The battlefield was silent.


    Only the crackle of torches and the groans of the wounded remained. The scent of blood, sweat, and churned earth clung to the air.


    Lucius stood among the dead, his gladius still tight in his grip. His body should have been shaking with exhaustion, yet… he barely felt it.


    All around him, legionaries worked in grim silence. Some dragged bodies off the road, others tended to wounds. The living murmured quiet prayers for the fallen.


    But something was wrong.


    Lucius turned his gaze toward the darkened hills. The Parthians had left too easily.


    And worse—the warlord had been there. Watching.


    Then, without a word, he had vanished into the night.


    A shiver ran down Lucius’ spine. This wasn’t over.


    ?


    A Legion on Edge


    Centurion Septimus strode through the wreckage, his armor smeared with blood. His expression was as cold as ever.


    “Form up! We move before first light. We don’t wait for another attack!”


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    His voice cut through the murmuring soldiers like a blade. The men grumbled but obeyed. Even the veterans looked shaken.


    Lucius stood beside Marcus, who wiped blood from his cheek. “Damn Parthians fight like jackals. Hit and run, hit and run.” He exhaled sharply. “But that warlord… why didn’t he press the attack?”


    Lucius had no answer.


    But before he could think on it, he caught someone staring at him.


    A veteran, older, his face lined with scars. His gaze was sharp, searching.


    “You still standing, boy?” the man asked. “You barely look tired.”


    Lucius hesitated.


    He should be exhausted. His muscles should burn. But the pain was distant, like an echo instead of a weight dragging him down.


    Marcus frowned. “Now that he mentions it…”


    Others were looking now.


    Lucius forced a chuckle. “Adrenaline, maybe?”


    The veteran narrowed his eyes but said nothing.


    For now.


    ?


    Stories by the Fire


    The march resumed at dawn. By midday, they reached an abandoned waystation—little more than a ruined outpost, but enough to rest.


    As men cleaned wounds and sharpened blades, talk turned to Centurion Septimus.


    “You know he fought in the Dacian Wars?” one soldier muttered, nodding toward Septimus, who stood near the entrance, inspecting their defenses. “Back when Trajan crushed Decebalus.”


    Marcus raised an eyebrow. “That true?”


    A veteran nodded. “He wasn’t a centurion back then. Just a foot soldier. But they say he was one of the first over the walls of Sarmizegetusa. Held the gate long enough for reinforcements to break through.”


    Lucius listened carefully.


    Another soldier smirked. “And they say he once killed three men in single combat during a mutiny. Didn’t even break a sweat.”


    A scoff. “That’s just a story.”


    “Is it?”


    Lucius glanced toward Septimus. The way he moved—measured, controlled—spoke of experience beyond the rank he wore. A man forged in battle, one who had survived where others had fallen.


    And if anyone could kill the warlord, it was him.


    But still…


    Lucius clenched his fists.


    The warlord had let them live.


    And that, more than anything, was what truly unsettled him.