I had asked Lucretius for that favor at a time when I still believed my life was fragile enough to shatter with a single answer.
Back then, I hadn't been his Luna. Hadn't worn his mark. Hadn't learned what it meant to be protected by a man who ruled with blood and certainty.
I had been a woman questioning her own sanity, grasping at fragments of memories that refused to stay buried. Names that followed me through lifetimes. Lives I could remember but could not prove.
Euphyllia.
I remembered how uncertain I had been when I asked him to investigate them. How foolish it had sounded even to my own ears. Deceased women bearing my name, scattered across different timelines, different lands. It was a proof that I was not imagining the lives I had lived before.
So much had changed since then.
