The sun had not yet touched the sand when Tiberio Varenius stepped out of his tent.
The scarlet cloak fluttered behind his light armor as his eyes scanned the beach. There, more than 5,000 people waited in formation: the Legion's camp lined up with precision, pride evident on Tiberio's face as he saw reflected before his eyes the effort of decades of battles and political intrigues his blood had endured to achieve this—tents scattered like shadows among the nearby trees.
The ships were ready for boarding, though some masts creaked under the wind. Engineers and captains inspected the rigging while auxiliaries loaded weapons and supplies—twice what was necessary—which forced the last-minute purchase of several dozen ships.
Tiberio himself had been responsible for that. His nephew had once again fallen victim to the Senate's politics and intrigues and had been assigned to a suicidal campaign in the Arabian regions. Tiberio blamed himself for his weak political influence and for being unable to protect his nephew, so he decided to increase the chances of success for the campaign even if it cost him the last denarius in his coffers.
Tiberio headed toward the Legion's central tent and command center. According to martial rules, Tiberio shouldn't have had the right to enter despite his closeness to the commander, but the guards didn't hesitate for a second when they saw him and opened the way.
The murmurs inside the tent didn't stop, although some looked at him—something Tiberio didn't care about, since most of the people here were the elite of the elite of the Republic. Dozens of men gathered from all around the Republic, some even foreigners.
All paying attention to what the man in the center of the tent would do. Tiberio noticed how he seemed hypnotized by the map in front of him, running his hand over all the reports gathered in the past weeks. It was something few had witnessed, but everyone knew that once his nephew finished analyzing what was on the table, dozens, if not hundreds, of voices and gestures would transform into precise orders, executed without hesitation. Every overseer, every centurion, knew that Luciano's words were not mere suggestions: they were mandates that shaped lives and destinies.
Tiberio watched in silence, leaning against the tent wall, as his nephew bent over the map, his fingers tracing rivers, hills, and possible landing routes. Candlelight made the edges of the parchments shine and cast shadows across Luciano's focused face. His eyes, normally calm, now gleamed with an intensity that inspired both respect and fear.
"How long have they been waiting?" Tiberio asked the person beside him.
Helena Varco, commander of the Crimson Lances, inclined her head and answered with a worried expression: "The guards say the candles have been lit all night, and when I arrived he was already here."
Tiberio nodded and walked toward the center of the tent, placing a hand on his nephew's shoulder to get his attention.
"There are reports that the tribes have issued their call," Tiberio said. "If we leave today, we'll intercept them before they fortify their positions."
Luciano lifted his gaze from the map to meet Tiberio's. Realization seemed to strike him suddenly, shown in the change on his face.
"I'm sorry, it seems I made you all wait," Luciano said as he looked around the tent and smiled at everyone.
The tension in the tent eased just slightly when Luciano spoke, but no one stopped watching him. It was strange to see the commander apologize; stranger still to see him smile. Even so, the gesture didn't undermine his authority: it was the kind of smile only someone confident in his next move could afford to give.
Helena was the first to bow her head.
"We're ready whenever you are, commander."
Luciano nodded slightly and straightened up, stepping away from the map for the first time in hours. His hand brushed the parchment surface almost ritualistically before he left the table. Now that he was moving, the tension in several officers' shoulders seemed to ease: they were accustomed to the silence before his decisions being the prelude to drastic changes.
"The information we have," Luciano said, lifting one of the reports for all to see, "confirms that at least five desert tribes have responded to the call. They don't act this way unless they have a charismatic leader or a threat forcing them to cooperate. In either case, the window is small."
He placed the report back on the table gently, but his voice grew firmer.
"If we depart tomorrow, we lose the initiative. If we depart today, we can still strike before they join forces and take advantage of the terrain."
A brief, restrained murmur ran through the tent. Most already knew this, but hearing Luciano say it aloud made it official—sealed their fate.
Tiberio crossed his arms, evaluating him with a mixture of pride and concern.
"If we leave today," he added, "you'll need to give your scouts rest. They haven't slept since we reached the coast."
Luciano smiled again, this time barely noticeable.
"They'll sleep on the ships. The first hours after embarkation will be calm; the engineers need time to secure the cargo. Besides…"
His gaze swept across the tent, pausing on each person.
"I'd rather have tired soldiers than soldiers underestimating their enemy."
