The morning fog clung to the camp like a ghost, its pale fingers curling through the tents and extinguishing the last embers of the night’s fires. The men of the Vanguard Century stirred, stretching sore muscles, tightening straps on their armor, preparing for another day in a land that wanted them dead.

  Lucius adjusted his belt, securing his gladius at his hip. The weight was familiar now, comforting. Battle had a way of making a soldier’s gear feel less like tools and more like a second skin. He exhaled, rolling his shoulders, shaking off the lingering unease from the night before.

  The presence that had lurked beyond the trees had left no trace. No tracks. No signs. Just a silence that felt too deliberate.

  And the system had said nothing.

  It had warned him, but after that… nothing.

  It was as if the Imperium Arcana System had turned its gaze away, leaving him alone with his instincts.

  Lucius let out a quiet breath. Fine. He didn’t need it.

  Not today.

  ?

  The Vanguard’s Bond

  The smell of cooking meat and fresh bread drifted through the camp, drawing men towards the main fire pit. The Vanguard Century—the hardened spearhead of the Legion—ate together, as they always did. These were the men who took the first step into danger, the first to cross enemy lines, the first to bleed.

  Marcus was already there, tearing into a chunk of bread with the satisfaction of a man who had survived another day. He glanced up as Lucius approached, raising an eyebrow. “Sleep well, or did you spend the night whispering to the gods again?”

  Lucius smirked, grabbing a wooden bowl of stew. “The gods don’t answer. Just like you when it’s your turn to stand watch.”

  The other vanguard soldiers chuckled, their voices carrying the rough, weathered tone of men who had long since learned to laugh in the face of death.

  Gaius Vetus, a grizzled veteran with a face lined like an old battlefield map, leaned forward. “You two talk like you’re already Centurions. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and the next officer to die will leave you his boots.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Lucius scoffed. “I’d rather earn my own rank, not step into the boots of a dead man.”

  Titus Secundus, a towering brute of a man with scars running down his forearm, grinned over his bowl. “No shame in it. It’s how most of us move up.”

  “Or get cut down trying,” Marcus added dryly.

  The laughter that followed wasn’t forced. It wasn’t hollow. It was the kind of laughter shared by men who had fought back-to-back, who had bled together and knew that, at any moment, one of them could fall.

  Lucius let the warmth of the fire soak into his skin.

  This was what mattered. Not politics. Not hidden bloodlines. Not even the whispers of forgotten gods.

  The men beside him.

  ?

  A Test of Strength

  The morning drills were brutal.

  Shield formations. Precision thrusts. Relentless endurance training under the watchful gaze of Centurion Septimus.

  By midmorning, sweat slicked Lucius’ back, his muscles burning with the strain of countless drills. But he welcomed the pain. He pushed harder, moving with the rhythm that had been beaten into him since the day he became a tirone.

  “Again!” Septimus barked, his voice cutting through the clang of metal. “Faster! Tighter formation! You are the Vanguard, not common foot soldiers!”

  Lucius slammed his shield against Marcus’ in the tight, unyielding wall of the testudo formation. The heavy impact vibrated up his arm, but he gritted his teeth, holding firm.

  “Hold!”

  They braced as a line of recruits was ordered to charge, striking against the vanguard’s shields with dull-edged training weapons. The force rattled them, but the formation held.

  This was why they were the first into battle.

  Lucius felt his strength growing, his movements sharpening. He wasn’t the same man who had joined the Legion months ago.

  And neither was Marcus.

  ?

  An Old Wound

  As the sun dipped lower, the men rested. Lucius sat beside Marcus, stretching out sore legs, drinking from a flask of watered wine.

  He glanced at the long scar running across Marcus’ left arm. It was old, but the way Marcus’ hand moved—sometimes clenching, sometimes stretching—told Lucius that the wound had never fully healed.

  “How did you get that?” Lucius asked.

  Marcus took a slow sip of his drink before answering. “First battle. I was still a recruit. Some barbarian with an axe got past my guard. Thought I was dead for sure.”

  Lucius frowned. “What happened?”

  Marcus exhaled, looking down at the scar. “Centurion pulled me out before he finished the job. He didn’t make it, but I did.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “Funny, isn’t it? His life for mine. And here I am, still trying to prove it was worth it.”

  Lucius was quiet for a moment. Then, he nodded. “It was.”

  Marcus glanced at him. “You sound sure of that.”

  Lucius smirked. “I am.”

  They sat in silence, the weight of the past settling between them.

  For all the battles, for all the near-deaths, for all the blood and steel—what they fought for wasn’t Rome.

  It was each other.

  ?

  That night, the camp was peaceful.

  The usual sounds of soldiers murmuring, of distant laughter, of the crackling of fires—it was all as it should be.

  Lucius let himself relax.

  The Imperium Arcana System remained silent. No cryptic messages. No sudden warnings.

  But still…

  Somewhere, deep in his gut, he felt it.

  A storm was coming.

  And when it arrived, it would change everything.