The Buried Flame

The Buried Flame

By Lulua Kuo

Centuries before the Common Era, a fire protected Ancient Rome—the flame of Vesta, Lady of the Hearth and Patroness of the State. Within the Temple of Vesta, a sisterhood of priestesses tended to her flame, for within their care lay the stability and prosperity of the Empire. Vesta’s priestesses, the Vestal Virgins, embodied the sanctity of Rome and the purity of the goddess they served.

Chastity.

Ritual.

Guardianship.

These holy women were held as divine. But should the sacred fire extinguish or a Vestal break her vow of chastity, it would mean the fall of Rome . . . and the punishment was unyielding.

* * *

They had buried priestesses before. Alive.

I wasn’t the first.

I wouldn’t be the last.

But I had once sworn it would never be me.

The dark litter creaked as it spread its weight on the shoulders of men, their sandals scraping against the cobblestone as they balanced in stride.

The stale air, trapped within the heavy drapes, weighed on my lungs as my breaths brushed against the plain linen of my veil.

Ritualized death. A ceremony. A performance.

A fallen priestess was still sacred blood and sacred blood could not be spilled. At least not before the public eye. Within the darkened hours of the night, a Vestal could be beaten and scourged, but while the Empire watched… the death had to be doctrinaire. Retribution for staining the Hearth and Heart of Rome needed to be sanctified— silent, somber. Shame buried beneath the earth, forgotten, the ground leveled, the Sisterhood purged, the gods placated.

So those of us who failed Rome, we were buried. Left to decay. By law, we weren’t executed, just… removed. The State’s hands were clean of our blood and our lives were left tot the mercy of the gods, who never arrived in time.

I will find you.

My eyes stared without seeing, as the hard floor of the litter dug into my knees. Outside, the rake of sandals on paved road turned to the softer scuff of dirt. It wouldn’t be long now. We were soon reaching the Field of Evil, where the underground chamber awaited the condemned. Me. And my unmarked, living grave.

I will find you.

The litter lurched as the procession came to a halt, creaking and rocking. I gripped the rail to steady myself as it landed on the ground. The men grunted and released their breath.

* * *

The amber glow of golden hour illuminated the clearing. “Aelia,” his deep voice murmured against my ear, as he fingered a lock of my dark hair, “I’m going to get us out of here.”

I straightened my veil, shaking my head and turning away. “It’s too dangerous,” I whispered.

“I can’t leave you.” Cassian gripped my arm, and repeated, “I’m going to get us out of here.”

I stilled.

“Staying is a death sentence, Aelia, it’s only a matter of time before they find us. We have to leave. We can have a life together. ” His dark eyes beckoned for mine.

My throat tightened. “Cassian. . . You’re the son of a Praetor, and I’m sworn … ”

“Just listen. Tomorrow I’m attending a Senate meeting with my father. He believes I have a hunting trip planned afterwards, we’ll use that time.” Cassian lifted his hand to cup my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin. “Come with me.”

The trees around the glade spun as my breath hitched. I lost myself in his gaze and barely nodded.

His eyes fixed on mine. “The ninth hour.”

I nodded again. Terror mingled with longing in my chest, contracted in hope.

His shoulders relaxed as an exhale eased from his mouth. He leaned in, pressing his mouth into mine, as he pulled me in. My body trembled in his arms.

“I will find you,” he whispered.

* * *

The foreboding silence of the procession hung beneath my veil as the ladder’s rungs creaked under my feet, splinters biting into skin.

Ten years to learn the rituals.

Ten years to practice them.

Ten years to teach the new generation.

Bound for 30 years.

A Vestal never knew freedom.

She knew gilded captivity, masqueraded as sanctity. She knew being chosen before she exited childhood. She knew her identity was stripped before she could discover it. She knew chastity was her vow, and dishonor was the ultimate crime.

My foot touched the cool ground as I stepped down, stock still, as I stared ahead, my eyes anchored on the shadows as attendants pulled the ladder up.

