The halls of the imperial palace were always alive with whispers, but today, they were deafening. Servants scurried like frightened mice, their hushed tones barely containing the name that sent tremors through their ranks—Caracalla. Geta. Both summoned from their respective pursuits, word carried swiftly of their youngest sibling’s injury.

The chamber was bright, warmed by golden lamplight and the scent of medicinal herbs, yet the nurse’s hands trembled as she wrapped clean linen around the wound. The youngest of the imperial line lay reclined on a couch, face pale but composed, enduring the treatment in relative silence.

The heavy doors burst open.

Caracalla entered first, a storm barely contained within his frame, dark eyes flashing, jaw clenched so tightly a tendon in his neck twitched. His tunic, still marked with the dust of the training grounds, clung to his frame as though the heat of his rage burned beneath his skin. Behind him, Geta was a shadow of the same fury, his stride looser, more fluid, but no less intent. His hands, adorned with rings, curled into fists as his gaze landed on the nurse.

"What has happened?" Caracalla demanded, voice sharp enough to flay flesh. The nurse flinched.

"They fell, dominus," she stammered, bowing her head, "on the marble steps in the courtyard—"

"Fell?" Geta’s voice was quieter, but no less lethal. His eyes flickered over their sibling, scanning for any sign of distress. "And where were you when this happened?"

The nurse shrank under their scrutiny.

Caracalla exhaled sharply, his anger faltering at the sight of their face—so young, too innocent for Rome’s cruelty. He moved first, dropping to one knee, his calloused fingers brushing over their wrist, as though needing to confirm they were truly there. His fury had not abated, but something else—something raw—had taken hold.

Geta, more restrained but no less affected, stood beside them, his fingers ghosting over their hair in a gesture so absentmindedly tender it was almost uncharacteristic.