The night stretched on, heavy and silent.

  Lucius stood near the barricades, his fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his gladius. His breath came slow and steady, but his pulse pounded like war drums in his chest.

  The hills below were nothing but black shapes against the deeper void of night. No movement. No sound.

  But he knew they were out there.

  Somewhere in the dark, the enemy was watching. Waiting.

  ?

  A Whisper in the Wind

  The first sound was so faint Lucius almost missed it.

  A rustling.

  Like fabric brushing against stone.

  He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. The wind was light, barely enough to stir the tall grass. And yet—there it was again.

  A shifting. A presence.

  They were coming.

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  He glanced to his right, where Marcus stood with his own gladius drawn, his scutum resting against the barricade. Their eyes met. No words were needed.

  Lucius turned back toward the valley. He didn’t blink.

  Then, in the distance—a flicker of movement.

  A shadow too fluid, too quick to be part of the landscape.

  A shape low to the ground, creeping forward.

  Then another. And another.

  Lucius’ stomach tightened.

  They’re testing us.

  ?

  The First Kill

  A sharp clink echoed through the camp as a sentry near the eastern perimeter shifted his position.

  The sound was small. Insignificant.

  But it was enough.

  From the blackness, a silent arrow streaked forward—so fast, so precise, that it barely made a sound.

  A quiet thud.

  The sentry stiffened. His body swayed, then collapsed without a cry, his form disappearing into the grass.

  Lucius froze, gripping his weapon tighter.

  One moment, the man had been standing there. The next—gone.

  The creeping shadows in the valley paused, as if waiting for a reaction.

  No alarm had been raised. No sound had betrayed them.

  The camp still slept.

  They’re hunting us. Picking us off.

  Lucius turned his head toward Optio Varro, stationed a few paces away. Their eyes met. Both understood what was happening.

  Varro moved first, stepping carefully away from the firelight. He bent down beside the fallen sentry, his fingers brushing his throat.

  After a moment, he stood. No need for words. The man was dead.

  Lucius exhaled slowly. His fingers ached from how tightly he was gripping his sword.

  Marcus’ voice was barely a whisper. “We need to wake the camp.”

  Lucius nodded, but he didn’t look away from the darkness.

  Because the shadows were still moving.

  And this time, they weren’t stopping.