Commander's Tent.
A woman stared into nothingness with eyes, cold and unfeeling. Her carved form adorned the terracotta oil lamp upon the Prefect's desk, its flame a wavering halo that painted her likeness in gold and shadow.
The lamp burned steadily, casting its thin, trembling light across a sea of parchment and papyrus scrolls. Below it, a rough hand moved with controlled precision—reed pen scratching deliberate lines into the vellum.
The faint hiss of ink against grain filled the tent—soft, rhythmic, then faltering. The hand trembled once, the pen slipped, and the man sighed as the pen rolled away.
The same hand rose to his face, tracing the scars and sunken creases that age and war had carved deep. Beneath the dim glow, Alexios Arenius Kyriakos, Praefectus Cohortis, looked every inch the soldier he was—weathered, unbent, burdened.
The Commander of an elite Cohors Milliaria Equitata: eight hundred infantry, two hundred and forty cavalrymen of hardened valor and quiet discontent.
He rubbed at his temple, his voice a dry murmur.
"Why did you have to die, Centurio Vibius…"
"Lord Praefect!"
The cry came sharp from beyond the tent flap, and Alexios straightened instantly, his composure snapping back like drawn steel.
"Optio Commius of the Atrebates requests audience!"
Alexios's jaw clenched. Through the thin layer of goatskin, he glimpsed the telltale gleam of Commius's helm—polished too often for a man who saw too little of war.
He exhaled wearily.
"Let him in."
––✺––
*Crunch. Crunch.*
Kotys walked the worn path between cooling campfires and rows of white tents. The scent of smoke, sweat, and horsehide lingered in the chill air—ghosts of battle clinging stubbornly to the night.
He walked slowly, head bowed, his thoughts turning inward as a wry, hollow laugh escaped him.
"I am daft," He muttered. "What in Hades' name do I expect from that being?"
He ran a hand through his hair, expression softening.
"No…I've gone too far to retreat. I'll call him friend for now, and see what he truly is."
"You there!"
The sharp call jolted him from his thoughts, and he stopped, looking down an intersecting path from which two soldiers approached with spears and shields, their torches flaring orange against the night.
The younger of the two—a tall soldier with boyish confidence—stepped forward.
"State the tessera, pedite!"
Kotys stopped short, unimpressed.
The tessera—the watchword. Sentries challenged anyone who moved through the camp at night; failing to answer, one risked the spear.
He stared at the youth, eyes flat.
"…Togo, we were both given the tessera together."
Togo hesitated, eyes narrowing as he recognized the voice.
"True. But the men say you've joined ranks with the dae—"
Kotys's glare cut him off.
"—the stranger," Togo corrected quickly.
"I just… needed to be sure you hadn't been eaten. They say daemons wear our skin when they're done..."
"By the gods!" The older sentry's head snapped toward him in disbelief.
Kotys let out a long, aggravated sigh, driving his spear into the dirt. He produced a small wooden tablet from his belt and shoved it forward.
"Here. The tessera. Satisfied?"
Togo glanced at it, nodded, but lingered, frowning.
"You might still be something else, inside—"
Kotys took a hard step forward, voice like iron.
"Then go, Togo! He's outside the palisade. Go see if he wears another man's skin yourself!"
With that, he ripped his spear free and stormed past, armor rattling faintly as he disappeared down a corner.
The two guards stood frozen.
"…Should we—" Togo began.
The older soldier immediately cuffed him across the helmet with a flat clank!
"Idiot! Stay your feet if you value them! You want to patrol near that cursed spot? Be my guest—but leave my soul out of it!"
He turned sharply, marching away. Togo shrugged, unfazed behind his helm.
"You're right," He murmured, falling in step beside him.
Their torches gradually receded, orange halos swallowed by the sleeping camp.
––✺––
Commius entered the tent, armor polished to parade shine, carrying a stack of parchments in both hands.
"From the Librarius, Lord Praefect," He said crisply, approaching the table to deposit the documents.
Alexios's eyes flicked up from his paperwork to the man before him.
"I was not aware the Librarius had been wounded in battle," He noted coolly. "—That you would carry his duties to me yourself."
The Prefect's tone was calm—too calm.
They both knew the military clerk had not joined the siege. The implication hung in the air like smoke.
Commius hesitated, throat tightening.
"Er—ah—Lord Praefect, I was merely passing by. I thought to…do him a favor on my way here for my report."
Alexios arched a brow. "A report?"
"Yes, Lord. A general report."
The Prefect's gaze drifted downward to the pages, then back up—grief flickering across his eyes before duty smothered it.
"That was Vibius's task," He said softly.
Commius froze, and the silence that followed was drawn and heavy.
"The Chief Centurion fought bravely, Lord Praefect," Commius whispered with a solemn expression.
Alexios's head lifted, and the quiet grief hardened to tempered fury. His eyes locked on Commius, grey as hammered iron.
"How would you know that," He asked evenly, "when you were here—back at camp—strangling my sick slave to death during the siege?!"
Commius blanched as one whose secret had been discovered.
The air between them seemed to cool to the point even the lamp light dimmed.
Alexios' expression darkened as the threat of death bore down on every word.
"Speak carefully, Optio," He advised, voice cold as a drawn blade.
"Because I am no priest of Mars—and I am in no forgiving mood."