[Sextus]
The world was a single sound: metal, screams, ragged breath.
Wulfgar moved like a force of nature. His axe struck with such power that Sextus's arm trembled with every block. He could no longer feel the weight of his shield. He only knew that if he made one mistake, he would die.
Sextus was bleeding. From his side. His thigh. Even his brow. But he was still standing.
"Not today," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
[Wulfgar]
Every missed blow was an insult. Every failed strike, a sentence.
The Roman would not fall.
He had waited for this moment. He had sought it. He needed to kill him. Not for vengeance. Not anymore. But so that his life would mean something.
And yet, the Roman still stood.
"What are you?!" he roared, bringing his axe down hard.
[Sextus]
He blocked with the edge of his shield. The impact threw him into the mud. He rolled. Coughed blood.
Wulfgar's axe came down like a verdict.
Sextus rolled again. The blade slammed into the dirt.
And then—without thinking—he drove his gladius upward.
[Wulfgar]
He felt the steel pierce beneath his ribs.
His body failed him.
He dropped to his knees. Looked at the Roman.
There was no hatred. Only awe. Pain. Peace.
His lips moved. He didn't call out to any god.
He said:
"Now… they will remember me."
And he fell to his side.
[Sextus]
Everything blurred.
His legs wouldn't respond. His arm trembled. His chest rose and fell with effort. He heard voices. Familiar voices.
"Over here!! He's here!"
"He's alive!"
Atticus. Titus. Someone else. They lifted him. Shouted for aid.
"We won…" Sextus whispered.
No one answered. But his heart still beat.And around him, the enemy was falling back.