The brazier burned low, casting long fingers of light across the canvas walls of the Emperor's tent.
Outside, the murmurs of the camp were hushed, punctuated only by the distant clang of a smith's hammer and the dull, steady thud of spades striking earth.
Inside, Julius sat motionless at the war table.
The parchment lay before him, a single strip of inked words, unrolled and weighted by a dagger so the breeze would not steal it.
He had read it thrice, yet the words refused to change.
The Concordat was broken.
An oath sworn in the ashes of the Old Empire.
An agreement not of kings only, but of peoples — a vow that war would remain war, not descend into the slaughter of innocents and the knives of assassins.
For over a thousand years, it had held.
The fear that if even one was to break it everyone else would to.
Even in the bloodiest border skirmishes, there had been restraint.
Even in defeat, mercy.
Now Francia had shattered it.
Poisoned wells.
