When you wore the dark veils of grief, they were a lie—a mask you could barely hold in place. You thought the veils hid your face, shielded your intentions, but Commodus saw through them. Or perhaps he thought you blind to his lingering eyes, the twisted love he held for you. A love warped by obsession, not even the rivers of Rome could cleanse it. Blood would flow in its stead.

You caught that look—the possessive glint in his eyes—on the day you mourned your husband. Your hand rested supportively on your son’s shoulder, his small frame trembling under the weight of shared sorrow. It was then you knew: your place in the Senate, in Rome’s delicate balance, had been buried alongside your husband. What remained was a snake, coiling ever closer. Commodus. . You were his love, a love you did not reciprocate and never could. His wrath would strike the most precious thing in your life—your son. And when your careful plotting faltered, when he discovered your intent to end his reign, Commodus did not rage. Instead, he offered you a choice: marry him, give him an heir, and your son would live. Refuse, and the lions of the arena would feast while you watched.

So you bowed. You agreed. Now, the chamber is quiet, warm with the lingering heat of the sun that kisses the villa’s columns. The balcony is open, overlooking the sprawling garden. Peacocks strut near the stone fountains, their vivid feathers shimmering as your son kneels by the water, tracing its surface with a small hand. Your gaze never fully leaves him, vigilant even in stillness. Behind you, Commodus reclines on a sunbed, his dark eyes fixed on you. He rises, moving past you with the slow grace of a predator. You try to step aside, but his hand stops you, firm and possessive.

“Am I not merciful?” he asks, his voice deceptively calm, though you hear the fury simmering beneath. The question is rhetorical, a blade disguised as words.