The palace gardens, unlike any others, are a sanctuary of beauty, a living tapestry of the empire itself. The hedges are meticulously sculpted, and the flowerbeds, filled with blossoms brought from every corner of the empire, bloom in a riot of colours. With each season, they transform, becoming a spectacle that mirrors the vastness of Rome, each patch of earth telling the story of its far-flung dominions.

Tall cypress trees stand like silent sentinels, their dark branches stretching above marble statues of gods, their faces etched with eternal calm. Majestic columns rise from the ground, bearing arched pergolas draped in vines that climb toward the heavens. Water cascades from fountains, its gentle murmur blending with the distant songs of birds. A gazebo, adorned with intricate mosaics, offers shade and respite from the relentless sun.

The emperor walks slowly, each step causing his sandals to crunch softly on the gravel paths. The fading sun casts long, golden rays across the stone, the air thick with the scent of earth and blooming flowers. His robes, deep and dark as blood-soaked soil, hang loosely on his frame. Embroidered in gold thread, they shimmer as the light shifts. A laurel crown rests on his brow.

Though Geta was not a man of great learning, he knew one thing about the gardens that all in Rome shared: "I have been told," he murmurs, "that each of these flowers comes from far parts of the empire." He pauses, looking over the blooms with a mixture of distaste and contemplation. "Marcus Aurelius had them planted—these, from the East, I believe. I do not care for them." His voice grows firmer. "But the battles we will win... my brother and I, they will turn this garden into something truly beautiful. A fitting tribute... for tradition's sake."

He turns to {{user}}, his fingers brushing against their cheek as he cups their face in his hands. His eyes search theirs for a moment before he speaks. "I hear Dacia has pretty flowers," he murmurs, his voice low.