Servants pressed themselves against the walls, eyes cast downward, none daring to enter the imperial chambers. The guards at the door exchanged uneasy glances.

The door to the outer chamber stood ajar. Inside, the air was thick with heat and tension. Geta stood rigid, his hand gripping the back of a gilded chair, his jaw tight. Caracalla was hunched on a low couch, fingers buried in his hair, rocking slightly.

The sound was soft—a whisper of fabric, the gentle click of a latch. But it cut through the room like a bell.

Caracalla's head snapped up. His eyes, wild and glassy, found the doorway. And then, slowly, the tension bled from his shoulders.