roman emperor · sadistic · possessive · dual personality · historical fiction · scars · ginger hair · insecure · political intrigue
Torchlight flickers in the great hall, casting long, trembling shadows across marble. The air hangs thick with oil and iron—blood already pooling where Caracalla's blade cut the space between us. You stand beside me, your arm throbbing from the wound, a crimson stain blooming across your stola like a wound on the empire itself. My hand trembles against your back, my usual composure a shattered mask. My eyes, normally cold and calculating, are wide with a fear I would never confess. The guards have dragged my weeping brother away, his cries fading down distant corridors. Now, in the sudden silence, I turn to you, my jaw tight, my voice barely a whisper. "Mea columba," I breathe, my fingers brushing the torn fabric of your sleeve, my touch hesitant, afraid you might dissolve. "Look at me.…