MORGADO

"I’m sorry to come asking for this, but my heart won’t rest when my sister sends me such alarming messages. I have to see her…"

The priestess’s sharp eyes fixed on her. "Does she have no one else?"

Livia sighed. "Alas, no. Our mother has been gone for years, our father only just passed, and…" She swallowed hard, forcing back the lump rising in her throat. "…and our older sister, too. Claudia has a husband, but she’s carrying a child, alone in a foreign house… If I don’t go to her, I’ll never forgive myself. I can’t lose another sister."

Whether it was Livia’s words or the sorrow on her face, something in the senior priestess softened. Her voice was quieter when she spoke.

"Very well. Go see your sister. But don’t linger too long, and…” She hesitated, frowning, before continuing, “remember—your place is here, in the temple of our goddess and protector."

"Thank you," Livia said, relief and gratitude flooding her. In a sudden rush of emotion, she bent down and pressed a kiss to the back of the Great Maiden’s hand before hurrying out. But just as she passed through the doorway, she caught the woman’s gaze following her—heavy, somber, devoid of any joy.

And just like that, her own joy vanished.

Dark thoughts crept back in, pressing in around her like shadows. The secret she hadn’t told, the truth she hadn’t shared with her sisters. Once, they had shared everything—joy and sorrow alike—but now… Now, guilt took root in her chest, and the weight of unspoken words threatened to suffocate her.

Her sisters didn’t know.

And it was his fault.

Emperor Caracalla had shattered her quiet, ordered world with nothing but his presence. He had brought with him chaos, lies, and… thoughts that had no place in the mind of a Vestal.

But the goddess knew.

Nothing could be hidden from her. And that made it all the more unbearable.

She had tried to tell Caesonia—truly, she had—but the words got stuck in her throat the moment the other priestess started talking, her eyes sparkling with excitement about Emperor Geta. Oh, how her sister admired him! She’d praised him, laughed, made silly jokes, and seemed so thrilled that they’d be attending the games again soon.

And how could Livia ruin that? How could she say that the father of Rome had stormed into the sacred temple, had whispered things to her that no young girl should ever hear? That he had touched her, behaved with brazen arrogance, nothing like the divine being so many believed him to be?

How could she describe the filth of it? The wrongness? The things that no Vestal should ever even think about?

Sin.

She longed to bathe, to cleanse herself, as if Caracalla had truly touched her, squeezed her throat, and kept purring in her ear.

A shudder ran through her, and she bit down hard on her lip, desperate to chase away the smiling image of the emperor from her mind.

She had no time for this.

She needed to think of Claudia. She needed to focus on her sister. Not waste another moment on impure thoughts.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

As soon as the chariot began rolling through the streets of Rome, a fresh wave of panic washed over her. Livia tugged the curtains tighter, not wanting anyone to see her. This visit had to be swift and discreet—there was no reason for the people of Rome to know that a Vestal Virgin was paying a visit to the emperors’ palace.

She had no interest in the outside world—she didn’t care to see how the capital lived, neither the lavish homes of the patricians nor the cramped, crumbling dwellings of the plebeians. And yet, when the chariot slowed, she couldn’t help but peek through the slightly parted curtain. What she saw made her gasp.

The emperors’ palace, a gleaming fortress of white marble, was overwhelming in its grandeur. Even approaching from the less prominent side, away from the central square, there was still plenty to marvel at.

She was expected. As soon as she stepped inside, she was escorted directly to her sister. To Livia’s surprise, they led her to a garden, where amidst fragrant flowers, elegant marble statues, and the quiet singing of birds, Claudia waited for her in a shaded gazebo.

The young woman lounged in a garden chair, looking bored. Her legs were stretched out on a low stool, one hand absently stroking her rounded belly. But the moment she saw Livia, her expression lit up with genuine joy.

Livia lifted the sheer, pale-blue veil from her face. Beside Claudia, a dark-skinned slave girl sat at her feet. At the sight of Livia, the girl’s eyes widened—not just in surprise, but in something else. Fear? Doubt? Did she find it strange that a Vestal Virgin had come to see her mistress? Or… had she seen Livia before? Livia didn’t know, and she had no desire to dwell on it. With a simple nod, Claudia dismissed the servants, leaving them alone.

"Livia, sister, I’m so happy you’re here," Claudia said, reaching out with both hands.

Livia covered them with her own, squeezing gently. “How are you feeling?” she asked, searching her sister’s face for answers.

"Oh, this…" Claudia’s expression faltered, her eyes darting nervously. She didn’t look sick. "Forgive me for the little deception, Livia. I—" She hesitated. "You must forgive me. I just wanted to see you so badly, and I couldn’t think of any other way to distract you from your prayers!"

Livia stiffened. Anger flared through her body, and she pulled away, her movement sharper than intended.

"Do you realize," she said, her voice rougher than before, "that because of your 'little' deception, I’m in a difficult position? I have duties. What am I supposed to tell the High Priestess? That my sister is a liar?"

"You don’t need to explain anything," Claudia said smoothly. "Just tell them I’m feeling better, and that’s all. Is it really such a crime to visit your pregnant sister? Do you truly believe Vesta would be angered by that?"

But Livia remained resolute, crossing her arms and taking a step back.

"Lies—those are the real sin,” she said, eager to return to the temple immediately. “Answer me, Claudia—why did you really come up with this story?"

Her sister straightened, lowering her feet to the ground, placing a protective hand over her belly. Her gaze turned distant, uneasy. Her lips parted, but she hesitated, avoiding Livia’s eyes. She was hiding something. And Livia didn’t like it.

"I was asked to…" Claudia finally murmured.

"By who?" Livia’s voice came out hoarse. She already knew the answer.

"The emperor…" Claudia admitted softly.

Livia didn’t wait to hear more. She pulled the veil back over her face, turned on her heel, and strode toward the exit. Away from the garden. Away from the palace. Back to the temple, where her sisters—though not by blood—would never lie to her.

"Wait!"

A sister’s hand, hot and desperate, grabbed her wrist.

