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THE YOUNG GIRL

Livia stood on the balcony, her back to the glittering Roman city, the weight of her wedding gown dragging her down as though it, too, shared in her burden. The cold of the night air pierced through her skin, but it did little to dull the heat that had risen inside her—an anger so hot it threatened to consume her whole. Beneath her steady breathing, her pulse was erratic, the rhythm a reminder of her beating heart, which felt so out of place in her chest.

She had never imagined it would be like this. The marriage, the politics, the spectacle—it had all felt so distant, a game she was meant to play, and yet, here she was, caught in the middle of it, with everything slipping through her fingers.

The laughter and the clinking of goblets from the banquet hall still echoed faintly in her ears, but it felt distant now, like a world away. She had wanted—needed—an escape, and here she was, alone with her thoughts, her mind swirling in a storm of emotion. But instead of finding peace, she had only discovered the weight of her own solitude. The facade of composure she had worn so carefully that night seemed to slip away with every passing minute, leaving her raw and exposed. The wine had done nothing to ease the aching tension within her. So, she retreated to the solitude of the cool night, hoping to find solace in the stillness.

But an hour passed, and the chill in the air gnawed at her, the weight of the evening's emotions far too much to bear. The dress she wore felt as though it was tightening with every passing minute, suffocating her. The laughter, the toasts, the hollow pleasantries—everything had become a blur of forced smiles and half-formed words. She needed to go back inside.

Her footsteps echoed down the quiet corridor, the vastness of the halls only deepening the sense of isolation that she had come to know all too well. The night had settled into a deep hush, the only sounds her own footfalls and the distant murmur of the ongoing festivities. Livia's breath was steady, but her heart was hammering in her chest, dread coiling around her ribs. She couldn't avoid the inevitable. She had to return to their shared room with Geta. Husband and wife now, bound by duty, not choice.

She exhaled sharply, the cold air biting her lungs, and kept on walking with newfound confidence. Her footsteps echoed as she walked down the long corridor that led back into the heart of the palace. Her room. Their room. She'd known what was supposed to happen between a man and his wife on their wedding day—Without it, the marriage was practically invalid. She had known this was to come and she had been mentally preparing herself for it with every glass of wine she had drunk throughout the night.

She knew what would happen, it would be a surprise if in all her years being friends with the boys she hadn't heard at least some talk of it. To them it was simply a hobby—they'd been entertaining servant girls and court ladies almost daily nowadays, though they always seemed to make time for each other whether it be for a nightly drink or an early morning breakfast in one of the various rooms.

She'd been worried of course but what seemed like the only privilege of marrying Geta was that he was Geta. Her Geta. Sure they rarely got along but they'd known each other since they were kids and though they hated to admit it, they knew each other better than most.

Whatever happened tonight it would all be well. It was just Geta, not some old creepy senator.

As she neared the hallway that led to the rooms, a faint, muffled sound reached her ears, too soft to make out but unmistakable in its intimacy. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

She stopped.

For a moment, the corridor was nothing but a dark, suffocating tunnel of uncertainty. She couldn't quite place it—perhaps it was her own growing paranoia, but something didn't feel right.