The campfire gave no warmth. Only smoke. Only silence. After the retreat, Wulfgar's men sat without speaking, each staring into the embers as if waiting for the spirits to explain what had happened.
But the spirits were silent that night.
Wulfgar stood, his spear resting on the ground, fingers clenched. He had wiped the blood from his shield—but not from his memory. He could still see the faces. The chaos. And that man. That damned Roman.
One of his warriors finally spoke, voice low.
—We had never taken a step back before.
Another muttered:
—Ariovistus will know.
The words weighed heavier than any wound. Wulfgar looked up, as if challenged.
—You think I don't know that?
He walked among them like a wolf through its pack, eyes burning.
—Yes. We retreated. Because I decided it. Because if we had stayed, you'd be ash on this earth right now. That group wasn't like the others. That Roman… he wasn't like the others.
The others stared in silence.
—It wasn't fear. It was respect. And that hurts more.
He paused. Then drove his spear into the ground with force.
—But it won't happen again.
His eyes burned with the fury of a storm held back.
—If I ever face that Roman again… I'll kill him with my own hands. I'll look him in the eyes, like he looked into mine, and I'll make him pay for every doubt he planted in my soul.
The men did not cheer. They did not beat their shields. They only nodded. In that kind of oath, there is no noise—only truth.
Wulfgar stepped into the darkness alone, without shield, without words, driven only by the need to tear shame from his chest with blood.
And under the moonless sky, not even the wolves howled.