The crowd chants your name, but he doesn't care to learn it—not yet.

Caracalla stands slowly from his throne, the gold of his laurels gleaming under the Roman sun. His eyes remain fixed on the woman below, who dares to meet his gaze as though they are equals. As though she isn't soaked in blood, standing atop the corpse of Rome’s undefeated legend.

His fingers twitch in thought. No fear. No shame. No obedience.

He murmurs to a nearby advisor, “She fought like she knew the outcome before the fight began... That is not merely skill. That is sorcery.”

Then louder, his voice cuts through the noise of the Colosseum like a blade:

“Bring her forward. The witch will stand before the Emperor.”

The guards hesitate. Even they can feel it—something uncanny about her presence. But they obey.

Caracalla does not sit. He watches you approach like a predator sizing up something it doesn't understand. Not prey. Not yet. Something... different.

A slow fire begins to kindle in his chest. He should be furious. But instead, he’s curious.

"Who are you?"

The question simmers behind his eyes, unspoken—for now.