdoms that would rise upon the ashes of Rome. The empires that would carve up the world in their own image, claiming divine right as they repeated the same mistakes of those before them. The Renaissance, a rebirth of knowledge that had been forgotten, scholars unearthing wisdom that should never have been lost. The Age of Industry, where man would harness fire and steel to forge a new world, yet in his arrogance, bring destruction on a scale never before seen. The wars, the devastation, the shattered cities and nameless millions lost to ambition and hatred.
He saw the march of science, the unravelling of the heavens, the moment humanity first looked beyond their cradle and dared to step among the stars. The great migration, the settlements on distant worlds, the forging of a new destiny beyond the grasp of Earth. And yet, even among the stars, the cycle continued—conflict, war, alliances made and broken.
Yet, even this was but the beginning.
Beyond the fall of Rome, beyond the rise of petty kingdoms and empires that thought themselves successors, he saw an age unlike any other. The Age of Science. Humanity stretching forth its hand beyond the heavens. A great Republic forged in the void, a Citadel of wonders, and a thousand races gathered among the stars. He saw the Asari, the Turians, the Salarians—peoples that would one day regard humanity as little more than a child taking its first steps.
But even this paled before the final revelation.
The Reapers.
Machines older than time. Harbingers of extinction. The endless cycle of harvest and annihilation. The doom of the galaxy. The doom of mankind.
In the mere seconds, Marcus Ulpius Traianus knew more than any mortal had ever known before. His breath came in ragged gasps, his hands trembling as the weight of fate itself bore down upon him.
But he did not fall.
As the divine light dimmed, the gathered masses beheld their Emperor—his eyes gleaming with something beyond mortal comprehension. Gasps rippled through the crowd as the laurels of gold transformed upon his brow, reshaped by unseen hands into a diadem of radiant silver, inlaid with gemstones that shimmered like the cosmos itself. At his feet lay three artifacts of power unknown to the world—a gladius unlike any forged by man, its blade humming with barely contained energy; a scroll bound in shimmering parchment, and the secrets they hold within; and a sphere that pulsed with light, its depths holding the reflection of the stars themselves.
The Chief Vestal Virgin fell to her knees in awe. The Senate murmured in fearful reverence. The legions, disciplined beyond any other force in the known world, hesitated, uncertain before the sight of their divine-blessed ruler.
Trajan raised his eyes to the heavens. He was no longer simply Imperator. No longer merely a Princeps.
He was something more.
And the world had changed forever.
The Senate chambers of Rome, a sanctum of power and discourse, stood in eerie silence. The torches lining the marble walls flickered with a quiet unease, their light casting long, shifting shadows upon the polished floor. The vast hall, where voices had once risen in impassioned debate, now seemed to hold its breath. Outside, the city stirred, caught in the thrall of revelation, the streets alive with murmurs and fervent discussion. The Eternal City had seen miracles before, but never one such as this. The accounts varied, but one truth remained—something had changed, something profound, something beyond the understanding of even Rome's greatest minds.
At the centre of it all sat the man now rumoured to be anointed by the gods themselves. Trajan.
He occupied the curule chair, his posture unyielding, his expression unreadable. The diadem upon his brow—a thing not wrought by human hands—glowed faintly in the dim light, its gemstones reflecting a cosmos beyond mortal comprehension. It had not left his head since the coronation, not even for a moment, as if it had become part of him, a silent herald of the transformation he had undergone. He had remained silent since that moment, and in the long walk to the Senate chambers, through the marble halls and past the awed stares of Rome's elite, he had spoken not a word.
To his right, Lucius Quietus stood, ever watchful, his dark eyes scanning the chamber for unseen threats. A warrior by nature, he had fought beside Trajan in the East, had bled for Rome, and had never once hesitated in battle. But now, he hesitated. His mind, trained for war, sought to make sense of what he had seen. The laurels changing, the light bursting forth, the objects of unknown origin manifesting at their emperor's feet. He had asked questions—what had happened? What had Trajan seen? What had changed?—but all had been met with silence.
To his left, Pliny the Younger shifted in his seat, his wax tablet resting upon his lap, stylus poised but unmoving. The man who had chronicled emperors and great deeds now sat in quiet frustration, unable to commit to parchment the events that had unfolded before his very eyes. He had seen the transformation, had felt the air tremble with divine presence, and yet, no words seemed adequate. His instincts as a historian demanded that he record the truth, but how could mere words capture the divine? And so he, too, had questioned.
"Princeps… what have the gods shown you?"
