The wall was breaking.
It wasn't a rumor, nor a premonition. It was real. The ground trembled beneath enemy footsteps, and the shields no longer held with the same strength. The formation bent, split, bled.
Sextus was gasping, arms numb, gladius dulled, shield splintered. Titus was wounded. Atticus covered in blood. One of the legionaries with them no longer had a face.And the breach kept widening.
"They're breaking through! They're inside!" someone shouted.
And then Scaeva arrived.
No escort. No ceremony.
Just his scarred armor and sword in hand, shouting like a madman.
"Formation!! Nothing breaks here!! With me!!"
The few who remained responded as best they could. But it was no longer a line. It was an island surrounded by fire.
And from the other side, he came.
Wulfgar.
He no longer thought. No longer shouted. He only advanced.
His body was an open wound. His breath, a contained roar. Blood soaked him to the waist. He saw only one thing:
Sextus.
And Sextus saw him coming.
Not as just another enemy. Not as some mere threat. But as an answer. To everything. To death. To fear. To war.
They exchanged no words.
Only glances.
And the world vanished.
The first clash was brutal. Wulfgar charged like a bull, forcing Sextus back several steps. The gladius met the axe. The shield cracked. Bodies fell around them, but they remained standing.
Sextus blocked. Turned. Thrust at the shoulder. Missed.
Wulfgar roared. Swung diagonally. The blade grazed Sextus's side, drawing blood.
Scaeva tried to reach them, but was dragged away by the surge of Germans. Other legionaries formed a small wall nearby, unable to intervene. They could only watch.
The gods had sealed this fight.
And it wouldn't end until one of them fell.