My awareness drifted from my body, recoiling from the hollow cave it had become, as the voice of the Pontifex Maximus, High Priest of Rome, sliced the silence with a prayer of appeasement, “O Vesta, Lady of the Hearth, Keeper of Rome’s Flame, forgive the trespasses of your daughter and the stain lain by her upon your pure Name…”

* * *

On the day of the Capture, the choosing of the new Vestal priestess, the girl next to me shifted, curling her fingers around the fabric of her peplos, red hair twisted into a painfully tight braid. Would she be chosen?

I prayed to the gods she would be.

My own plait pulled against my scalp, coaxing an ache that spread across my temples. I looked ahead, my stomach fluttering.

The Pontifex Maximus walked down the row of prospective Vestals, dark eyes dragging over each girl, pausing to lift a chin or touch a shoulder.

A lump lodged in my throat as his robes rustled, the sharp scent of frankincense burning my lungs. He was too close.

My palms slicked as he came even closer, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. I cast my gaze down as he approached. An ant crawled between the cracks of the stones, over the brave shoot of grass struggling to press between unyielding rocks. Why couldn’t I be that small? That invisible?

She was buried alive. I squeezed my eyes shut and still Rome’s scandal flashed before me.

The dark litter as it rocked on the shoulders of men, beneath the drapes, the figure of a woman knelt, unmoving.

Not a whisper from the crowd. “Buried alive,” my mother had said. “A disgrace. A stain on the purity of Rome.” My mother’s peplos scratched my fingers as I pressed against her leg.

The fallen priestess rose and walked, draped in white, across the Field of Evil, where the disgraced holy women were buried. Her head bowed beneath the weight of the veil. Did she weep?

She descended into the chamber, swallowed by the darkness. The voice of the Pontifex Maximus whispered over the grave as shovels of dirt packed against the entrance.

Far away, a voice broke through my thoughts, “I take you, Amata, to be a Vestal Priestess, who will carry out sacred rites… on behalf of the people of Rome.”

I lifted my head, my stomach curling into a knot. No.

His leaden hand thrust on my shoulder, pulling me out of line.

Panic rose to my throat as parents of the other girls bled forward to claim their daughters. His hand pulled me away, the words, buried alive, scorching my mind.

I forced a breath past the rock in my throat. That will never be me.

* * *

And I had said this would never be me. As though the wishful promise of a terrified child could ward against fate, the irony, the inevitability, beseiged me.

I took a step back as shovels of soil filled the opening of the chamber. Shadows appeared, invited by the fleeing light, as they engulfed the space. The earth absorbed the last sliver of sun. Silt pattered against my feet as the men packed the earth above me.

The last stone thudded into place.

Silence closed in.

Entombed.

Forgotten.

The dwindling glow of the lamp guttered out behind me and darkness swallowed the air, leeching all feeling from my body as I stood, staring into the pitch.

* * *

The Atrium Vestae, home to the priestesses of Vesta, lay bathed in silence, preened and beautified. I clutched the bedclothes to my chin, chosen, yet terror gripping me. Tendrils of incense laced the bedchamber, too sweet to bear. Tears slid down my cheeks, pulling me to my mother’s warm kitchen, her fresh bread, scents of herbs and clean linen. Would I ever see her again?

I squeezed my eyes shut. They didn’t want you. They let the Priest take you. And you heard the priestesses, you belong to the gods now. Stop crying. I swallowed my grief. Never again will I wish for her kitchen. I would make this temple my home, my salvation. You know what happens when a priestess wants for more.

* * *

Dirt ground into my feet as my arms reached out to the sides. Rough stone scraped my fingers. I took a step.

One.

Two.

My foot bumped against a wooden post. I crouched, fumbling in the dark. My hands brushed against rough fabric.

The bed.

Linen scratched my skin as I pulled the veil from my face. My eyes clawed for sight in the empty air, my breath scraping against the earthen walls as I sank into the narrow mattress, my throat burning with dust.