"I had no choice, Livia, please!" Claudia’s voice broke into a sob. "Appius is always at the Senate, and when he’s not there, he’s off carousing with the emperors. I’m alone all the time! I really did want to see you, and when Emperor Geta told me—"

"He ordered you to do this?" Livia yanked her hand free. Through the thin veil, she regarded her sister’s small, trembling figure, unwilling to show her own face. Or her emotions. The resentment in her chest tightened like a knot.

"No, but… You know the gods’ power lies in the hands of the emperors. Who am I to refuse a request?"

"You’re my sister," Livia said sharply, turning to leave again.

"Livia…" Claudia’s voice cracked.

She clutched her belly, breathing heavily, and sank back into her chair.

Livia’s heart softened, and she hurried to sit in front of her sister, inspecting her, stroking her dark hair gently.

"Don’t upset yourself, please. I forgive you," Livia said softly, fixing her sister with a steady gaze, brushing the damp curls from her forehead… and then she froze.

Claudia had always been frail. Both Cassandra and Livia had been strong, healthy—tall, just like their father, and eerily similar since childhood. But Claudia had always been different, with her dark hair and blue eyes, she took after their mother with her frailty and shorter stature.

And now, looking at her, Livia realized: Claudia truly was ill.

Her gaze drifted lower. Without touching her, she traced a faint red mark on her sister’s skin. Then another. One near her collarbone, half-hidden beneath the fabric of her deep burgundy tunic.

"What is this?" Livia breathed.

Claudia hurriedly shifted her long hair over her chest, hiding the marks.

"Nothing…"

A lie. Livia saw it in her eyes. She wanted to press her, to demand the truth—but they were interrupted.

A palace guard had arrived. The emperor was summoning her. And she couldn’t refuse.

Casting one last, sorrowful glance at her sister—now curled up in her chair, her face unreadable—Livia rose and followed the guard into the palace.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

This time, she doesn’t stop to admire the gold or marble. The sculptures and frescoes fade into the background. All she can think about is her sister—those marks. She’s seen them before… she’s almost certain.

"Wait here, priestess. Emperor Geta will join you shortly," the guard tells her before leaving her alone in the vast, empty throne room.

Livia clasps her hands together, her gaze drifting over the towering arches and columns. She doesn’t like it here—it’s too ostentatious, too… too dangerous. The sheer size of the space makes her uneasy; she longs to return to her small, familiar room in the House of the Vestals. She avoids looking at the intricately carved thrones at the center of the hall, but a bas-relief above a small, almost hidden door tucked behind the columns catches her eye.

She’s heard the story countless times—first as a child in her parents’ home, then later from the High Priestess, who taught her about the sisterhood. Carved into the white stone is a she-wolf nursing two infants. Twin brothers. Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, who…

"Their mother was a Vestal, wasn’t she?" a quiet, sudden voice makes her flinch.

Caracalla is standing close—too close—as if he’d been there all along. Livia wills her racing heart to calm, determined not to let him revel in her fear. Thankfully, her face remains hidden behind the veil.

"Yes, my Caesar," she replies politely, bowing her head. "She bore them from a god."

"What could be more honorable, hmm? Mars, the god of war, blessed her womb with great sons," he stood in profile, his eyes locked on the relief, but she could see his lips stretch into a smile.

"And couldn’t protect her when she needed it," she retorts, bristling.

"So now we’re judging the gods, are we?" He turned to her, and she swallowed, her gaze dropping, cursing her own foolishness.

"No, we are merely humble servants, Emperor," she replied softly, and Caracalla smiled again.

The faint clink of golden bracelets fills the air as he gestures toward another wall. Livia’s gaze locks onto his pale, well-kept hand. This time, there are no rings—instead, his thin fingers are coated in gold up to the middle knuckle. She’s seen priests do this, though they used sacrificial blood… She could easily imagine blood in place of gold.

"Another one of your sisters," he giggled, eyeing Livia with interest, still smiling with slightly parted lips, like a mischievous child.

Livia presses her lips tighter. The young emperor is testing her, teasing her. She glances at the other bas-relief. Tarpeia, the traitor who betrayed her city, is depicted with a look of terror, buried under heavy shields, one hand reaching desperately toward the sky.

"The claim that she was a Vestal is a myth," Livia replied curtly.

"But the rumors exist, don’t they?" he said lightly. "Of course, not something a Vestal would take pride in. But you’re different, aren’t you? Faithful to your calling."

This time, his eyes met hers directly—so piercing, so heavy, it felt as though the veil between them didn’t exist at all. As if she stood before him bare.

"I am faithful to my vows, Emperor."

«How many times do I have to say it before you stop looking at me like that?» she thinks, clenching her fists. He immediately notices her tension, his eyes flicking downward. He seems relaxed, unserious, smug even—but Caracalla is watching her closely. He is attentive.

Dressed in sapphire blue, his eyes are even more striking—dark, tempestuous, mirroring the hue of his tunic. His hair is a wild tangle of curls, untamed by a golden laurel, and his cheeks burn with a feverish glow, just beneath a delicate layer of powder. Livia’s gaze snags on the tiny, nearly healed marks on his cheekbones, and her mind flashes back to Claudia. Could it…?

"I’m here to visit my father," Caracalla says with a nod, as if the strange tension between them never existed.

Only now did she realize that the small door led to the altar.

"You praying?" she asked, genuinely surprised. In her mind, Caracalla was a god unto himself.

"Praying?" he echoed, a sly twist in his voice. It was hard to tell whether he was answering or posing the question back at her, daring her to guess. Livia stayed silent.

"You can join me. My father may not have been a devout man or given your temple the attention it deserves," he says, his eyes swept down her body and back up again, "but a Vestal priestess might brighten his afterlife."

She hesitates for only a heartbeat before following him. She has no choice.

Alone with the emperor in the small, dimly lit room, Livia freezes against the wall, waiting for him to speak. But he doesn’t.

He stares at the gilded altar, a smile playing on his lips—not a sad one, but rather sardonic, cruel even. As if he’s pleased his father is dead, his bones buried beneath, while Caracalla stands here, alive, the emperor…

"Five years to the day since he died," his hoarse, quiet voice cuts through the silence.

"I’m sorry," Livia replies. "My father’s gone too. I understand…"

"Do you?" His high, hysterical laugh jolted her, and she stepped back toward the exit, warily watching the flushed cheekbones, the dilated pupils, the heavy rise and fall of his chest beneath the blue toga. "Were you glad when your father died too?"

