The fires burned long into the night.

  Lucius watched the flames twist and dance, consuming the dead with a hunger that seemed almost alive. The thick smoke curled into the sky, carrying the scent of charred flesh—Roman and Parthian alike—up to the gods.

  He should have felt something. Relief? Grief? Regret?

  Instead, he felt nothing.

  His gladius hung loosely in his grip, its edge still dried with blood. His armor, once polished, was now streaked with grime, sweat, and the splattered remains of those who had stood in his way.

  The battle had ended, but the war within him had only begun.

  ?

  Orders from Above

  “Lucius.”

  He turned to see Optio Varro, his senior officer, approaching with a grim expression. The firelight glinted off his crested helmet, his features hard as iron.

  “Centurion Septimus wants you,” Varro said. “Now.”

  Lucius felt his stomach tighten. He had expected to be overlooked—just another nameless recruit, another sword in the formation. Why summon him?

  “Go,” Marcus muttered beside him, tossing a half-burnt pilum into the flames. “If Septimus calls, you don’t make him wait.”

  Lucius nodded, gripping his weapon tighter. He followed Varro through the rows of weary legionaries, past the last of the burning bodies, until they reached the command tent.

  Inside, Centurion Septimus sat at a rough wooden table, studying a bloodstained map of the region. The man was a wall of muscle, his face scarred, his left ear missing a piece—a veteran of countless battles.

  “You fought well today, Regillus,” he said without looking up. “For a recruit, you held the line.”

  Lucius straightened. “Thank you, sir.”

  Septimus finally looked at him, his dark eyes sharp as a dagger’s point. “But holding the line isn’t enough. You want to survive in this legion? You need to be more than just another sword.”

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  He gestured to the map.

  “We march at first light. Scouts report enemy movement near the hills. You’ll be in the vanguard.”

  Lucius swallowed hard. The vanguard—the first to fight, the first to bleed.

  Septimus leaned forward, his voice lowering to a near growl. “You want to prove yourself? Here’s your chance.”

  Lucius gritted his teeth and saluted. “I won’t fail.”

  Septimus nodded. “See that you don’t.”

  ?

  By the Fire

  Lucius returned to the camp, his thoughts heavy. The vanguard. He had no time to dwell on today’s battle—tomorrow, he would face another.

  As he sat down by the dying embers, Marcus nudged him with an elbow.

  “So? What did the old bastard want?”

  Lucius exhaled. “I’m in the vanguard tomorrow.”

  Marcus let out a low whistle. “Damn. No rest for the hero, then.”

  “I’m no hero,” Lucius muttered.

  Marcus chuckled, but it lacked any real humor. He tossed a small bone die between his fingers, watching it spin in the flickering light. “Yeah. Neither am I.”

  A moment of silence stretched between them.

  Then Marcus spoke again, his voice quieter. “It doesn’t feel real, does it?”

  Lucius turned to him.

  “The battle,” Marcus continued. “I thought I’d be terrified. That my hands would shake too much to hold my gladius. But when it started—when the shouting, the blood, the screams—” he trailed off, shaking his head. “I just… fought. Like I’d always been doing it.”

  Lucius nodded. He understood. The battle had come suddenly, violently—but when the moment arrived, his body had moved without thought.

  “You killed someone?” Lucius asked.

  Marcus rolled the die in his palm, his eyes dark. “Yeah. A Parthian came at me with a spear. I didn’t think. I just… cut his throat open.” He swallowed. “Watched him bleed out at my feet.”

  Lucius studied his friend’s face. There was no pride in Marcus’ voice. No satisfaction. Just a quiet, lingering disbelief.

  “I thought it would feel different,” Marcus admitted. “That I’d feel something.”

  “But you don’t,” Lucius said.

  Marcus shook his head. “No. And that scares me more than anything.”

  Lucius didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. He felt it too.

  The silence stretched between them again, heavier this time. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the distant murmurs of other legionaries.

  After a while, Marcus sighed. “You think it ever gets easier?”

  Lucius looked into the flames. The answer was obvious.

  “It has to,” he murmured. “Or we don’t survive.”

  Marcus gave a small, bitter chuckle. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

  They sat together in silence, two young soldiers who had faced death and come out the other side.

  But neither of them felt like they had truly survived.

  ?

  Marching to War

  Dawn came too soon.

  The horns blared through the camp, rousing the legionaries from their sleep. Armor was strapped on, weapons checked, formations assembled.

  Lucius stood among them, his gladius sheathed, his shield strapped tight.

  His first battle had changed him.

  His next one would define him.

  As the Legio XII Fulminata marched into the mist-covered hills, Lucius knew one thing for certain.

  War had only just begun.