The voice of the Princep did not so much echo within the temple barracks as it did unmake the silence, replacing it with a resonance that felt older than the stone itself.
"Our path shall forever be painted in crimson, no matter the route or destination."
I stood at attention, the words settling on my shoulders like a physical weight. Crimson. The word was a brand. It was the rust-brown stain on a veteran's gauntlet, the slick sheen on the cobbles after a street-clearing, the fading hue of the banner they'd draped over my first commander's pyre. Around me, the new recruits—their faces still soft with the fat of youth—listened with wide, uncomprehending eyes. They heard a promise. I heard an epitaph.
"Crimson as the toll our brothers and sisters have paid—and will pay. Crimson as the fields of our enemies will be when our trail carves through them."
My gaze drifted to a veteran across the aisle, a grizzled Subcenturion with a network of scars where his left ear should be. He caught my eye and gave a slow, deliberate nod. It was not a gesture of pride, but of grim confirmation. This is the truth of it, that nod said. There is no other way.
"Crimson as the Sun on the day the Empire shattered in twain, when our course was set, and every other path became a fleeting dream from which we barely stirred awake."
The Princep's voice fell away, leaving a vacuum that was instantly filled by a single, unified shout. "Glory to the Empire! Ave Sorores Noctis et Sol!" A hundred armored hands chimed like cracked bells as they slammed into chests in the three-fingered salute. The air grew thick with the heat of their fervor.
In the wake of the ceremony, as the white-hot excitement began to cool into the hard steel of purpose, the Subcenturions began barking orders, forming their new charges into ragged lines. The crowd parted, and the Princep departed, swallowed by a seamless cohort of white-hooded guards who shielded her not just from the crowd, but from the scattered light trespassing through the temple windows. Her presence was a rarity, a sign of how desperately the war's first months had drained our morale.
"Praefectus Cassius!"
The voice, young and commanding, cut through the din. Felix—Legatus Varian now, I had to remind myself—shouldered his way toward me, his eagerness a stark contrast to the weary atmosphere.
"Legatus Varian," I said, my voice flat with the exhaustion of ceremony. "What a pleasure to have you here today." The formality felt like ash in my mouth. "Are you assigned to my Legio for this campaign?"
The answer was written in the eager set of his shoulders. "That's true, Praefectus. I was assigned to your Legio as your Minor. It's an honor to be under your command again—"
"Calm down, Felix," I said, the ghost of a smile touching my lips. "I'm glad to see you. But the time isn't for reunions. Gather the men. We'll have plenty of time to talk when we're on the move."
"Of course, Sir. Sorry, Sir." He snapped a salute, the motion almost violent in its precision, and spun on his heel.
I watched him go, my young friend, now barking orders at a cluster of soldiers struggling to find cohesion. So many young faces. Some joked and bantered, their bravado a thin shield. Others stood pale and silent, their fear a more honest response. It seemed with each new campaign, the legions grew younger. My own promotion to Praefectus Cohortis was less an honor and more a arithmetic inevitability—a result of the brutal calculus of the last few cycles. I was a remainder, left behind after too many subtractions.
As I moved through the temple's packed halls, the flickering light through stained glass cast fractured patterns across the confusion. For most here, this was their first true campaign. We had all been blooded, of course, in the small, brutal conflicts that maintained the Empire's peace. But this was different. This was a war of schism, of treachery from within. The thought of it was a cold stone in my gut. Those who had poisoned the hearts of our own, who had dragged them onto the path of our sword and wrath—they would learn the cost of their heresy. Our numbers, our resolve, would be the holy weapon that scoured them clean.
Finally, I reached the relative quiet of the second-floor barracks and the sanctuary of my quarters. The room was as I'd left it: the familiar scent of sweet incense smoldering on my prayer shrine, the faint embers in the wall braziers casting long, dancing shadows. It was a monk's cell, really. A place for a weapon to be stored.
I walked to my dark wooden desk, unlocked the drawers with a small key from my belt, and retrieved the few personal items I would not leave behind. My hard-leather journal. A pouch of sigils and incense. And finally, my golden ring claw.
