An Oath to the Past

  The campfire crackled between them, casting long shadows on the cold earth.

  Lucius ran his thumb along the edge of his gladius, the steel glinting faintly in the dim light. His body still hummed with the lingering effects of battle—the raw exhaustion, the slow healing of bruises, the strange clarity that came after surviving another day.

  Across from him, Marcus sat cross-legged, stretching out his shoulders with a quiet groan.

  “Tell me something, Lucius.” Marcus’ tone was light, but his gaze was sharp. “Where does your family come from? You’ve got the bearing of someone who didn’t grow up in the gutters of Rome.”

  Lucius smirked. “And what makes you say that?”

  “I know men. I know how they carry themselves. You fight like you were raised on discipline, not desperation.” Marcus tossed a small twig into the fire, watching it burn. “And I’ve heard your Latin—it’s old. Noble. You don’t speak like the sons of common farmers.”

  Lucius was silent for a moment.

  Then, slowly, he exhaled.

  “My grandmother used to tell me stories,” he said, voice quieter than before. “Stories of my ancestors—of a time before they fled Rome.”

  Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Fled?”

  Lucius nodded. “She said our line once held power—true power. Not just land or wealth, but something greater. Before the empire, before the Republic, we were kings. But ambition breeds enemies, and a feud with another great house turned to war. A war that ended in exile.”

  Marcus leaned forward, intrigued. “And where did they go?”

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  Lucius met his gaze. “North.. Away from Rome, away from the Senate. They vanished into history.”

  A slow whistle escaped Marcus’ lips. “You’re telling me you descend from distant kings and emperors?”

  Lucius chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s just what my grandmother believed. She used to whisper it like a secret—like something dangerous.”

  Marcus studied him for a long moment, then grinned. “Well, if it’s true, you’re a long way from a throne now.”

  Lucius smirked. “I prefer a sword.”

  They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling between them. But as the flames flickered, Lucius felt something stir in the depths of his mind.

  A memory. A whisper of something forgotten.

  His system remained silent.

  But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had heard.

  ?

  A Hollow Night

  The wind had changed.

  It was subtle at first. A shift in the air, a faint pressure at the edge of Lucius’ senses.

  The camp was quiet—too quiet. The usual sounds of men shifting in their sleep, the distant calls of night watchmen, the crackle of torches along the palisade… all of it felt dampened.

  Lucius sat up, hand instinctively reaching for his gladius.

  The fire in front of him flickered.

  Not from the wind.

  Not from movement.

  It shifted.

  Lucius’ pulse quickened. His eyes scanned the shadows beyond the light, searching.

  Nothing.

  Just the dark. Just the quiet.

  Then—

  A distant sound.

  A horse.

  Not within the camp.

  Not along the road.

  Somewhere beyond the trees.

  Waiting.

  Watching.

  A system notification flashed.

  Lucius’ breath caught in his throat.

  Something was searching.

  Something was hunting.

  And it couldn’t see him.

  His fingers clenched around the hilt of his gladius, his mind racing.

  The system had never hidden him before.

  Whatever was out there—it was different.

  The wind whispered through the trees, carrying something faint.

  A voice.

  A language he did not know, yet somehow… understood.

  Then, as suddenly as it had come, the presence vanished.

  The night returned to normal.

  But Lucius knew better.

  This was not over.

  The warlord would return.

  And when he did—

  The real battle would begin.