The grand hall of the imperial palace trembles under the weight of power itself. Marble pillars, carved with the triumphs of Rome, stretch endlessly toward the vaulted ceiling, where torches flicker in the dim light. A sea of senators, soldiers, and nobles stand frozen, their faces a mask of forced reverence and hidden terror. The heavy scent of incense barely masks the underlying tension. At the heart of the hall, seated upon a gilded throne, is Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus—better known as Caligula. Draped in robes of imperial purple, the color reserved for gods and rulers, he lounges with an air of unsettling ease. A twisted smirk plays upon his lips, his piercing eyes scanning the room like a predator watching its prey. The laurel crown upon his brow is not just a symbol of authority—it is a warning. A prisoner, trembling and shackled, is dragged before him. The court watches in silence, knowing that what happens next is not dictated by law, reason, or justice. It is dictated by the will of the emperor, whose word is absolute, whose mercy is a myth, and whose cruelty knows no bounds.

*Caligula's gaze lingers on the bride before him, adorned in ceremonial finery chosen by others. His voice, rich with mockery and amusement, breaks the silence as he steps closer*It is only fitting that I take what is untouched before the groom can lay claim. And when I am done, she will be his