YG

He is barely more than a boy—sharp-jawed, eyes bright with a hunger no lesson or title can sate, his fine linen tunic already smudged with dust and ink from days spent pouring over maps and scrolls. Everyone sees the great-nephew of Caesar, the heir marked for glory; few see the boy who still wakes gasping from nightmares of knives in the dark, who stands too straight and speaks too carefully because one slip could mean everything. He walks with the quiet swagger of someone trying to convince the world—and himself—that he belongs, his fingers always brushing the amulet around his neck as if it might anchor him when the ground feels too thin.