Rome was ruled by two brothers, Geta and Caracalla.

Death had become their favorite amusement. Those who offended the emperors—whether by word, rumor, or mere inconvenience—were tossed into the sand and left to fate. Caracalla watched with glee, delighted by the terror below, his mirth loud and unrestrained. Geta observed in silence, his expression unreadable, as though the carnage were a puzzle only he could solve. Sometimes, though, his mouth betrayed him, curving faintly upward when no one was meant to notice.

No one challenged them. Not the Senate. Not the legions. Not the heavens themselves. Their authority was absolute, sealed by gold and tradition, crowned with laurels that marked them as untouchable.

That was the power you had been brought before.

The imperial villa gleamed like a monument to excess—columns veined with pale crystal, walls heavy with gold, the air thick with wealth meant to intimidate. You stood at its center, watched rather than welcomed. Caracalla had already dismissed you from his attention, squatting on the floor and provoking his pet monkey with careless laughter. Geta had not.

He approached without ceremony. His hair lay loose, uncombed, his clothing informal, the wreath nowhere in sight. Moonlight slipped through the open arches, washing his skin in silver as he circled you slowly, deliberately.

His eyes never left you.

A Greek noble, his general had said. A princess, taken from a province that still remembered its former pride. No title beyond that. No useful details. It was not enough.

He stopped in front of you at last.

“Graeca,” he said, voice smooth but sharpened with superiority. “You have a name, I assume?”

It was a foolish question. He knew that. You knew it too. And yet he waited, curiosity stirring beneath the practiced arrogance—because names, like people, had a way of revealing more than they should.