But Trajan had remained silent.
Outside the chamber walls, Rome was awake. The city, vast and eternal, was an organism unto itself, and today it pulsed with uncertainty and wonder. Those who had gathered in the Forum whispered of divine intervention, of the golden laurels changing before their very eyes, of the light that had crowned their emperor in something more than human majesty. Rumours spread like wildfire. Some claimed Jupiter himself had descended. Others whispered of omens, of signs foretelling an age unlike any before it. And still, others murmured of fear—that Rome had been touched by something beyond the gods of old, that their emperor had become something more… or something else.
Merchants closed their stalls early, sensing the shift in the air. The legionaries stationed throughout the city watched the crowds warily, gripping their gladii tighter than usual. The senators who had not yet arrived walked through the streets with careful steps, their minds battling between awe and apprehension. No one knew what came next.
Inside, the silence thickened. The chamber, normally a place of oration and endless debate, was devoid of the usual bickering. Trajan's fingers rested upon the armrests of his chair, unmoving, his eyes staring into a future no other man could see. He was planning. The weight of knowledge, the burden of foresight—it coiled around him, pressed upon him. He had seen not only the rise and fall of Rome, but the fate of all mankind. He knew what would come, what must be done, and the decisions that lay before him would shape not just an empire, but history itself.
He could still see the sack of Rome in his mind, the flames consuming its grandeur. He could see Constantinople's last emperor, standing in defiance upon his crumbling walls. He saw the dark centuries that followed, where ignorance overtook wisdom, where the knowledge that should have led humanity forward was instead lost to time. And beyond that, he saw the stars, the future where mankind stretched beyond the limits of Earth—only to one day meet its greatest test.
His hands curled into fists. He would not let it happen again.
Then, at last, the heavy bronze doors groaned, their hinges crying out as they swung open. The gathered senators entered, their expressions shifting between reverence and trepidation, their footsteps hesitant upon the marble floor. They had come seeking answers.
Trajan did not rise. He did not speak.
Not yet.
The air in the Senate chamber was thick with unspoken words. The torches burned steadily now, their flickering light illuminating the faces of Rome's most powerful men. Each senator had taken his place, yet none dared speak first. The silence was almost reverent, as if the very chamber itself acknowledged that something beyond mortal comprehension had transpired. Rome had been touched by divinity—witnessed by thousands—and its rulers now sat before the only man who could provide answers.
Trajan sat upon his curule chair, his hands resting upon the carved armrests as he regarded the assembled men. Their eyes were filled with a mixture of awe, fear, and—for some—barely concealed ambition. He recognised the seeds of the corruption that would one day bring Rome to its knees. It was already here, in this very chamber. Some of these men, or those they would pave the way for, would betray Rome not with swords but with greed and apathy. He had seen it. He would not forget it.
Beyond the closed doors of the chamber, the city roared with speculation. Priests made sacrifices at the temples, seeking the will of the gods. Merchants whispered in their stalls of an emperor blessed beyond human limits. Veterans of the legions stood in their fortified districts, wondering if their Princeps had become the champion of Mars himself. And the common people, those who had seen the glow of light upon his brow and the transformation of the laurels, spoke of omens, prophecies, and the turning of ages.
The first to break the silence was Gaius Cassius Longinus, a senator of great wealth and even greater influence. He stood, adjusting the folds of his toga, his voice carefully measured. "Princeps, the people of Rome witnessed something extraordinary yesterday. They speak of light descending from the heavens, of the laurels changing in your grasp, of relics appearing at your feet. They say the gods have marked you as something more than a man."
A murmur ran through the chamber. Some nodded in agreement, others glanced around uneasily. Lucius Quietus, ever vigilant, tensed slightly, his hand resting on the pommel of his gladius. Pliny the Younger sat motionless, his stylus hovering over his tablet, waiting to inscribe words that might reshape history itself.
Trajan exhaled slowly. He had known this moment would come. He had known there would be questions. But answers… answers were a dangerous thing.
"I am still a man," Trajan said at last, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of command. "A man who has seen beyond what men are meant to see. And what I have seen—what has been revealed to me—has shown me that Rome stands at the precipice of eternity. We can either endure and become a civilisation that will never be forgotten, or we can fall as so many others have before us."
Several senators exchanged glances. Some nodded, as if emboldened by the words. Others remained sceptical. "But what did you see, Princeps?" asked Senator Decimus Valerius Corvus, his sharp eyes filled with the hunger of a man who sought understanding—or leverage.
