Night had never felt so heavy.


    The usual sounds of the wild—chirping insects, rustling leaves—were gone.


    The only sound was the crackling of dying campfires and the shifting of restless legionaries, their hands gripping weapons too tightly.


    And the howls. Distant. Inhuman. Wrong.


    Lucius swallowed hard. He had faced ambushes before, fought against Parthians in brutal skirmishes. But this? This was different.


    Septimus stood at the edge of the palisade, watching.


    Not the hills. Not the horizon.


    The darkness itself.


    ?


    The Watchers on the Ridge


    Lucius forced himself to breathe evenly. The howls had stopped.


    But the feeling of being watched had not.


    Then, beyond the faint glow of the fires—movement.


    Lucius squinted, his pulse quickening. At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no. There. On the ridgeline.


    Silhouettes.


    Dark figures on horseback, standing perfectly still. Parthians. Dozens of them.


    But they weren’t attacking.


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    They weren’t even advancing.


    They were waiting.


    A shiver ran down Lucius’ spine.


    Then, something shifted behind them.


    A darker shadow within the night. Something unseen.


    Lucius barely caught it—a flicker of golden light. Not fire. Not torchlight.


    Eyes.


    Watching. Studying.


    Then, as quickly as they appeared—they were gone.


    Lucius’ breath came sharp and unsteady. Had he imagined it?


    No. His system should have alerted him to danger. But it was silent. Too silent.


    He turned, searching for answers, and found Septimus and Optio Varro standing near the command tent, speaking in hushed tones.


    ?


    A Tense Discussion


    Lucius crept closer, staying just outside the circle of firelight.


    “They’re out there,” Varro muttered. His usually composed expression was tight, uneasy. “Watching us like wolves.”


    Septimus was quiet for a long moment before responding. “No. Wolves attack when they see weakness. This is different.”


    Varro exhaled sharply. “Then what is it?”


    A pause.


    “I don’t know,” Septimus admitted.


    Lucius had never heard the centurion sound unsure before. It made his skin crawl.


    Varro crossed his arms. “They had us surrounded last night. If they wanted us dead, they would have finished the job. But instead, they let us go, only to stalk us like this?”


    Septimus nodded. “They’re testing our resolve.”


    Varro frowned. “No. It’s more than that.” He glanced back at the ridgeline, where the Parthians remained like ghosts in the night. “I think they’re afraid.”


    Lucius felt the chill of those words settle deep into his bones.


    The Parthians—merciless, cunning, unshaken warriors—were afraid.


    Of what?


    Varro rubbed his chin, his voice lowering even further. “And the howls?”


    Septimus didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the distant figures, as if weighing something heavy. Then, almost reluctantly, he said:


    “They’re not hunting us.”


    Lucius felt his heart pound in his chest.


    Varro’s brow furrowed. “Then what are they running from?”


    Silence.


    Septimus turned away from the ridgeline. His face was unreadable, but his tone was grim.


    “Wake the men in the second watch. Tell them to be ready.”


    Varro hesitated. “You think they’ll attack?”


    Septimus didn’t look at him.


    “No.” His voice was lower now. “But something will.”


    A gust of wind passed through the camp, and with it, a familiar, distant sound.


    A howl.


    Closer than before.