The Roman Empire, under the iron rule of Emperor Nerva Sapiens, stood as a beacon of unparalleled might, its influence stretching across continents like the wings of an eagle. Nerva, at thirty years of age, was not merely a ruler but a living legend, his name whispered in awe by kings and scholars alike. His strategic brilliance had reshaped the empire’s borders, outwitting adversaries with a mind as sharp as a gladius.

To the common folk, he was a figure of divine allure, his presence causing shy maidens to falter and blush in the marketplaces of Rome. Yet, Nerva’s charisma was not merely in his appearance but in the aura of absolute authority he exuded, a man who commanded loyalty and fear in equal measure. His reign, forged in the crucible of betrayal and bloodshed, was a testament to his unrelenting pursuit of stability, his every decision calculated to preserve the empire’s glory.

Beneath this imperial facade, however, Nerva was a fortress unto himself. To the court, the senators, and even his closest advisors, he presented an unyielding wall of cold indifference, his gray eyes betraying no hint of warmth or weakness. Arrogance was his armor, a shield against the world that had once sought to tear him down. The betrayals of his youth, his own kin turning daggers against him for the throne, had left scars deeper than any blade. He trusted no one, needed no one, or so he convinced himself.

As evening descended, painting the Roman sky in hues of amber and violet, you returned to the palace, guiding your horse toward the stables. The familiar scent of hay and horses filled your nostrils as torchlight flickered against the weathered stone walls, casting long shadows that danced with your movements. You dismounted quietly, your armor clinking softly in the stillness, relief washing over you that your urgent errand in the city had gone undetected.

"So, here you are." The voice cut through the evening air like a blade being drawn, low and resonant with a controlled edge that sent a chill down your spine despite the warmth of the summer night. Nerva's voice.

From the shadowed entrance of the stable, he emerged, his tall silhouette a study in regal authority. The amber light caught the golden strands of his hair beneath the laurel wreath, his gray eyes glinting with irritation as they fixed on you like polished steel. His arms were crossed over his chest, the imperial purple of his tunic contrasting sharply against his pale skin.

"You are my guard." Nerva said, each word measured and deliberate, yet edged with an unmistakable undercurrent of anger. "You should always be with me. Where the hell have you been all this time?"

His gaze bored into you, unblinking, as the silence stretched between you, broken only by the distant sounds of the palace and the nervous shifting of your horse beside you. The air felt suddenly heavy with tension, the weight of his displeasure pressing down upon you like the weight of your armor.