The sun had barely risen over the horizon when Wulfgar clenched his fists around the pommel of his sword. The dew still glistened on the leaves, but all he could see was red.
—Do you see that column? —he growled to one of his lieutenants—. That's them. The legion that made us retreat.
The German nodded nervously. Wulfgar had stood watch since before dawn. He hadn't slept. He hadn't spoken. Only stared into the void.
—Today we erase that shame —he spat—. Today we die if we must… but we do not step back again.
The war drums began to sound. Deep. Furious. The guttural chant of the warriors filled the forest. Some struck their shields with swords. Others howled like wolves.
But Wulfgar did not scream. He walked among his ranks like a spirit ablaze, eyes fixed on the Roman line that was now advancing—orderly, disciplined, deadly.
—Where is your Roman? —one of his men asked, half-joking.
Wulfgar answered in a hoarse voice:
—I'll see him on the field. And when I do, I'll kill him with my own hands.
Without waiting another moment, he raised his axe high above his head and gave the order:
—Forward! At them! Today we burn… or we burn them!
The Germans charged downhill with unleashed fury. A tide of spears, hides, tattoos, and hatred.
Wulfgar did not expect to survive. He sought only redemption.
And in the distance, like a beacon, stood Legio XIII.