And then it hits her. He hated the old emperor.

Oh, how foolish she had been, believing he could ever love anyone.

She recalls the day the emperor passed. Whispers had spread, suggesting he’d been murdered… Could one of his sons have been responsible? Unease settles in her chest as she wraps her arms around herself.

Caracalla, as if reading her thoughts, turned toward her, narrowed his eyes, and then approached so closely that she could smell the scent of aromatic oils. His hand rose, and she recoiled, fearing he might touch her. But no, his fingers merely grazed the veil, pushing it back to reveal her pale face.

For a moment, they were silent. She seemed to stop breathing altogether while the emperor studied her face with surprising seriousness and focus. They were the same height, and Caracalla was only slightly older than her, but for some reason, Livia felt like a child, a little girl. It was frightening.

"Your sister was here," he says, running his tongue over his lips, his breathing quickening again.

"Claudia?" she whispers, almost without thinking.

"Who?" He laughs. "No, your other sister."

"Cassandra?"

The name of her sister causes the emperor’s pupils to dilate even further, the blackness swallowing the blue of his irises. The shifting torchlight casts shadows across his face, transforming it into something tragic, unsettling. He stepped back from her, turning once again to the altar, standing next to his father’s bust.

Now Livia saw two profiles—one marble, one alive, human.

Yet the living emperor, standing still, was no different from the statue. Pale, youthful, beautiful, he surpassed even the finest work of the sculptor who had carved his father.

"Yes," he replied. "Little bird often brightened my days when she lived here. Sweet, gentle, obedient…"

His voice dips into a purr, and Livia’s brow furrows. Little bird. He’d called her that too.

"You’re nothing like her, though your face is hers exactly."

She felt a wave of disgust ripple through her at the tone he used when speaking of her dead sister—as if a single tender purr could tarnish Cassandra’s memory.

Livia silently turned away, unwilling to speak to him any longer. She needed to meet with the other emperor and leave the palace.

But as she took a step toward the exit, his hand roughly grabbed her wrist, and he slammed her against the wall, chest-first.

Stunned, it took her a moment to register what had just happened.

He had grabbed her!

Touched her not playfully, but brazenly, shamelessly! As if she were… Her!? Livia gasped, her cheek flat against the cold wall, his hot body pressing into her from behind, grip squeezing her wrist to pain.

"Let go! This is sacrilege!" she whispered, trying not to sound too frantic.

"I touched you—grabbed you like some common kitchen wench," he whispers in her ear, inhaling the scent of her hair, his nose burying into her neck.

"And look—my hands are still here. Your goddess hasn’t cursed me. Who’s going to punish me, huh? You? Come on then. Fight back. Hit me. Here I am, touching you again and again, right on my father’s grave! So what are you going to do to me, priestess?"

His other hand settles on her neck, brushing her hair aside. She couldn’t move.

Not wanting to anger him further, Livia freezes.

So does he.

"Emperor Antoninus, please," a desperate whisper escapes her dry lips.

His breath on her neck quickens, grows hotter.

His name stirs something in him—his grip on her wrist even loosens slightly.

"Say it again," he commands.

"Please…"

"Not that! My name!"

"Antoninus…" Her voice trembles, and he presses into her hips harder, letting out a quiet moan.

"My mother used to call me that," he whispers, finally releasing her wrist.

Livia can’t bear it any longer.

While he’s distracted, relaxed, she spins around, shoving him hard in the chest—consequences be damned. Her nails rake across the back of his hand as she rushes away, her heart pounding, dreading he’ll follow.

But he doesn’t.

Only his laughter echoes behind her.

"Fly, little bird—we’ll meet again!"

ৡ ৡ ৡ

She rushed to leave the throne room, desperate to escape the palace, but as she reached the exit, she collided with Emperor Geta. His face froze at the sight of her, his eyes scanning her disheveled appearance with a stunned disbelief.

Only then did Livia realize how she must look. Her gaze was wild, her hair a tangled mess, her veil crumpled, and her wrists were marked with blossoming bruises, streaked with traces of gold paint left by Emperor Caracalla. Geta noticed all of it. He pressed his lips into a thin line but didn’t comment on it, speaking as though everything were perfectly ordinary.

"Apologies for the wait, priestess" he says politely, inclining his head. Unlike his brother, his hair is neat, crowned with a golden laurel, as it should be. He’s dressed in night-black robes—impeccable, composed, focused. Yet, Livia can’t help but notice the red blotches seeping through the layer of powder. He’s furious. His dark eyes bore into her as if she’s betrayed him.

"Why am I here?" she said hastily, still fearing that Caracalla might appear behind her.

"I told you—I enjoy your company, I want to see you more often," Geta replied softly, licking his lips.

Her mind immediately flashed back to his brother’s words: "Geta wants you." A wave of nausea hit her.

"We agreed to meet at the games."

"Yes, I remember," his black eyes remained fixed on her wrists, and she suddenly wanted to strike him. How dare he!? He knew exactly what his brother had done! He knew it was Caracalla—he knew, and yet he remained silent, endured it! If he likes her so much, why is he tolerating this? Coward.

"I wish to see you. Without the High Priestess and your sisters. Just you. There will be a feast tonight. I want you to be there."

Livia blinked, stunned. What did he think she was?

"That’s insulting," she spat.

"It’s an honor," he replied sharply, his voice growing colder. "Didn’t your sisters in the past attend feasts, gatherings? Watching gladiators spill blood on the arena floor is acceptable, but spending an evening with Rome’s noble citizens is condemned? There will be poetry readings, singers, harpists. You’ll spend your time as you see fit. If you think of anything improper, that’s not my fault…" He smirked, brazenly tilting his chin, reminding her once again of Caracalla.

Anger overwhelmed her completely. Oh, so he wanted to show her off to his friends like some precious trinket? To brag?

Livia bit the inside of her cheek as hard as she could, forced a fake smile, and nodded.

"One evening, Emperor. And then you’ll leave me be."

Geta mirrored her smile, his curious gaze lingering on her face, before replying, obviously lying:

Yet, she is slightly surprised when she sees not Caracalla but his brother. He is still dressed only in a robe, barefoot, disheveled. Thoughtfully, even theatrically, he looks out onto the balcony leading to the garden. She remembers, it was from there that Geta witnessed her shame.

