The mist crept across the valley like an old beast. The sun had not yet risen, but the horns had already sounded. Three times. Prepare. Assemble. Form up.
The camp had emptied in silence. The legionaries lined up by centuries, each cohort gathering under its standard. The sounds of buckles fastening, leather brushing against metal, and shields locking into place were the only music in the air.
Sextus walked the line, vitis in hand. His first formation as optio.
He didn't look nervous, but each step weighed more than he let on. He checked the rows, corrected a stance, a poorly secured shield, a spear held at the wrong angle.
"Legs firm. Steady breath. Eyes forward, not on the ground."
The men listened. It wasn't his tone that commanded respect. It was the way he moved. The way he looked. The way he already belonged to that wall of iron.
Atticus approached from the flank, helmet in hand, still adjusting his belt.
"So now you give the orders, huh?" he said with a half-smile.
Sextus glanced sideways at him.
"Someone has to make sure you remember to buckle your cingulum."
Atticus let out a short laugh.
"Can't argue with that. But I'm serious. You rose fast."
"I didn't ask for it."
"I know. That's why you deserve it."
There was a brief pause. The line kept forming. In the distance, centurions shouted out final names. The standard of the XIII barely fluttered, caught in a cold breeze that hinted at the sunrise.
"My father used to say promotions weren't rewards," Atticus continued, now more serious. "They were burdens shaped like sticks. And now you carry one."
Sextus nodded.
"Does it weigh on you?"
"Only when I think about myself."
Atticus looked at him for another second, then put on his helmet, tapped his shield with his fist, and took his place in the formation.
Sextus turned to face the century. A hundred men. Many knew him. Others barely knew his name. But all knew that today there was no room for doubt.
The horn sounded a fourth time.
Advance to the battle line.
The world began to move.