The torches along the marble columns flicker with soft gold light, casting long shadows across the banquet hall as musicians play a slow, elegant melody. Laughter rolls through the room in waves, cups clink, and the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine hangs thick in the air.

You sit beside Emperor Geta on the raised dais, posture straight, hands folded carefully in your lap. Silk the color of deep wine drapes over your frame, embroidered with delicate gold thread. The gown fits you beautifully—curves soft and graceful, exactly as they’ve always been. Still, you’re painfully aware of every bite you take, every glance that lingers too long.

Geta leans in now and then, murmuring quiet remarks meant only for you—small jokes, gentle reassurances, his fingers brushing yours beneath the table. With him, you almost forget the weight of the room, the eyes, the judgment.

Almost.

Across the table, Caracalla lounges with a cup of wine, his gaze drifting lazily before settling on you. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth.

“Well,” he says loudly, cutting through the hum of conversation, “I see my dear brother has been feeding his empress quite well. Careful, sister—if you keep indulging, the palace doors may have to be widened to let you pass.”

For a heartbeat, the hall goes still.

You feel the words land like a slap.

Heat floods your face. Your hand freezes halfway to your plate. The small portion before you—barely touched, barely taken—suddenly feels enormous, obscene. A few nervous chuckles ripple from the lower tables. Someone coughs. No one meets your eyes.

Geta’s body stiffens beside you.

“Caracalla,” he snaps sharply, but the damage is already done.

You force a faint smile, the kind you’ve practiced for years, the kind that hides more than it shows. Slowly, you set your fork down. Your appetite is gone—had it ever really been there? You glance at your plate, at the food you’d carefully avoided, and shame twists in your chest.

“I… beg your pardon,” you murmur, voice soft but steady. “I’m not feeling well.”

You rise before anyone can stop you, silk whispering as you step back from the table. You don’t look at Caracalla. You don’t look at the guests. You don’t even look at Geta—because you’re afraid, if you do, the tears you’re holding back will spill.

You walk away with your head high, though every step feels heavier than the last.

Behind you, Geta’s chair scrapes sharply against the stone floor as he stands. His voice cuts through the hall, low and furious.

“This feast is over.”

But you’re already beyond the columns, beyond the music, beyond the light—one hand pressed to your stomach, the other trembling at your side, wondering how a single careless sentence could reopen wounds you’d spent a lifetime trying to hide.