I held it up, the intricate circle of prayers and purpose catching the brazier's glow. For a moment, I was somewhere else, someone else. Then I slipped it into my tunic pocket, the metal cool against my palm.
A sharp knock echoed from the door.
Before I could turn, the reflected light of white-scaled robes danced in my periphery. My stomach tightened. A hundred possibilities flashed through my mind, all of them dire.
Her gaze locked me in place—those ever-shifting, swirling pools of violet that seemed to drink the very light from the room.
"Praefectus Cassius, I presume?" Her voice was melodic, unnervingly calm.
I straightened, my spine rigid. "At your command, Keeper of the Holy Word."
"May I enter?"
Embarrassment, hot and sudden, flushed through me. "Of course, your Radiance. Please, forgive the state of my quarters. I wasn't expecting visitors."
"There is no need for forgiveness, my dear paladin." She stepped inside, and the heavy door swung shut behind her as if of its own accord. As she moved, the near-dead braziers flared, their light stretching and contorting the shadows on the stone walls. The scent of incense grew sharper, richer, until it was almost suffocating.
Her otherworldly eyes scanned the room with an unnerving, predatory intensity—the scattered papers on my desk, the worn books, the armor stand, the humble linens on my cot. It was as if she were absorbing every secret the room held. When her gaze finally returned to me, it was with the force of a physical blow.
Hesitantly, I asked, "What is the reason for the honor you bestow upon me with your presence at this hour, Honored One?"
She studied me in a silence that stretched too long. "You are called to lead the Second Legio on this campaign, are you not?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Have you led with priests under your command before, Praefectus?"
The question was a trap. She knew the answer. Of course I had. "Both in training and in active theaters, Honored One. I've led many of them with great success."
"Good." The word was a sigh, carrying a fleeting, almost imperceptible sadness. "Then I trust you are aware of the risks their presence poses to the rest of your men?"
A half-smile played on her lips. In the dim light, one of her sharp, white fangs gleamed like polished bone.
I chose my words with care. "Only through the texts, Honored One. I've been fortunate enough never to witness an incident firsthand."
"Very good." Her words were heavier now, laden with unspoken warnings. "Nevertheless, Praefectus, I suggest caution. You must understand the state of our latest additions to the Legios. They are... fresh, you might say." She made a graceful, dismissive gesture, the rings on her pale fingers catching the firelight.
"Of course, Honored One. Without question. I only hope the time never comes for them to engage with the enemy."
Her smile vanished. Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, it will come, Praefectus."
The certainty in her voice was a punch to the gut. "Is the fighting this severe at the front?" I asked, the question escaping before I could cage it.
"Are you familiar with the process of bread-making, Praefectus?" Her voice was serene, a bizarre contrast to the tension coiling in the room.
"Am I familiar with what?"
"Baking, my dear paladin. It's not that uncommon, I believe." A thread of irony wove through her tone. "You see, Praefectus, right now, our beloved disciples are like loaves of crackling spelt bread—but their bakers have chosen to pull them from their tempering fires a touch too soon."
Her swirling, bottomless gaze held me. "So, you see, our precious loaves are on the verge of collapsing under their own undercooked weight."
The metaphor was absurd and terrifying. I struggled to keep my face neutral. "I believe I understand, Honored One."
"Good, very, very good." Her voice lightened, becoming almost cheerful. "Then I suppose you'll keep watch for half-baked goods."
With a playful lilt, she turned her back to me. Before I could muster a response or ask for a blessing, the door to my chambers burst open, flooding the room with the clamor of the barracks. She paused at the threshold, half-turning her head. Her eyes glinted like distant, violet stars.
"I hope you know how to use that little claw of yours, my sweet paladin."
Then she was gone, swallowed by the dim corridor, leaving only the scent of incense and unease in her wake.
I stood rooted for a long moment, my gut tight, my throat dry. The braziers had calmed, their flames once again faint and steady. My hand rose instinctively, fingers tracing the outline of the ring through the fabric of my tunic.
"Will I need to make use of it?" I whispered to the empty room.
The silence offered no comfort. Shaking off the lingering disquiet, I finished my preparations and stepped out into the controlled chaos of the legion assembling for war.