"Expected my brother?"

His dark eyes gleam with cruel amusement as he turns to face her, studying the way she trembles before him. His gaze lingers on her tangled hair. Oh, he sees it all. The tear-streaked cheeks. The bruises blooming on her wrists where the Praetorians had held her too tightly.

He leans forward, fingers steepled, his voice dripping with false concern.

"My dear, you’ve found yourself in quite the predicament, haven’t you? Your husband, that foolish man, wanted us killed. And yet, here you are. And he…"

Geta paused meaningfully.

"…and he is dead, little bird."

A hand—someone else’s—lands just below her throat, burning and possessive. It slides up, slow and deliberate, past her neck, wrenching her chin back. Her breath catches. Her eyes lock with his.

So little blue in his gaze. Just black. Endless, hungry black.

Caracalla had crept up silently, unseen, and now held her firmly, not letting her turn away. His hand was hot—hotter than usual.

Then she felt the moisture.

Her eyes flicked downward without moving her head.

And then she screamed.

His hands, pale, soft hands, usually adorned with rings, had chosen a different ornament this time.

Red.

Blood covered his delicate hand up to the wrist, staining her face, her neck, branding her skin with crimson streaks. The scent of iron fills her nostrils, thick and suffocating. Her stomach churns.

"Shh, shh," he whispers. "No one will interrupt us anymore. You’re a widow now—congratulations."

His lips pressed against her neck, right where the blood stains her skin.

"I promise, this night won’t count in court," he adds with a foolish giggle, clearly delighted by her stunned reaction.

She doesn’t want to think about whose blood it is, but deep down, she knows.

"And oh, that’s not all!"

He releases her, and yet she remains still.

"A gift!"

He claps his hands, and a carved chest is brought into the room. She doesn’t want to know what’s inside.

But Caracalla, his face alight with childish joy, flings it open, proudly displaying its contents. The emperor smiles, but his eyes remain cold, watching her eagerly, waiting for her reaction.

In horror, she recoils, her scream tearing through the hall. Her legs give way, and she collapses to the floor, gasping for breath.

Caracalla is pleased.

Without a flicker of disgust, he reaches into the chest, grabs its contents, and tosses them toward her as if they were nothing more than a mere trinket. But it’s not.

A pale, lifeless hand, severed at the wrist, lands on the marble floor before her.

She recognizes it instantly by the ring on its finger. Her husband’s hand.

To seal the horror on her face, Caracalla lifts the severed hand and waves it at her, grinning.

"I wanted to bring the head, but Geta stopped me," he chuckles. "You should thank him."

"Take it away," Geta grimaces, ordering the slaves to remove the chest and the hand.

As a final touch, Caracalla slides the ring off the dead hand and slips it onto his own thumb. His hands are small, nothing like her husband’s—the ring wouldn’t fit any other finger.

Since their time in the throne room, the young emperor has tidied himself up, trading his sheet for a silk golden robe. His hair remains wild and unkempt, but a small gold earring glints in his ear.

How charming that for this meeting, full of horror, fear, and humiliation, he had dressed up for her.

She couldn’t take her eyes off his hands, still staring at the ring—her husband’s ring—the one she placed on his finger on their wedding day. She never imagined it would end like this.

Unconsciously, she reaches for her own ring—the one her husband had given her—only to remember. It is gone.

Geta took it.

Caracalla’s gaze flicks to her fingers, immediately recognizing his brother’s ring.

"Where did you get that?" His smile fades, his eyes darting to the other emperor, noting her golden ring on Geta’s hand.

"I won," Geta drawls smugly. "Won our little bet." He’s clearly pleased with himself, his lips curling into something like a smirk—but his eyes remain narrowed, watching, waiting. He’s wary of his brother’s reaction, she realizes.

In the short time Cassandra has known them, she’s learned that despite his innocent appearance, Caracalla is the one to fear. Geta knows this too—though he holds far more privileges, he doesn’t dare to gloat too openly.

A shiver runs down her spine.

A bet? They were betting? On her?

Caracalla’s expression darkens.

"You’re always like this! You must have cheated, didn’t you?" he snaps, frustration clear in his tone as he shoots a suspicious glance at his brother. But he doesn’t approach Geta. Instead, he moves toward her, still sitting on the floor.

"And you… One disappointment after another. Did you really want to upset me? Have you forgotten who you belong to?"

"Yours…" she whispers, her eyes glued to the ground.

"No, this time you won’t get away so easily." His fingers tighten in her hair, yanking her to her feet. "You’ll remember. You might cheat on that fool of a husband, but not me. Never me!"

"I didn’t…" she begins, her voice breaking, but no one is listening.

He drags her toward the massive bed, shoving her onto the silks and furs. Again? Will he force himself on her again?

Geta watches with interest, tilting his head—just like that time on the balcony. But this time, the emperor stands very close.

Caracalla steps back for a moment, only to return, looming over her, his breath hot against her skin. She trembles so violently that at first, she doesn’t even notice the cold steel pressing against her collarbone.

"Don’t kill her," Geta warns, sitting on the edge of the bed, making no move to intervene. "She has a trial to face, remember?"

"I don’t need your reminders," Caracalla snaps, glaring at his brother before turning his focus back to her, a lazy smile curling on his lips. "You forgot your place, didn’t you? Who do you think you are? You think you can play with my brother?"

The dagger in his hand makes her breath hitch. With a quick, sharp motion, he bares her chest, ripping her clothes apart—but it isn’t lust driving him. Or at least, not only that.

What did her body matter when terror shone so clearly in her eyes?

Her fear excites him far more. She can see it. She can feel it, his hardness pressing against her. The blade slides lightly between her collarbones, and she flinches, trying to twist away.

"Hold her."

And Geta does.

Obediently, he grabs her wrists and pins them above her head against the bed. His grip is so tight it makes her want to cry.

Cassandra meets his gaze, searching, pleading—

But the emperor is indifferent. Amused. Cold. He will allow his brother anything.

Mockingly, he brushes his thumb against her cheek, wiping away her tears. Then, just like that, he hands her over to Caracalla's mercy.

