As the Sisters faded from the darkened sky and the Lifegiver began his ascent, I stirred from my rest. The oilskin of my tent kept out the early spring chill, but a thin slit in the entrance allowed the first golden rays to slip inside. For a breath, the warmth was almost pleasant, a fleeting temptation to ease. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and then straightened, pushing the comfort away.
I rose, the familiar pop of stiff joints accompanying my movement. No matter how many times I had slept on the ground, it never became easier. At least winter was retreating, and the prospect of a full night's rest was becoming slightly less elusive.
My fingers traced over the cold black steel of my cuirass, following the raised gold inlays that swirled like frozen fire. I had worn this armor countless times before, yet each morning before battle, fastening it felt like a ritual—a moment of quiet before stepping into the storm. I slid it over my tunic, the familiar weight settling against my chest like a second skin. The pauldrons came next, their gilded edges catching the morning light. Layer upon layer of metal, shaped to deflect and endure. As I fastened them, I flexed my shoulders, testing my range of motion—fluid, unrestricted. Good.
The belt followed, its ornate engravings pressing into my waist. From it hung the faulds, their lacquered black plates shifting as they settled over my legs. My hands found the gauntlets, fingers sliding into the cool embrace of metal and leather. The fit was perfect, as always. Finally, I reached for the cloak. Heavy, black as midnight, its golden trim whispering against the ground as I swept it over my shoulders. It carried the weight of rank, of every battle I had fought and every one I had yet to face.
I paused before my hastily made shrine. The faint scent of incense lingered, mingling with the earthy aroma of the tent's oilskin. I grabbed my wooden cup and pulled the stopper from the wineskin. The rich, ruby liquid glinted in the dim light as I poured a small offering.
Holding it aloft, I whispered my prayer: "I pray to you, dear Father Sun, and offer to you, dear Sisters of Night. May this wine be the only sacrifice your servants must make this day. May it suffice. Ave Sorores Noctis et Sol."
I placed the half-filled cup on the shrine, the wine catching the faint glow of the burning incense. I checked the sticks, their embers still smoldering, and added a pinch of fresh resin to ensure they would burn throughout my absence. The fragrant smoke curled upward, carrying my prayer to the heavens.
At last, my palm found my sword. The moment my hand closed around the hilt, a familiar calm settled over me. Its weight was reassuring, as if a missing piece of myself had been restored. I fastened the scabbard to my belt and pushed aside the tent flap.
Morning light washed over me, warm and golden, as the camp stirred to life.
"Good morning, Praefectus!" Felix's voice rang out as he stepped briskly from his tent, which stood near mine.
"Good morning, Legatus Varian," I replied, closing the distance between us. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long behind that canvas flap, Felix," I added in a low, teasing whisper.
A flush crept up his neck. "Praefectus, I just got up and made haste when I heard you."
My gaze fell on his immaculately polished armor and perfectly arranged garments. Any urge to apologize vanished. Some habits died hard. "I know, my friend. I'm joking. Ready for the morning rounds?"
"Of course, sir!" he declared, squaring his shoulders as if good posture could mask the color on his cheeks.
"On our way, then." I gestured for him to follow.
We took the sand-paved road out of the encampment's center. The smell of damp branches struggling against the fire stung my eyes, but it was a welcome sign—the troops had begun their early preparations. Seeing them awake and readying themselves eased the tension knotting in my stomach, if only slightly.
The clatter of pots and pans, mingled with faint yawns and murmured conversations, filled the crisp air. Groups of soldiers stirred from their tents, some gathered around crates, sharing quiet greetings over steaming rations. As we walked toward the eastern gate, our passing was met with nods and brief exchanges. In these fleeting interactions—among strangers bound by duty—there was an unspoken sense of belonging. A fragile, fleeting peace.
As we neared the gate, I saw horses steaming in the morning chill, straining to haul the massive Amplifiers into position. A group of four accompanying Hierophants, followed by their own retinue of white-robed Priests, stood evenly spaced around them, chanting prayers and blessings to invoke the will of the Lifegiver.
The crunch of hurried boots on sand reached me before the voice did.
"Praefectus Cassius!" A ranger came striding toward us from the east road, dust caked to his greaves, his breath sharp from a long run.
I turned as he stopped before us, offering a salute. "Report."
"Sir," he began, voice taut, "we've scouted the outer walls as ordered. The enemy's mounted… something. Amplifiers, probably, but smaller. Crude. They've set them in rows across the battlements."
I felt Felix shift beside me, interest catching in his voice. "Amplifiers? How many?"
