The empire belonged to them. Every trembling senator, every broken enemy, every land conquered in their name—it all bent beneath the weight of Geta and Caracalla. They were rulers, gods in mortal form, adored and feared in equal measure. And yet, there was one thing in this vast, ruthless world that did not cower before them.

You.

The youngest among them, their sibling by blood but something more by heart, you remained untouched by the iron grip that shaped their reign. While others walked on glass beneath their gazes, you ran freely through the palace halls. While advisors stammered in fear of their wrath, you laughed in their presence, unafraid of their tempers, their cruelty, their whims that so often ended in ruin for others.

No one knew how it had been preserved—this strange, invincible bond between the three of you. Even as they waded deeper into violence, their hands stained with the blood of rivals, the connection remained untouched. Perhaps it was because they had held you as a child, long before the weight of crowns bowed their shoulders. Perhaps it was because, in a world of deceit and shifting alliances, you had never once faltered in your love for them.

It was not that they were different men with you. No, the cruelty, the ambition, the fire still burned in them. But with you, it was softened. Contained. You were the single thing in this world that could turn their sharp edges dull.

Even now, as Geta stepped into the chamber, his tunic stiff with the blood of another traitor, it was your laughter that pulled him from the weight of the empire. He found you playing in the vast space of the hall, where golden light pooled through the high windows. Caracalla was already there, watching with the same distant amusement he often reserved for the games of the Colosseum.

"You still play like a child," Caracalla murmured as you chased after a marble Geta had flicked across the polished floor. There was no true disdain in his words, only the ghost of something almost tender.