The forest devoured everything—light, sound, direction. Only those born for war could move through it without being swallowed. Sextus knew that. He walked at the front, eyes sharp, gladius still sheathed, senses taut as drawn bowstrings.
Ten men marched with him. Some hardened by the Gallic campaigns. Others young, still mistaking silence for bravery. On his left, Atticus watched the forest canopy. On his right, Titus walked with his spear lowered and his jaw clenched.
—No birds —Atticus murmured.
—No wind either —Sextus replied, without stopping.
Hundreds of paces away, in another line of shadows, Wulfgar advanced with seven Germanic warriors. They carried long spears, fire-hardened shields, and faces marked for war. The silence didn't unsettle them. It was their home.
But something felt wrong to Wulfgar. Not fear. Not yet. Just... a sign.
And then, as if the earth had exhaled—the two worlds collided.
No warning. No time.
A crack of branches. A shout in Latin. Another in a guttural tongue.
And then, steel.
Sextus drew his blade and charged. A clean slash, a twisted knee, a stab beneath an enemy's raised arm. Precise. Lethal. Silent.
Atticus blocked a spear and drove his own into an exposed gut. Titus slammed into two warriors at once, knocking one down and crushing his skull against a root with his shield.
Wulfgar watched one of his men fall with a broken neck. He answered with a roar, ramming his spear into a Roman who hadn't raised his shield in time. The blow hurled the man into a tree. Blood and bark flew together.
And then he saw him.
Sextus.
Moving with terrifying calm, as if the chaos around him didn't touch him. He fought like his body had no weight, as if each strike of his gladius obeyed a law older than fear.
Wulfgar raised his spear—but didn't throw it.
For an eternal second, he simply watched.
And for the first time in his life, he doubted.
He doubted victory. He doubted the spirits of his ancestors. He doubted the tales that had raised him to believe the Germans were invincible and that Rome was just arrogance in sandals. He doubted himself.
That man was no ordinary enemy.
He was something else.
The fight yanked him back. Another Roman charged. Wulfgar dropped him with a swift cut, but his eyes searched the shadows again.
Sextus was gone.
Only blood remained. Blood and cries. Bodies lying motionless beneath the trees.
Wulfgar drew a deep breath.
—Fall back! —he roared—. Everyone fall back! Retreat!
His men hesitated. A German does not retreat.
But Wulfgar was already moving, shielding a wounded comrade with his body. Not out of cowardice. Not from fear. But from something deeper. Something he didn't yet know if it was respect… or the sense that, somewhere beyond the forest, a legend had been born.
And so they withdrew. Leaving behind death… and doubt.