The sun sat high over the fortress of Melitene, its glare bouncing off the walls of sunbaked stone. The scent of sweat, dust, and iron filled the air, mixing with the distant bray of mules and the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. Within the sprawling training grounds, a hundred men moved in rigid formation—thrusting, blocking, striking—like the gears of some great, unyielding war machine.

  Lucius Aemilius Regillus was among them.

  At nineteen years old, he was taller than most of the other recruits, with a build hardened by a youth spent working the land. His dark hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his bronzed skin was already bruised from the week’s relentless training. His sharp, gray eyes—like tempered steel—held no softness, only the burning determination of a man who refused to be broken.

  The gladius in his grip was a crude thing—just a wooden training sword, worn from months of relentless drills—but his arms burned as if he wielded solid iron. His tunic clung to his body, damp with sweat. His calves ached from hours of standing in the harsh Anatolian sun. But he did not falter.

  He couldn’t.

  A single misstep, a moment of hesitation, and the centurion’s vine staff would lash across his back.

  “Again!”

  The order cracked through the air, sharp as a whip. Centurion Septimus stalked the training grounds like a wolf among sheep, his expression carved from stone. His short, graying beard did nothing to soften his presence, nor did the jagged scar that ran from his temple to his jaw.

  Lucius exhaled, tightened his grip, and stepped into the motion.

  Thrust! Withdraw! Shield up!

  The recruit beside him faltered. Too slow.

  CRACK!

  The vine staff snapped against the man’s thigh. He yelped, nearly buckling. Cassius sneered.

  “Pathetic,” he spat. “You think the Parthians will let you recover after a mistake? Do you think they’ll give you time to breathe?”

  The recruit clenched his jaw and returned to formation. He knew better than to argue.

  Lucius stole a glance at the veterans watching from the shade of the barracks. Their armor was well-worn, their faces set in a mixture of amusement and indifference. To them, the suffering of new recruits was nothing more than a rite of passage—something they had already endured.

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  He gritted his teeth and struck forward again.

  This was the price of the eagle.

  To be a legionary in the Legio XII Fulminata was to be a part of something greater than oneself. It was to march across the known world, to crush the enemies of Rome beneath hobnailed sandals, to carve one’s name into history with the edge of a blade. It was an honor. A privilege.

  But first, one had to survive.

  And survival was not guaranteed.

  ?

  Life in the Twelfth Legion

  The Twelfth Legion, Fulminata—the Thundering Legion—was no place for the weak. Stationed in the eastern provinces, it was Rome’s shield against Parthian incursions. These were not the soft lands of Italia or the civilized cities of Greece. This was the frontier. A land of burning sands, jagged mountains, and blood-soaked battlefields.

  The veterans whispered of past campaigns. Of how the Twelfth had marched into Armenia, clashed with Parthian cataphracts, and held the line against overwhelming odds. Of how they had bled for Rome, only to be sent back into the fray.

  For the common soldier, there was no grand strategy—only orders.

  March. Fight. Kill. Die.

  Lucius had known this when he took the oath. When he had raised his right hand and sworn loyalty to the Emperor, to the Senate, and to the eagle standard that now loomed over the training field.

  But knowing it and living it were two different things.

  And as his arms trembled from exhaustion, as the centurion’s eyes swept over the ranks like a predator searching for weakness, he wondered—for the first time—if he would live long enough to earn his place.

  If he would live long enough to become more than a mere tirone.

  ?

  Lucius doesn’t know it yet, but this screen will change. His stats will evolve. His locked abilities will awaken. And soon, his name will no longer be just another in the ranks of Rome.

  For now, he is just a tirone.

  But the gods are watching.

  And so is something else.

  ?