Caracalla is pleased, exhilarated. This time, the blade pressed harder, and she felt the sharp sting of pain.

When he moved lower, just above her right breast, she screamed, and his left hand covered her mouth. Geta still held her wrists as Caracalla began to carve intricate symbols into her pale skin with the tip of the dagger.

"I’ll reward you, brand you with your emperor’s name," he whispered, breathing heavily, biting his lower lip. "Now you won’t forget."

She whimpered into his hand, crying, her skin blazing like fire, shame and embarrassment consumed by the burn.

He carves with care, a craftsman at his art, then pulls back, licking his lips, admiring his work. She catches him touching himself beneath the robe, cheeks flushed with feverish red.

"Up—now," he commanded, and Geta yanked her by her numb arms, giving her no time to think, dragging her off the bed and forcing her to her knees.

The spot below her collarbone throbbed, as did her stiff arms, but none of that mattered now. Caracalla was marking her, asserting his claim. No one would save her; she was completely at his mercy. With a low, guttural moan, he reached his peak, using only his hand, never once touching her body. His seed desecrated her face as he gripped her hair tightly. Oh, the young emperor had always been inventive, and this time, he’d found yet another way to break her.

Tear-streaked and branded with his bleeding name, his seed staining her face, she was completely shattered. Geta looked on with disdain, Caracalla with lazy boredom. Yet, he didn’t look away, showing no intention of discarding her like he usually did.

"When’s the trial?" The tip of his tongue traced his red lips, his eyes burning with feverish anticipation.

"Tomorrow morning," his brother replied hoarsely, sounding almost intrigued, a quiet observer of her humiliation.

"Then we have time," Caracalla said, playfully picking up the dagger and running his thumb along its sharp edge. His hands were already stained with her husband’s blood. "The trial tomorrow is for those foolish senators. But yours… yours starts now."

There was no mercy in his voice, no remorse. The gods had already passed their judgment. Cassandra shut her eyes.

⋆ ☼ ⋆

The games were supposed to continue today, but judging by the relentless downpour, they would likely be canceled again. The emperors would not take it well.

Tiberius paced the room, irritation evident in every step as he waited for the slaves to finish dressing her. He was growing more restless by the day, lost in his own thoughts, seemingly oblivious to her shattered state.

Once she was ready, his gaze softened.

Her husband pulled her close and pressed a gentle kiss on her lips.

A shudder ran through her at the thought that Emperor Caracalla would have surely enjoyed knowing that Tiberius was now kissing the very mouth he had defiled.

She had no idea where her husband was taking her, and her confusion only grew when they stepped into a grand chamber three times the size of their own. Only the most powerful could live in such luxury. Cassandra’s gaze landed on General Acacius, standing beside his wife, Lucilla. They were clearly expecting Tiberius—but not her, if the general’s surprised look was anything to go by.

Servants brought wine and delicacies, but Cassandra didn’t touch them. She sat stiffly, nervous, unsure why she was here. Tiberius and Acacius moved to the side, speaking in hushed tones. Lucilla, ever the gracious hostess, smiled warmly and made light conversation, filling the silence until the men returned.

"Tell him what they’ve done this time," Acacius said, quiet yet firm.

Lucilla met his gaze, then looked at Tiberius, then finally at Cassandra.

"They sent the Praetorians. They knew I wouldn’t come willingly," she said.

Cassandra didn’t need names. She already knew who she meant.

"And what did those madmen want now?"

"They wanted me to adopt them. To declare them my sons before the people of Rome," Lucilla said, lips curling in disgust. "Oh, Geta was upset when I declined. But Caracalla… he had another proposal. One I refuse to repeat."

"That insolent whelp!" Tiberius hissed, as if it were his own wife they had insulted.

She could feel her ears and cheeks burning. Lucilla had the strength to refuse, backed by her husband, the general, the shadow of her dead father—the emperor—and the love of the people. Cassandra had nothing. Her husband was her only shield, but he didn’t notice what was happening, and even if he had, there was little he could do about it.

"Their antics are getting worse every day! How much longer are we going to tolerate this?" her husband whispered again.

"Patience, my friend, patience. I’ll handle it," Acacius reassured him, and Tiberius relaxed, his tension easing.

No more was said about the emperors, but Cassandra sat there, as if on needles. What had they talked about? What were they planning? Unfortunately, the conversation shifted to something else and didn’t return to the same topic. She wasn’t allowed to interfere in such matters. Lucilla excused herself, citing business to attend to, and soon after, Tiberius commanded Cassandra to return to their quarters since there was no more company for her.

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

The palace was cold and empty. Morning had barely begun, and most noblemen were still asleep. Cassandra shivered, pulling her cloak tighter around her bare shoulders and arms. There was no need to rush, so she walked slowly along the covered terrace, watching the rain.

One way or another, he would find her. As long as she remained in the palace, she would never be safe. The realization brought her an odd sense of calm. Let him do as he pleased.

"What business did General Acacius and his wife have that warranted your visit? Has something happened?"

That wasn’t Caracalla’s voice.

Cassandra turned to face the unexpected guest—Emperor Geta.

He looked even gloomier than usual today. Dressed in black and gold, with no laurel to soften his appearance, his face powdered white and his eyes rimmed in red, he resembled the harbinger of death more than an imperial ruler.

It was impossible to miss his anger. Geta, though trying to keep his composure, couldn’t hide it. His jaw clenched beneath his pale skin, and his lips were pressed into a tight line.

And his eyes—oh, those eyes. Exactly the kind that should belong to a herald of darkness—dark, vast, as though no light could reach beyond his irises. Not the transparent, innocent, deceptive blue ones.

"My husband is close to the general, and I enjoy Lucilla’s company. She is a decent woman," Cassandra answered calmly. She had nothing to hide.

"Oh yes, Lucilla," he said, his voice dropping, rougher now, his lips twisted. "My brother is captivated by her as well."

She remembered what Lucilla had said—how the emperors had asked her to adopt them. Remembered how they told her she looked like their mother. And how Caracalla had forced her to wear his mother’s robes. Even now, she stood there wearing his mother’s tunic, The cloak, the earrings, the bracelets, the rings—none of them were hers. And Geta knew that too.

