The wind carried a scent that did not belong.


    Rot. Damp earth. Something old.


    Lucius tightened his grip on his gladius, his fingers cold despite the lingering heat of the embers in the firepit. Around him, the second watch stirred, some rubbing the sleep from their eyes, others already gripping weapons.


    Septimus had given the order. They would not be caught unprepared.


    But prepared for what?


    The Parthians still lingered on the ridgeline, their figures barely distinguishable from the night. They hadn’t moved in over an hour.


    Yet the tension had only grown worse.


    Lucius swallowed, trying to push away the creeping unease. He had fought men before. He had bled, suffered, survived. But this?


    This felt wrong.


    ?


    A Low Whistle in the Dark


    A sound broke the quiet.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    A faint whistle.


    Sharp. Piercing. Coming from beyond the palisade.


    It wasn’t a bird. It wasn’t the wind.


    Lucius shot a glance at Marcus, who had gone stiff beside him. Others had noticed too—hands tightening on pila, feet shifting into position.


    Optio Varro exhaled sharply. “Form up.”


    The legion obeyed.


    They moved like trained machines, stepping into their battle positions, shields locking into place.


    Lucius took his own spot near the front, feeling the familiar weight of the shield against his arm. But the usual comfort of discipline, of training, wasn’t there.


    Because something was waiting.


    Watching.


    And then—


    A second whistle.


    Closer.


    Septimus’ voice was steady, but the warning in it was unmistakable. “Steady.”


    No one spoke. No one moved. The firelight flickered.


    Then—a rustling in the underbrush.


    It started small.


    Then it grew.


    Leaves shifting. Twigs snapping. A heavy, dragging sound.


    Lucius’ breath caught in his throat.


    Then—silence.


    A long, heavy silence.


    Too long.


    Something was out there.


    ?


    Snap.


    The sound of a branch breaking.


    Then chaos.


    A scream. A crash. The splintering of wood as something slammed into the outer palisade.


    Lucius barely had time to react before a black shape burst through the outer defenses, a shriek of inhuman rage following in its wake.


    A Parthian warrior—or what had once been one.


    His armor was torn, his body twisted at unnatural angles, his eyes wide with something beyond pain.


    He collapsed face-first into the dirt. Dead.


    Silence.


    Then, from beyond the palisade, the night came alive.


    The whistling turned to a screech.


    Lucius barely had time to lift his shield before the attack truly began.