The sky was the color of dull iron, heavy with the promise of rain.

  Lucius adjusted his scutum, shifting the weight of the large rectangular shield strapped to his left arm. His shoulders ached from the strain of carrying his gear, but he said nothing. Complaints had no place in the Legio XII Fulminata.

  The legion marched eastward, toward the hills where the scouts had reported enemy movement. The cold morning air carried the scent of damp earth and distant smoke, a reminder that war always lurked just ahead.

  They moved in tight, disciplined columns, their boots thudding in unison against the packed dirt road. The sound was rhythmic, almost comforting—until Lucius remembered where they were headed.

  This was no training march.

  By nightfall, they could be dead.

  ?

  Whispers in the Ranks

  “How many do you think there are?” someone muttered behind him.

  Lucius didn’t turn his head, but he recognized the voice—Gaius, another recruit, barely older than himself.

  “Does it matter?” came a gruff reply. That was Servius, a veteran who had seen more battles than he had fingers left.

  “They wouldn’t send us forward if they didn’t think we could win,” Gaius said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

  “Or they send us because we’re expendable,” Marcus muttered under his breath.

  Lucius glanced at him. His friend’s jaw was tight, his face unreadable.

  “Enough talking,” barked Optio Varro from the front ranks. “Save your breath for the fight.”

  The column fell silent.

  Lucius knew the others were thinking the same thing he was. What kind of battle waited for them in the hills?

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The Parthians were masters of cavalry, their horse archers faster than any legionary could hope to match on foot. If they had numbers, if they had the high ground—

  Lucius shook the thoughts away. Thinking like that wouldn’t keep him alive.

  ?

  The Burden of Command

  Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, though it remained hidden behind a thick layer of gray clouds.

  At midday, Centurion Septimus called for a halt. The legionaries dropped their packs with quiet relief, stretching sore muscles and taking quick swallows from their waterskins.

  Lucius wiped the sweat from his brow. His tunic clung to his skin beneath the weight of his armor, the chainmail pressing into his shoulders.

  Septimus stood before them, his expression as unreadable as ever. The man had the unshakable presence of a war-forged statue—solid, immovable, untouched by the fatigue of the march.

  “We’ll reach the hills by nightfall,” he said. “The enemy is out there. Scouts have confirmed movement, but their numbers remain uncertain.”

  A ripple of unease moved through the ranks.

  Septimus’ eyes swept over them, measuring, judging.

  “We are the Twelfth Legion. We do not break. We do not falter.” His voice was iron and fire, pressing down on them like the weight of their armor. “You are Romans, not frightened boys. Remember that when the fighting starts.”

  Lucius straightened, his grip tightening on his shield.

  They had no choice but to be ready.

  Septimus turned to Optio Varro. “Double the scouting patrols. I want no surprises.”

  Varro nodded and barked orders to the speculatores, the legion’s reconnaissance troops. A handful of men broke off from the main force, disappearing into the landscape ahead.

  Marcus leaned closer to Lucius. “You think they’ll come at us in the night?”

  Lucius didn’t answer right away. He watched the scouts vanish into the distance, their figures swallowed by the rolling hills.

  “If they’re smart,” he said finally. “They will.”

  ?

  Signs of the Enemy

  By late afternoon, the wind picked up, carrying a faint scent on the air—something bitter, something wrong.

  Lucius noticed it at the same time as the others. The silent glances, the way the veterans’ hands drifted toward their weapons. A smell like charred wood. And something else.

  “Smoke,” Marcus murmured. “But not from our fires.”

  They weren’t alone.

  Minutes later, the first scout returned, his face tight with unease. He saluted sharply to Centurion Septimus.

  “Sir. We found an abandoned Parthian camp two miles ahead.”

  Septimus’ eyes narrowed. “Abandoned?”

  “Yes, sir.” The scout hesitated. “The fires were still burning.”

  That sent a cold ripple through the ranks.

  The Parthians didn’t leave their camps in a hurry—not unless they had a reason.

  Lucius felt the weight of his gladius at his side, suddenly heavier than before.

  Something was waiting for them in those hills.

  And whatever it was, it had already seen them coming.