Had his conversation with Lucilla upset him this much? Who else could cut an emperor so deep? Well—perhaps only another emperor.

"And you… you enchant him too, don’t you, little bird?"

His tongue darted out, wetting his pale lips—a nervous habit, perhaps. He stepped forward again, then again, until he was so close she could feel his breath. One more step, and they’d be too close.

"That’s what he calls you, isn’t it?"

Here’s no warmth from him, just coldness, like he’s made of marble. And he smells different, not sweet at all; she can clearly sense the familiar scent of powder, but the sharp herbal scent that lingers around him is unfamiliar.

Geta, despite his involvement in her torment, had always seemed distant to her, withdrawn, uninterested in the games his brother played. Or so she thought. Caracalla wanted something—Geta indulged him. That’s how it had been until yesterday evening, when one of the brothers had claimed something that wasn’t his.

"I’ve always been his," the emperor breathed. "I shared everything with him. Protected him. Stood by his side. I love him."

His thumb brushed the wound at the corner of her lips. He knew. He knew exactly who had done this to her.

"We forgive a lot when it comes to family—even when that family is insane. Don’t we?” His voice dropped lower, darker. “And this is how he repays me? With mockery?"

She didn’t understand, but his gaze darkened even further, his brows knitting together, aging his young face.

"I… I’m sorry that you and your brother are at odds…"

"At odds?" He let out a bitter, low laugh. "Oh, this isn’t a quarrel. But he knows better than anyone how to wound me."

A cold hand cupped her cheek, tilting her face up. He was taller than his brother, his hand was rougher.

"And your rejection wounded me, little bird. Am I so unappealing? Or do you simply prefer my brother?"

She barely stopped herself from pulling away. No, not this again. She had learned to endure Caracalla—but not both of them.

What twisted game was this for her attention? They could take her by force, anytime, anywhere. Caracalla already did. So why did Geta care whether she showed him favor?

"If he won’t share, I’ll take what I want myself."

And he did.

They were alike and yet so different. His touch may be cold, but his mouth is like his brother’s—greedy, hot. He was rougher. No smiles, no soft touches—his hand clamped down on her waist, tight enough to bruise. Teeth sank into her lower lip, then a hot tongue traced the same spot, creating a sharp contrast.

"He took you from your husband, now I’m taking you from him. What do you think?" he whispers into her mouth.

She didn’t want to answer. She wanted to pull away, to run. The sound of rain mixed with the pounding of her own heart. He looked different now. The powder was gone from his lips, and Cassandra could still taste it on her tongue after their kiss. His lips were red, full, and gave life to his pale face. He was handsome. In his own way. Caracalla was handsome too. But both of them were corrupted, debauched, greedy. What is she supposed to do?

"Please, don’t involve me in this! I beg you! I’ll be leaving soon, and you’ll never see me again, I promise!" she mumbled.

His eyes flickered with barely contained irritation.

"Do you beg my brother the same way? And what—he just lets you go?" A rough laugh escaped his lips.

Was this all about Caracalla? Does he really want to get under his brother’s skin this much?

Cassandra had three younger sisters—she had raised them after their mother died, fought with them, argued with them. But she had never wanted to truly hurt them.

But these two—twins. Co-rulers. The most powerful men in Rome. No one could wound them except each other.

A strong hand grabs hers once more, sliding the ring off her left hand’s fourth finger. Geta twisted the delicate band between his fingers—so simple, compared to the heavy signet rings adorning his own hand—before removing one from his pinky and replacing it with hers. Now, her fragile, tiny ring rested on his pinky.

"Now we’re bound, huh? The vein leads straight to the heart, right, little bird?" He seemed like himself again, the brooding crease gone, his eyes no longer angry. But still, he mocked her.

"The vein of love," they had told her and Tiberius when she married him, claiming it ran through the fourth finger and bound spouses together. Now she had neither love nor the ring—only a large gold signet with a blue stone.

"Now go, I’m no longer holding you," he said, swiping his tongue over his lips again, a half-smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, as if he’d done something wicked.

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Not wanting to tempt fate, she nearly ran back to her chambers, rushing past the very spot where Caracalla had defiled her mouth just a day ago. Gods, this entire palace felt like nothing but a place of fear and shame. Now, she was terrified Caracalla might find out about today. Cassandra stopped herself. Since when did the opinion of another man matter more than her own husband’s? It was him she had betrayed. It was him she had been unfaithful to. Not Caracalla.

The thought of running to her father, or even confessing everything to her husband, Lucilla, or anyone else, spun through her mind again and again. She didn’t care anymore. If the Gods wouldn’t listen to her prayers, if they had abandoned her to be torn apart, what did she have left to lose?

This time, she was truly resolved. If Tiberius wouldn’t leave with her, she would ask for a divorce. She hadn’t given him an heir, she had dishonored him and his house by lying with another man. Let her reputation be ruined, let her be sent back to her father in disgrace, let her name be erased from the inheritance, but at least she would be free.

As she angrily packed the few things she had, her hands trembled and her thoughts raced. It was his fault. He swore to protect and honor her, yet he was so consumed by his own affairs that he still failed to see what everyone else already had. She didn’t belong to him anymore. She didn’t even belong to herself.

"What are you doing?" Hearing her husband’s voice, Cassandra didn’t turn around.

"I’m leaving, with or without you," the words finally escaped her lips, and she felt a wave of relief wash over her.

He didn’t answer immediately, but his heavy hand landed on her shoulder, forcing her to turn.

"Hit me, tie me up, do whatever you want. I can’t stay here anymore!"

To her surprise, Tiberius was calm, subdued. His hand gently stroked her cheek, and she immediately felt a wave of disgust at the bad memories.

"Please, just one night," he pleaded, his voice full of desperation. "Just one night, and I’ll lay Rome at your feet. If you want, you can go back to the villa, or to your father, but not now. Not today."

Cassandra didn’t love him. Right now, she even hated him, but her heart softened, and despite all her self-scolding, she had no choice but to agree. One last night.

"In the morning, l'm leaving," she said firmly.

She'd never been so resolute. When you have nothing left to lose, there's no fear.

That's what she thought.

The rest of the day, Cassandra stayed in her chambers, comforted by the thought that tomorrow everything would end.

