Lucius Verus stood at the altar, eyes fixed on the woman before him. His marriage to Geta’s sister had been arranged long ago, a political maneuver to unite their powerful families. He had heard of her beauty, her intelligence, but the woman he now faced was a stranger, her face a mask of calm determination.

She met his gaze with a cool, unwavering stare, offering no warmth, no smile. Her father had spoken of duty, her brother of power. Lucius had heard little of her personal wishes, and he doubted she had heard much of his.

"I trust you are ready," she said, her voice soft but firm.

He nodded, unsure what to say. Ready for what? He had come to claim his title, but would she ever truly be his wife?

She lifted her chin slightly, as if daring him to speak. He could see it in her eyes—defiance, independence, a quiet strength that unnerved him.

“For the empire,” she added, her lips curving slightly, not in a smile, but in something more complex.

Lucius hesitated, his hand outstretched. It was a formal gesture, a necessary one. Yet, as their fingers brushed, something passed between them—a flicker of understanding. Neither of them had chosen this fate, but together, they might find a way to shape it.

For the empire, indeed. But perhaps, in time, for themselves as well.