"At least a dozen sir," the ranger replied.
He hesitated. "Sir… the ones manning them… they looked small. Too small. Like children, maybe. Or… something close enough that you'd swear it from a distance."
The words landed like a physical blow. Children. The image formed, unwelcome and stark: tiny figures hunched beside weapons too big for their shoulders.
I kept my voice even under a mask of command. "You're certain of this, praevitor?"
"Yes, Praefectus. Helmets too large for their heads. Movements… thin. Light. Not grown men."
The wind carried a faint chill, rattling the banners overhead. "Very well," I said, my voice firm. "Get food, water, then some rest."
As the ranger departed, I stared at the distant walls. "Felix," I said quietly. "We break those defenses cleanly. No wasted volleys." I met his gaze, letting the edge in my voice show. "And no more blood than we must."
He nodded, though his jaw was tight.
The order was given. The camp, a stirred hive, coalesced into a weapon. Within the hour, light blazed across the walls of Lapurum as we fell into formation six hundred paces from the gates, the Lifegiver ruling the sky above.
The battle plan was simple yet elegant: a spearhead formation led by a Hierophant and his priests would strike the central iron gate, while the rest of our forces advanced to support. Infantry and archers flanked them, ready to intercept any defenders. Three other Hierophants were positioned to our left, right, and rear—a show of overwhelming force meant to make the enemy reconsider their stance.
I commanded the forces at the far end, finally taking in the full spread of the walls and our army. We stood atop a small hill, ready to deploy the cavalry if needed. Hundreds of spears, shields, and helmets caught the sunlight, glinting like stars aligned on the earth, poised to strike.
"Everyone has fallen into place, Praefectus," said Felix, reins tight in his hands. Sweat gleamed on his brow, his voice rising slightly under the weight of anticipation. "Shall I send for the Herald?"
"I think it's time for our final warning, Felix," I said, allowing a faint curve of my lips. I turned to survey the small patch of land separating us from the walls. "But I want you to bring him to me before he is deployed."
I saw his brow furrow, the question forming on his lips, but I cut him off. "If you can't tell why I want to talk to him first, you'll have to wait until you get him here."
That was enough. He pulled in the reins and spurred his mount, leaving a small trail of upturned grass and earth in his wake.
Left alone, I studied the enemy's positions. We had been informed of small amplifiers, but now I could make them out clearly. At least a dozen were spread across the battlements: four on each side of the gates, another eight lined up neatly, side by side.
They looked crude—black, coarse metal tubes, apparently without inscriptions or any sign of clergy nearby. The only movement came from small, dark-clothed figures, moving in sync from one amplifier to the next, like worker ants adjusting their nest before a storm.
They were indeed not adult-sized. The few that wore armor carried oversized helmets that slipped awkwardly on their heads. But it was their movement that made me uneasy—precise, calculated. Their strict, disciplined routine was unusual, too methodical for their size. How—and why—would they be trained like this? We were only a few precious moments from finding out.
The banner bobbing up and down signaled the return of Felix, accompanied by the herald carrying it. The young lad, though clearly flustered by the pace he had to keep, held himself with respectful poise. He couldn't have been more than twenty, with sharp features half-hidden beneath a mop of dark hair. Without letting the banner touch the ground, he slammed his right hand over his chest in salute.
"You asked for me, Praefectus," he said, struggling to steady his breathing.
"Indeed I did," I replied, giving him a moment to recover. "And your name, Herald?"
"Lucan, sir. Lucan Varro," he answered quickly, voice carrying a note of pride beneath the nerves.
I nodded once. "Very well, Lucan. I want to ask you for something outside your usual responsibilities."
Felix jerked his head, puzzled.
"To be frank, Praefectus, this is my first deployment as Herald. Ask me for anything you need, and it will be done," Lucan said, honor and anxiety both in his tone.
"I just want you to come to me straight after your task is complete and tell me what you saw on the walls. Nothing more."
Immediately, his shoulders dropped slightly, the tension of my unknown request giving way to an easy-sounding task. Meanwhile, the puzzlement left Felix's face. He met my gaze, eyes showing a quiet understanding.
The herald saluted both of us once more and made his way down the small hill, the iridescent banner fracturing the light, its hues shifting as it pulsed in the air.
"And now we wait," I said to Felix, my gaze fixed on the movements atop the walls.
"What if the praevitor was wrong?" he asked sheepishly, eyes trying to follow my survey.
"I want to be sure our might strikes those who deserve it," I replied, watching the little "worker ants" scuttle across the battlements.