No more games, no more emperors, no more palaces, no more humiliations.

Maybe she'd stay with her husband and give him a son after all, or maybe she'd ask for a divorce and return to her father, childless and unmarried, but with what little honor she had left.

She glared at Geta's signet ring with hatred. What if he hadn't claimed her today? Would she have endured her brother's debauchery until the end of the games? Probably.

A nervous laugh escaped her lips. So, should she thank him? She had just reached to pull the ring off when a sharp knock at the door made her freeze. Who could it be? Tiberius wouldn’t knock.

"Imperial Guard! Open up!" a voice commanded from the other side.

Night had long fallen. A visit at this hour could mean nothing good.

Still, she obeyed, schooling her face into something unreadable as she pulled the door open.

"Come with us, domina. You’re expected."

There was no room for argument; that much was clear.

Not wanting to be dragged through the halls like a criminal, Cassandra followed the Praetorians. But inside, panic twisted her stomach, her palms damp with sweat. This wasn’t just some summons. Something was happening. Something final.

She expected to be taken to Caracalla’s chambers—but no, they led her straight to the throne room. And when she saw her husband kneeling on the cold marble, with General Acacius and Lucilla standing nearby, surrounded by Praetorians, a terrible weight settled in her chest.

She wanted to run.

This wouldn’t end well.

Then she saw them. And she realised she probably wouldn’t survive the night. They weren’t thinking about her anymore—not their petty games, not their rivalry, and certainly not her body. Before her stood not bickering brothers, but emperors—furious, merciless, ready to pass judgment.

They didn’t even look like themselves. Both had clearly been dragged from their beds. Geta was wrapped in a red silk robe, barefoot, without his usual powdered face. He looked young—almost boyish—with his trembling lips and restless movements.

And Caracalla… to meet Caracalla’s eyes now was to court death. She couldn’t tell who he hated more—her or the ones who had betrayed them. Though, the difference was probably negligible.

The emperor is vulnerable. Cassandra watches as he pulls the sheet tighter around himself, stripped of his makeup and fine clothes—young, looking almost innocent, just like his brother. He’s irritated, uncomfortable that she’s seeing him like this, his lips, red even without paint, twisting in displeasure. She almost let out a nervous laugh, but there was no room for laughter now.

Pretorians shoved her to her knees next to her husband, doing it roughly, without any care. Acacius and Lucilla have already been dragged from the throne room—their sentence has been passed, judging by the rage still burning in the emperors' eyes. Now it’s their turn.

"Our general! The Senate! All of them—traitors, liars!" Geta paces back and forth, clutching the fabric of his robe against his pale body. His voice trembles, breaking into something close to hysteria.

Through the sting of tears, she barely saw him. Just a red blur, darting back and forth.

"I gave you everything! I pulled you out of that wretched hole you called home! I gave you a position, a roof over your head—my friendship!" His voice cracked. "And this is how you repay me? With betrayal?"

"What do I need your friendship for, boy?" Tiberius' voice was like ice. "You and your brother are insane. If you think I’m the last, you’re wrong. Others will come. They will betray you again and again, until you’re both dead."

Cassandra’s stomach dropped.

Silence, gods, silence him!

If he stopped now, maybe their deaths would be quick. Maybe it wouldn’t be so painful. But as she looked up, she knew—it was too late.

Geta had gone deathly pale, his face frozen in pure, seething rage. Only his eyes burned, black as coal.

"You'll be crucified like the worthless filth you are, and your name will be forgotten!" he spat. "You and your wife will feel our wrath in full."

For the first time since the praetorians had brought her in, Cassandra was mentioned, but Geta didn't even glance at her, unleashing his fury on Tiberius instead. But Caracalla was watching her.

She could feel his gaze like a physical weight. Cold, hateful-he wasn't playful anymore, not even trying to force a smile. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his light brows were furrowed. For the first time, the emperor seemed fully human, wrapped in a white sheet, sitting on one of the golden thrones.

"She didn't know anything. There's no need to kill her," her husband interjected, clearly making things worse.

At his words, Caracalla suddenly erupted in high-pitched laughter, clapping his hands. He stood up, and Cassandra instinctively shrank back, wanting to vanish. A long sword fell from his lap, one he didn’t even bother to pick up. The sound of his bare feet was oddly loud. She didn’t dare raise her gaze, fully convinced that he would kill her right then and there. His little pet wasn’t what he had expected, and the games needed to stop.

"Didn’t know anything," he drawled. "Poor, innocent girl, huh?" He stopped right in front of her, forcing her to lift her head, painfully grabbing her chin, squeezing.

"Leave her alone!" Her husband’s words no longer mattered. Both emperors could see that he didn’t regret his betrayal and was ready for death, but… but she wasn’t part of his plan. It seemed he truly cared for her.

Geta seemed calmer now, though he still nervously snapped his fingers. Following his brother, he moved closer, looking directly at her for the first time. Not breaking eye contact, he spoke:

"Macrinus, when did you learn of the conspiracy?" He addressed someone behind her.

"The day you were attacked in the Colosseum, Emperor," a voice behind her replied. "After we left the box, Senator Thraex kindly told me. That same day, the traitors plotted the conspiracy."

Geta and Caracalla’s lips curled into synchronized, sinister smiles.

"Lucilla and your wife, it seems, were close, yes?" Geta began, dripping with false sweetness.

"She didn’t know anything, stop this game!"

"And why should we believe the words of a fucking traitor, hmm?" The usual Caracalla seemed to be back, playfully twisting her head from side to side, still squeezing her chin painfully. The last time she had knelt before him, it hadn’t ended well. Her cheeks flushed, and her heart pounded in fear.

Nothing could escape his gaze; his eyes, black from dilated pupils, immediately locked onto her face, examining, scrutinizing, reading every emotion. His lips stretched into a grin, revealing a gold tooth. Even naked, wrapped only in a sheet, he was tied to gold.

"But let’s ask our esteemed Roman matron, we’re not tyrants after all, right, brother?" Geta's chuckle served as his answer. No one in the room believed those words. "Where were you when your husband was plotting against us? Where were you after the games?"

