'Well…' He sniffed.
'Things escalated quickly.'
Rainer found himself hung, bound to a wooden cross, the rough grain biting into his wrists.
Behind him, a bonfire roared, its heat licking across his bare back in pulsing waves, crackling as the rising smoke made his eyes water.
Below, Roman auxiliaries clustered in a wide semicircle, their murmurs rising and falling like the hum of a restless crowd. Faces gleamed with sweat and superstition. Some looked on with curiosity; others, unease.
To them, he was no man—he was a spectacle.
Before him was a cleared space that led to the looming commander's tent, grander than all others. Its white canvas shimmered under the moon, the fabric of their standard waving calmly beside its entrance.
In front stood a row of officers—men of authority and rank, their armor practical but prestigious, their helmets crested like the plumes of proud immortals.
"Silence!"
The order cracked like thunder. Optio Commius stood rigid as an older man—broad-shouldered, nearing his sixties—stepped out of the tent.
Despite his age, he carried himself with a soldier's unbroken bearing. The gold-inlaid lorica segmentata across his chest gleamed pristine beneath the torchlight, his white-crested Gallic helmet adding to an aura both regal and lethal.
At once, the chatter died, and all eyes followed as his hobnailed sandals, crunching deliberately over packed earth.
*Cruch! Ckrah!*
Each step carried the weight of command.
Tall, bronzed, carved as though by some jealous Greek sculptor, the man radiated discipline honed to cruelty.
His cold, steely gaze rose to meet Rainer's—steady, appraising.
Rainer felt oddly exposed under that scrutiny, then a realization dawned.
'Ah. So this is the Camp Commander—or rather, the Praefectus Cohortis.
'Judging by the gilding on his armor and the scale of this encampment, I'd wager this is a milliaria equitata—an elite auxiliary cohort of over a thousand men strong…'
He recalled his humiliating parade through the camp and grimaced.
'A pity I was the centerpiece.'
Petty vengeance sparked behind his amber-brown eyes, and he decided to scare them.
Having made his mind, he smiled—a slow, sharp thing that didn't quite reach his gaze.
The Praefect's eyes flickered almost imperceptibly, lids lowering in measured thought. Yet he said nothing. He merely turned away, walking back to a carved stool before the tent and sat down.
But that small hesitation—that fractional break—was enough for Rainer.
His grin deepened.
'Apprehension. What a lovely find.'
"Optio Commius," The Prefect called, his baritone calm yet laden with authority.
Commius stepped forward, posture rigid, fist to chest. The fire cast long shadows across his scarred jaw.
Before he could speak, a voice broke from the crowd.
"This is a bad omen, Lord Praefect!"
Another shouted, trembling. "Why bring a daemon into the camp?!"
Murmurs surged, emboldened by fear.
Then one soldier staggered out—a battered man with a blood-soaked bandage wrapping his arm and eye. His voice cracked with feverish dread.
"Twice we've failed to breach the rebels' garrison—and now one of Lord Praefect's slaves is possessed? Is not the battle already lost!?"
A dangerous silence followed.
Commius's jaw clenched.
"I said silence, fools!" He roared, stepping forward.
"The next man to speak shall feel this Optio's whip across his back!"
His voice struck the crowd like iron, and the murmurs died instantly, air heavy with fear.
The Praefect's gaze, however, remained fixed on Rainer.
Standing to the right of the Praefect, another officer stepped forward. His lorica segmentata bore the scars of years and steel, the polish long since dulled by battle.
Exchanging a brief nod with the Prefect, he turned his gaze on Rainer.
"Slave," He began, his tone calm yet commanding, "Do you remember who you are? Or are you truly a daemon, as the milites claim?"
His voice rolled through the camp—steady and resonant.
Rainer's eyes wandered across the assembly, catching the tremor of torchlight on bronze, the wide-eyed awe in mortal faces. Then his gaze returned to the speaker, and the corner of his mouth curved in quiet amusement.
At last, he thought, someone who carries himself like a soldier of worth.
He inclined his head slightly—a nod of respect, almost regal—before drawing a slow breath and letting his words fall softly into the night.
"I am… not the person you may have once known."
Though barely above a whisper, the words rippled outward, heavy with implication. A chill wind swept through the ranks, stirring cloaks and torch-flames alike.
For a moment, silence ruled. Only the crackle of fire and the groan of timber filled the air. Faces paled; superstitious dread coiled through the crowd. Rainer watched their reactions with wicked satisfaction, eyes gleaming like molten gold.
'Ah, fear,' He mused.
'How I've missed the scent of it. Maybe I should push further...'
However, reason soon replaced vanity and he sighed.
'No—enough. Push too far and they'll break. A jest, perhaps; then I tell them I'm some blessed ancestor of Rome—'
The thought never finished before a soldier's hoarse cry split the tension.
"What are we waiting for!?" The man's eyes were wild, his mind unmoored by terror.
"Let's kill the daemon before it curses the camp!"
Before anyone could stop him, he lunged—spear leveled, voice a ragged roar.
Rainer's satisfaction evaporated, and his eyes bulged in disbelief.
"Eh—!? Wait! Don't—!"
The spear thrust upward and Rainer jerked sideways, the weapon slicing past his ribs. Another strike came, and he twisted the other way, ropes creaking.
The mad soldier pressed forward, stabbing again and again, each thrust more desperate than the last.
"Hold—hold it! I am not a demon!"
Rainer yelped, contorting wildly, his body swinging like a tethered eel over a bonfire.
"Someone stop this lunatic before he skewers me!" Rainer cried out, looking regretful.
The absurdity of the situation froze the crowd: the demon made ridiculous, writhing like a fish in a net. Even the Praefect's mask of command cracked—if only by a hair's breadth.