In the eyes of those who molded me, I had broken my vow, I had betrayed the goddess, stained her name for a love that had now buried me. My mind filled with the gaze of my love, the timbre of the voice I would never hear again. Phantom illusions, dancing before unseeing eyes.

Who had betrayed us?

Was he betrayed as well?

Was he suffering the sentence of the lover of a Vestal, to be beaten to death in the public forum?

Had I killed us both?

* * *

The square filled with mobs of raging citizens. I buried my face in my mother’s skirt as they beat him, her lover. Blood streamed from the ribbons of flesh gouged into his back as the rods rose and fell. His muscles strained against the ropes that held him down, splayed as the crowds surged from all sides.

“He violated the goddess!”

“He desecrated the sanctity of Rome!”

I lost sight as my mother’s arms encircled me, muffling the jeers, sheltering me from flying stones.

* * *

I pulled myself from the memory, the echoes of it still reverberating in the silent chamber, my Cassian’s face in place of the poor stranger from that dark day.

What had I done?

“I’m so sorry, my love.” My broken voice trapped in the thinning air. “I’m so sorry.” I bowed over my knees, waiting for my tears, rage, grief, anything other than this numbness cloistering every inch of my body.

* * *

Rome’s summer bore down on my shoulders as I paused on the bank, blinking at Cassian as he swam, powerful strokes sending ripples through the water.

I scanned the secluded glade, eyes running over the dense tree-line, as I undressed, peeling each layer of heavy linen down to my undergarments. I placed my veil and folded robes on the sun-lit grass and stepped into the spring. It lapped around my ankles and the rocks massaged the arches of my feet.

I splashed in, laughing from the shock of the cold water. Cassian gaze hooked on mine, eyes twinkling. I closed my eyes and sank under the water, weightless as the spring washed over me, muffling the drone of sounds as I stayed under, gliding though.

Strong hands grasped my waist, lifting me into a warm embrace. I gazed up into Cassian’s smiling eyes, stunned only for a moment before his mouth pressed slowly into mine. Our smiles fell into a timeless pause, the cool water and burning sun fading like the echo of birds. I tasted the forest on his lips.

“I love you, Aelia,” he pulled back to whisper.

* * *

That cool air, warm sun and lapping water dissolved into dust and darkness. The solid warmth of his body dissipated into the cold weight of the sagging cot and the stale must of buried air.

The black space grew tighter, coarse breaths raking for more air, my mind running along the sides of the chamber.

How much time had passed?

My eyes… were they open or closed?

From the moment I was pulled from that line of girls, my life ceased to be mine. I was chosen for this life of ritual and servitude. I embraced it out of survival. The disgraced priestess, she was never supposed to be me.

Foolish.

The vow of a girl who had yet to understand the inevitability of love’s choice.

Had that other priestess mourned and regretted in her final hours? Or had she celebrated her love, however brief, stolen before she could claim it?

* * *

“Do you regret it?” Cassian asked, as we sat on the bank, gazing over the rippling water.

I lifted my head from his shoulder, sunlight bathing my face. “No.” I shook my head. I looked down, my throat tightening as I whispered, “I could never regret you.”

His breath warmed my cheek. “Do you think you’ve betrayed your goddess?”

I lifted my gaze to his, to the shadows haunting his eyes. “I don’t know,” I whispered.

His eyes held mine. “But you do not regret it?”

I melted into his gaze, curling more deeply against his chest, “No.”

* * *

In the pitch-black space, my eyes squeezed shut, wrapped in our words and memory. No, I did not regret it. Not our meeting, not our love, not our death.

Because love did not taint.

Nothing that burned as brightly as Vesta’s Flame could be worthy of shame. Perhaps the goddess knew the same. And she was my witness.

Rasping breaths rattled from my chest as tears streaked the film of dust on my cheeks. For one last moment I leaned into our sun-lit warmth, curling onto my side, as he held me.

I will find you.

©2026 Lulua Kuo