Some nodded solemnly. Others exchanged tense glances: they knew Luciano wasn't speaking for drama's sake, but from experience.
"Helena," he continued, "your warriors will be the first to board."
Helena struck her chest with a closed fist.
"We'll be ready, commander."
"Ovidius, you and the engineers will ensure the fleet is ready to depart before midday."
"It will be done," replied a short-bearded man with a sharp gaze.
Tiberio stepped forward, unable to help himself.
"And you?" he asked, more softly. "Have you slept?"
Luciano held his gaze, and for a moment, only Tiberio could see the exhaustion behind his nephew's eyes. But that fatigue didn't seem to stop him; if anything, it seemed to drive him.
"I'll sleep once we're underway," he said, returning to the table and carefully rolling up the map. "Not before."
Then he lifted his chin.
"Relay the orders. We leave today."
The tent fell silent for a moment that felt heavy. Then, one by one, the commanders began to move, leaving for the dawn that was just starting to paint the beach in gray.
Tiberio stayed behind, watching Luciano prepare his things. An old thought, recurring and stubborn, crossed his mind: that boy wasn't born to obey a rotten Senate… he was born for others to follow him.
The Aurelian Republic had been, for generations, a proud giant sustained by ancient laws, military tradition, and a Senate that had once been a model of discipline and honor. But those times had slowly eroded, like stone under the wind.
Officially, the Republic still proclaimed itself a union of free provinces under the guidance of elected representatives. In practice, the Senate was a nest of influential families, fleeting alliances, and betrayals disguised as debate. The elderly senators, clinging to power, blocked necessary reforms, while the newer ones sought prestige through military campaigns that were rarely strategic and almost always convenient for their own faction.
The Senate was divided into two major factions:
—The Traditionalists, guardians of the old republican structure, who saw every reform as a threat to order.
—The Reformers, who pushed for military expansion and new laws to modernize the Republic, even at the cost of straining its original structure.
Neither faction sought the common good: they sought power. Intrigues, manipulated trials, secret funding of military campaigns… nothing was forbidden as long as it benefited the right faction.
In the middle of this rivalry grew the Military Patriciates, noble families who saw campaigns as a faster path to political ascension than Senate debates. Among them was the Varenius family, who, in exchange for political favors, sold their youngest daughter to one of the two royal families of the Republic as a concubine.
They called her the jewel of the Varenius. She was cultured, beautiful, disciplined, and had a sharp mind for diplomacy. But to the family patriarchs, she was nothing more than a piece. A useful sacrifice. A bridge to a Royal House whose influence was in decline, but whose blood still granted legitimacy.
Tiberio, who at the time was merely the nominal heir—a young man with no real power, ignored in family councils—could only watch as they took her away. His older sister.The only person who had never judged him for being more soldier than politician, more direct than calculating.
He protested, of course. Raised his voice in the palace halls, arguing with his father and the elders. None took him seriously. The political deals were already sealed. The ceremonial marriage was arranged in a matter of weeks, followed by the formal delivery as concubine to the younger prince of the dynasty.
Tiberio never forgot her expression when she departed: there were no tears, no pleas, no dramatics. Just a calm look, a cold acceptance of the inevitable.A life traded for influence.
Years later, when rumors emerged of a royal bastard child not listed in the official records, Tiberio needed no confirmation. He knew that the child could only be the legacy his sister left behind. He also knew the price she must have paid to keep the child alive.
So when the Senate sent the twelve-year-old boy to command a forgotten garrison—a euphemism for condemning him to die—Tiberio didn't hesitate. He swore to protect him with the same ferocity with which he couldn't protect her.
Since then, every campaign, every promotion, every improbable victory of the boy was to Tiberio a shadow of his sister's legacy. A reminder of the debt the world owed her. A debt that he, and only he, would try to repay by protecting his nephew… even if the entire Republic wanted to see him fall.
Tiberio knew: the Republic was not on the brink of collapse, but on the brink of an inevitable transformation. And Luciano, barely thirty, was already too visible a piece on the board for the old senators to ignore.
Luciano wasn't born to command. Or at least, that's what many thought when he was a child. He didn't have the imposing size of the Varenius, nor the deep voice of his uncle Tiberio. He was, instead, a quiet boy with attentive eyes who learned more by listening than by imposing.
But the war revealed what the politics of the capital could not see.