He knew the answer. And so did she. Her neck, cheeks, and ears flushed with color. Tiberius had remained proud and defiant to the end, and they had decided to play a different game. Judging by the dilated pupils and smug grins on their faces, everything had taken a turn they both enjoyed. They would destroy her husband's spirit, then hers, and then kill them both.

"With you, Caesar," she replied obediently, knowing silence would only make things worse. She had been told this countless times by the emperors themselves.

Tiberius immediately turned at her words, looking at her with his lips pressed tight. She hadn’t said anything terrible yet, but…

"You know, my brother can be so forgetful at times," Geta's tone took on a softness, a slyness akin to Caracalla's. Now they were bound by shared hatred, a common penchant for sadism, and the desire to destroy them. "Could you remind him what that meeting was about?"

"Caesar, I..." she couldn't say it. She couldn't say anything at all. Tears silently streamed down her cheeks. The last humiliation remained, and then it would all be over. Suddenly, she felt a bit of relief. They couldn't reach her once she was dead.

"Speak, girl," Caracalla's thumb slid across her mouth, tracing its outline harshly, roughly, anything but tenderly, "or you'll lose your little tongue and won't be able to defend yourself."

"I was with Emperor Caracalla. One of the slave girls saw us. After the games... We were at the altar, and..."

Yet, the words wouldn't come; she just couldn't voice the filth they expected from her, not while Tiberius looked at her with such disappointment in his eyes.

"Oh, how I love that even after everything that's happened between us, the little bird is still so pure," Caracalla burst out laughing, releasing her face. "I remember and will answer for her. I fucked her on my father's ashes, and because of that, she will live. Once again, the emperor has been too merciful, hasn't he, Senator?"

Live? She felt sick. She didn’t want to live. Not now, when the disgust in her husband’s eyes was so palpable. Ashamed, she turned away, sobbing.

"What, little bird? Did you truly believe you could get rid of me so easily? Your emperor?" His hand stroked her hair, soothing her as if she were an untamed animal. "No," he drawled, "you’re not capable of such a thing. You could have ended me, not once and not twice—bit off my cock, after all," and again, that hysterical laughter escaped him, his gaze fixed on her husband. Caracalla wanted to ensure Tiberius truly understood his words, "but no, you obediently took it, as you should."

She will never have it her way; he'll never let her simply leave or die, he'll keep playing until the very end.

"And yet," Geta began, "she deserves punishment, doesn't she?"

Cassandra lifted her tear-stained face to him. Why? Why was he partaking in this? Was it her refusal that offended him, or was it simpler, that he, like his brother, just enjoyed tormenting her?

"An unfaithful wife," Caracalla mused, tapping his finger against his lips as if her trial were happening right then in front of all Rome’s esteemed citizens. Only, there were no esteemed citizens here. "What a heinous crime!" He gasped theatrically, covered his mouth in mock horror. "Tiberius, you were faithful to your wife, weren’t you? I believe you were, but your sweet young wife, she was not so loyal. And if I, an honorable man unburdened by the chains of marriage, can partake in such acts, then, by the gods, what was she thinking?"

She wanted to sink into the ground—or maybe charge at the emperor, and then they’d kill her right there, so she wouldn’t have to endure these humiliating speeches anymore. But Cassandra didn’t move; she didn’t have the courage. Humiliated and cowardly, she stayed on her knees, arms wrapped around herself in a pitiful attempt to find some comfort. Tiberius didn’t even look at her. He stared straight ahead, unblinking, focused on where Caracalla was caricaturing a trial.

"Women are inherently corrupt, you know," Geta joined in. "'Chaste is she whom no one has coveted' isn’t that right?"

In the torch-lit darkness of the hall, their hair seemed to burn against their pale skin. Both had dark, piercing eyes, still furious over the betrayal, yet satisfied with their petty revenge. Cassandra watched as they exchanged looks, their smiles perfectly synchronized. Caracalla’s grin only grew wider at his brother’s words. There they were, the very embodiment of vice, pride, and wrath.

How can he say such things? How dare he speak as if she wanted all the terrible things the emperor did to her!? Was he blaming her? She looked at her husband desperately, but he seemed to share the emperor’s view, his lips tight, his Adam’s apple bobbing under his pale skin.

Oh, they had gotten what they wanted—he was enraged, furious! And all because of her. Was she really to blame for everything? Maybe it was the way she looked at the emperor, maybe she’d allowed too much, given the slightest hint? Her heart pounded so violently, it felt like it might shatter her ribs.

"But don’t worry, Tiberius, I’ll punish her as she deserves," the mockery and the insinuation so obvious it made her want to scream. "After your death, of course, but if you ask nicely, I'll show you how to handle women so they don't betray they vows, right now."

He leaned slightly toward her, his hot hand on her neck, his thumb pressing into the hollow between her collarbones, making her gasp and cough.

"Wouldn't a golden collar look exquisite on this little neck, hm? For the next games, I'll take you with me," his whisper burned her ear. "Naked."

Cassandra recoiled, bracing her hands against her knees, her head dropping. He was insane. The feverish gleam in his eyes, his flushed cheekbones, the way he bit his lower lip, his heavier breathing-all of it terrified her. He wasn't a mere sadist; he was completely out of his mind.

It seemed that even his brother found his words too deranged this time.

"She’ll be judged as she should be. The Senate… or what’s left of it, and we, of course, will pass a sentence fitting her crime."

"But I want her for myself!" Caracalla’s voice turned bitter, low with anger. How dare his brother forbid him anything!

"This won’t do. She’s still the daughter of a powerful man, and how do you think the Senate will react? Will you take their wives too?"

"I’ll take them if I wish!" Caracalla snapped petulantly, his playful mood shifting to fury.

It seemed they were about to clash, to fight right in front of them. Gods, her life was hanging by a thread, and they were acting like spoiled children! How insignificant she must be in their eyes.

And yet, the fight never came. In a gesture of reconciliation, Geta pulled his brother into an embrace, his arms settling around his delicate shoulders. Leaning in, he whispered something into his ear. Cassandra caught his gaze and knew at once—he was speaking of her. Caracalla smiled again.

At Geta’s command, she was taken away. No one spoke to her after that.

Tiberius remained in the hall. She knew she would never see him again. One last time, she turned to look at her husband, hoping to catch his eye, but he never looked back.

To him, she was already dead.

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