I. The Black Veins
The war was over, but the mud remained.
Corvin Nyx stood on the high balcony of the Sanctum in Obsidios Iubeo. The rain of the Obsidian Ordo was falling—a light, cold drizzle that turned the unpaved main thoroughfare below into a slurry of grey sludge.
He watched a supply wagon destined for the granaries. It was bogged down, the wheels sunk to the hubs. The oxen were thrashing, their hooves finding no purchase. The drivers were cursing, whipping the beasts in a futile attempt to fight the earth.
"It has been an hour," Corvin said quietly, not turning from the railing. "That wagon has moved ten feet."
Obel Harth, the Master Mason, stood a respectful distance behind him, wiping stone dust from his hands with a rag. He joined Corvin at the rail, looking down at the mess.
"It's the heavy traffic, My Lord," Obel said, his voice rough like gravel. "The new stone from the quarries, the timber for the housing... the ground can't take the weight. When the rains come, the road turns to soup. We lose three wagons a week to broken axles."
Corvin gripped the obsidian railing. "We defeated an army of twenty thousand. We killed a god-beast from the Void. And now my supply lines are being defeated by dirt."
He turned to Obel. The mason looked tired. The expansion was stretching him thin.
"We can lay cobblestones," Obel suggested. "But to pave the road to Lithos? Forty miles? It would take my crews a year just to cut the rock."
"No," Corvin said. "We are thinking like the Union. We are thinking small."
Corvin walked back to the map table. "Chaos stagnates," he said, gesturing to the stuck wagon outside. "Order flows. I want this domain to flow like water."
He pointed a finger at the jagged line between his two cities. "I don't want cobblestones, Obel. I want a single ribbon of stone. Seamless. Indestructible."
Obel looked at the map, his builder's mind catching up. "If we mix the quarry dust into the soil... and have the Earth Sorcerers fuse it in place... we wouldn't need to transport blocks. We make the road out of the ground."
"Exactly," Corvin said. "The Via Obsidia. Start tomorrow. I want to hear the ring of boots on stone, not the squelch of mud."
The work began at dawn. Vesper Thorne (The Obsidiarc) led the phalanx of Earth Sorcerers. They did not dig; they transmuted. They channeled Obsidian-laced magic into the raw soil, fusing it with black dust. The earth groaned and liquefied, then snapped hard into slate-grey perfection.
Within weeks, the domain was webbed. The Via Obsidia was smooth as glass and harder than granite. Crucially, it projected a low-grade fatigue-reducing field. Oxen pulled double loads without tiring. Couriers galloped for hours without foaming. The friction of the world was gone.
II. The Hierarchy of Steel
While the roads cured, the war room of Obsidios Iubeo was crowded with the architects of the army.
Corvin stood at the head of the obsidian table. Flanking him were the pillars of his military might: Obsidian Marshall Garrus Vane, Legion Commander Veridian Vex, and Legion Commander Orion Kirtide.
"We are bloating," Corvin said, his voice cutting through the low hum of the tower. "We have nearly eight thousand soldiers between the two cities. The old system of twenty-four Captains is breaking. A man cannot command what he cannot feel."
Garrus Vane nodded, his face grim. "Discipline is slipping in the rear ranks, Lord. The Captains are overwhelmed. We need a skeleton that supports the muscle."
Corvin looked at his Marshall. "Structure it."
Garrus traced a line on the map. "We break the Legions down. We adopt the Old Imperial Standard. It is rigid. It is scalable."
"Start from the bottom," Veridian suggested. "The recruits need immediate eyes on them."
"The Contubernium," Garrus said. "A squad of eight men. They share a tent, a fire, and a fate. They are led by a Decanus."
"Ten squads make a Century," Orion Kirtide rumbled, his deep voice echoing. "Eighty men. Led by a Centurion. That is the fighting block. A Centurion is the god of his eighty men. He trains them, he punishes them, he leads them into the breach."