Trajan leaned forward slightly, his gaze sweeping across the chamber. He must choose his words carefully, for if too much is revealed, then the seeds of rot will move before he is ready, and that cannot be allowed. It would spell the death kneel of Rome before he could lead them forth from their cradle.
"I have seen the past. I have seen the rise and fall of empires older than Rome, their names now lost to time. I have seen what happens when those entrusted with power think only of themselves. And I have seen the future—an age where Rome is but a memory, its great works crumbling, its name whispered as legend rather than truth."
A cold chill swept through the chamber. Even the most hardened senators stiffened at his words.
"That is why we must secure our frontiers," Trajan continued, his tone shifting from ominous prophecy to measured authority. "The Rhine and Danube remain our greatest concerns. We cannot allow the Germanic tribes to gather unchecked. Their strength grows in the shadows, waiting for weakness. Britannia remains unruly. We have claimed it, but have we truly made it Roman? And in the east, Parthia watches us, waiting for its moment. We must ensure it never comes."
The senators looked to one another. These were matters they understood—strategy, expansion, the strengthening of Rome's might.
Then, as if to drive home his point, Trajan rose. The room seemed to darken for a moment, a subtle shift in the air, as though the chamber itself was holding its breath. He stepped forward, toward the grand fountain that had long stood at the heart of the chamber, its waters a symbol of Rome's unbroken prosperity and eternal flow. The senators watched, some curious, others uneasy.
In that moment, he felt not alone but guided—as if unseen hands moved through him, ancient and patient, as if voices whispered at the edges of thought, giving shape to the intent he did not fully comprehend. He reached out, lightly touching the marble of the fountain, and power flowed through him, not like blood or fire, but like memory—ageless, vast, and terrible. It obeyed his will before he even finished the thought, as if the very cosmos leaned closer when he reached.
A pulse of golden light radiated from his fingertips, rippling like the surface of a disturbed lake. The chamber was bathed in brilliance, not just light but something deeper—something felt within the bones of every man present. The water, once clear, surged upward, twisting into an impossible shape, momentarily suspended in the air like liquid flame. And when the glow faded, the senators gasped.
The fountain was no longer the work of mortal hands. Its structure had altered, the stone transformed into a seamless, iridescent material that shimmered as though holding the very essence of the cosmos within it. The water that now flowed was no longer water but something finer, something purer—crystalline streams that refracted the torchlight into colours unknown to any Roman eye. It was not of this world. It was something else. Something beyond.
A deep, resonant hum vibrated in the air, as if the fountain itself had become a conduit for a force beyond understanding. The torches lining the chamber walls flickered, their flames bending unnaturally toward the transformed fountain, as though drawn by its impossible power. Some senators instinctively recoiled, their breath stolen by the sheer divinity of the transformation. Gaius Cassius Longinus stepped back so sharply that his sandal scraped against the marble floor, his face pale as though he had seen Pluto himself. Decimus Valerius Corvus clenched his fists, his knuckles white with tension, struggling to maintain composure while his eyes betrayed an unspoken dread.
Others, spellbound, stepped forward, their hands hesitantly outstretched, daring to touch the impossible. Marcus Acilius Glabrio, known for his scepticism of omens and prophecy, reached toward the glimmering streams with hesitant fingers, only to recoil at the strange, cool energy that pulsed against his skin. "By the gods…" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the strange hum reverberating through the chamber.
Some senators fell to their knees, muttering half-formed prayers to Jupiter, Neptune, or any deity they thought might have orchestrated such a moment. Others turned to one another, their expressions shifting between reverence and terror. It was not just a show of power—it was a declaration, an irrefutable sign that Trajan was something more than an emperor. Something beyond mortal comprehension.
Lucius Quietus' grip tightened on his sword, his warrior's instincts screaming at him that no earthly power could do this. His pulse pounded in his ears, but he did not move, only watching his emperor with newfound reverence and wariness.
Pliny the Younger's hands trembled so violently that his stylus nearly slipped from his grasp. He had written of gods and emperors, of great wars and deeds, but how could he capture this? How could he inscribe into words the sensation that now gripped his very soul?
Trajan turned back to them, his face unreadable. "Let this be a reminder," he said quietly. "Rome must not become complacent. Our destiny is not just to rule this world—but to endure beyond it."
The senators sat in stunned silence. The echoes of the transformed fountain seemed to reverberate not just through the chamber, but through history itself. The Emperor had spoken.
And the world had changed again.