The second dawn after Julius's decree came with rain.
Not the cleansing rain of spring, but a cold, needling drizzle that turned the camp's roads to black rivers of mud.
Standards sagged, cloaks clung heavy, and the smell of wet leather hung over the legion like a shroud.
Yet no soldier dared slacken his pace.
Patrols marched on, boots sucking at the mire, their torches guttering against the wind.
The old world had ended the moment Francia let poison seep into wells.
The Concordat, that fragile parchment of honor, was gone.
Now, war belonged to shadows.
Reports streamed into Julius's command tent.
They came from scouts, tribunes, even from common villagers dragged trembling before centurions.
Francia's forces, fractured though they were, had embraced desperation.
Assassins had struck at outposts, garroting sentries in the night.
Fields were salted, bridges sabotaged.