"And six Centuries make a Cohort," Garrus finished. "Five hundred soldiers make a Cohort. Led by a Senior Captain. Ten Cohorts make the Legion."
Corvin studied the invisible pyramid Garrus was building. "Decanus. Centurion. Senior Captain. Legion Commander. A chain of command that does not break."
He paused. "But cloth badges and pinned medals are weak. They can be stolen. Rank must be etched into the soul."
Corvin looked at Alcides Ynatos, who stood ready with the branding styluses.
"We use the Source," Corvin commanded. "The Decanus leads eight men; he gets the Iron Talon added to his mark. The Centurion leads eighty; he gets the Spread Wings at the throat, allowing him to project commands across the noise of battle."
"And the Commanders?" Orion asked.
"You and Veridian," Garrus said, looking them in the eye. "You bear the Tower Brand on your forearm. It grants you the power to elevate your men... and the power to strip them."
The silence in the room deepened.
"If a Centurion fails," Garrus said coldly, "you do not just demote him. You place your hand on his throat and you burn the command out of him. You sever him from the Link. It is a punishment worse than the lash."
"Make it law," Corvin commanded.
III. The Coin of Merit
"Structure requires incentive," Corvin said, turning to Alcides. "The Union pays in promises. What do we pay the men who hold the wall?"
Alcides Ynatos set a heavy, iron-bound chest on the table. He threw the latch.
Inside, the light of the Void Stone caught the shimmer of silver. Thousands of rectangular ingots lay in neat rows.
Garrus picked one up. It was heavy, cold, and hummed with a faint vibration.
"The Silver Raven," Alcides said, his voice rough with pride. "Obsidian-infused silver. Impossible to counterfeit. If a non-sorcerer tries to replicate it, the metal shatters."
"The pay must match the rank," Corvin decreed. "We are a Meritocracy."
Veridian did the mental math. "A standard Union mercenary gets three gold crowns a month, usually late."
"We pay Ten Silver Ravens a month for a standard Legionnaire," Corvin said. "Base pay."
Garrus raised an eyebrow. "That is a fortune, Lord. A man could buy a farm in a year."
"Good," Corvin said. "I want them to have farms. I want them to have something to lose."
"And the officers?" Orion asked.
"A Decanus earns Twenty," Corvin decided. "A Centurion earns One Hundred. They enter the wealthy class. They become the pillars of the city."
He looked at them. "But merit is not just rank. A badge for Marksmanship? Plus two marks. A badge for Engineering? Plus three. A combat veteran who survives a campaign? Plus five."
Garrus Vane smiled—a rare, sharp expression. "You are turning war into a career, Lord. The Union mercenaries will riot when they hear this."
IV. The Disbursement
The following morning, the training yards of Obsidios Iubeo transformed.
Garrus Vane stood on the dais. He did not shout; he spoke through the Flock-Link, his voice resonating in thousands of skulls at once.
"Step forward, the chosen amongst you."
The new Centurions—men like Captain Sol and Captain Varrus—stepped forward. They knelt.
Legion Commander Orion Kirtide moved down the line. He didn't hand them a medal. He placed his glowing hand on the base of their throats.
The air hummed with power. The Centurions gasped as the Spread Wing Brand seared into their skin, integrating with their nervous systems. Their eyes dilated. Suddenly, they could feel their eighty men. They could sense the fear, the readiness, the position of every soldier in their unit.
Then came the pay.
Legionnaires lined up. They received their pouches. A young recruit, a former farmhand named Kael, held his ten Silver Marks. He stared at them. It was heavy, cold, and real.
"This is not a gift," Garrus roared over the yard. "This is the price of your life. You are the elite. You eat the best. You fight with the best. And you are paid like kings. Do not fail the Raven Lord."
The drill that afternoon was terrifying in its precision. The Raven Legion moved like a single organism, a thousand bodies driven by a unified, branded will. They were no longer just soldiers; they were the fingers of the Raven Lord's hand.