The Alps in winter were a place of brutal, majestic indifference. The wind howled through the high passes, a mournful, hungry sound that clawed at the men's cloaks and numbed their faces. The expeditionary force, nearly two thousand strong, was a thin, dark line of men and mules struggling through a vast, white wilderness. Every step was a labor, every gust of wind a physical blow.
This was a landscape that tested the limits of Roman discipline, and it was a test that Legate Servius Galba's cohorts were passing with grim determination. They marched in perfect, ordered columns, their shields slung over their backs, their hobnailed sandals crunching in the snow with a steady, rhythmic beat. They were a microcosm of the old Rome: tough, resilient, and utterly predictable. Their contempt for their Norican allies, who marched with a wilder, less-ordered energy, had only deepened in the shared hardship of the mountains. They were an army at war with itself, a simmering pot of resentment waiting to boil over.
Gaius Maximus rode at the center of the column, a stoic, lonely figure. He was the commander of this grand, tragic lie, and the weight of it was a heavier burden than the winter cold. Beside his horse, the litter carrying his adopted son was borne by eight powerful legionaries. The boy, Lucilla's heir, was a quiet, watchful presence, his dark eyes taking in the harsh landscape. He was always surrounded by his Praetorian 'tutors,' a quartet of hard-faced killers who moved with a predatory grace, their loyalty sworn to his mother. And always near the litter walked the priest, Decianus, his gaunt frame wrapped in dark furs, his presence a constant, chilling reminder of the alien cancer that had taken root in the heart of their expedition.
High above, unseen on the snow-dusted ridges, moved the third element of this strange army: the wolves. The ten-man covert team from the Cohors Praesidium shadowed the column's every move. They were phantoms in white winter cloaks, their movements as silent as the falling snow. Their leader, an Optio named Corvus, watched the slow-moving column below through a small spyglass. His eyes were not on the enemy, but on his targets. He was a new kind of Roman soldier, an alchemical assassin, and he was waiting for his moment.
The opportunity came on the third day of the march. The column halted in a sheltered, wind-scoured valley to make camp for the night. While the legionaries efficiently and methodically set up their fortified marching camp, the priest Decianus, a man who seemed immune to the cold, wandered away from the bustle of the camp. He climbed a small, rocky outcrop that overlooked the valley, a secluded spot to perform whatever silent rites his dark faith demanded.
Corvus, who had been anticipating such a moment, gave a silent hand signal. Two of his men, their movements fluid and practiced, unslung the long, thin blowpipes from their backs. They were beautiful, deadly instruments, crafted by Celer's artisans from polished ebony and tipped with silver. They loaded small, feathered darts, their needle-like tips coated in a viscous, violet-hued paste—a mild, non-lethal dose of the Emperor's new suppressant.
"The range is extreme," Corvus whispered, the wind whipping his words away. "Wait for the lull in the wind. Aim for the neck. We need the dose to enter the bloodstream quickly."
His men nodded, their faces grim. This was not like shooting a crossbow at a barbarian. This was something else entirely. This was an injection of unknown magic into a human target.
They waited. The wind howled, then momentarily died down. In the sudden quiet, one of the men raised his blowpipe, took a deep breath, and puffed his cheeks. There was a soft, almost inaudible thwip. The tiny dart sailed through the frigid air in a silent, perfect arc.
Down below, Decianus, who had been standing with his eyes closed, facing the setting sun, suddenly flinched. He reached up and touched his neck, his fingers coming away with the small, feathered dart. He looked at it with a flicker of confusion, as if a strange insect had bitten him. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, his eyes rolled back in his head. A low groan escaped his lips, and his body was seized by a violent, shuddering convulsion. He collapsed onto the snow-covered rocks, his limbs twitching, a thin line of foam appearing at the corner of his mouth.
The test had begun. The alchemical agent was at war with whatever alien influence held the priest's mind in thrall.
The priest's collapse did not go unnoticed. Two of the Praetorian 'tutors,' who were never far from him, saw him fall and rushed to his side. They found him unconscious, his breathing shallow, his pulse thready. They carried him back to the camp, their faces a mixture of confusion and suspicion.
By the time they reached the main camp, Decianus's convulsions had stopped. He was pale and weak, but he was alive, and, to all outward appearances, unharmed. When he regained consciousness, he claimed to have had a sudden, dizzy spell, brought on by the thin mountain air. Maximus, feigning concern, ordered the expedition's medic to look after him. The incident was dismissed, but a new seed of unease had been planted.
The next day, they marched deeper into the valley system that Lyra had identified, the place where the fictional "supply nexus" was supposed to be. They found nothing. No Silenti warriors, no storehouses, no sign of the enemy at all. The valley was pristine, empty, and silent.
Legate Galba, his suspicion and resentment having simmered for the entire journey, finally reached his breaking point. He reined in his horse and rode to confront Maximus, his face a mask of thunderous fury.
"What is the meaning of this, Governor?" he boomed, his voice echoing in the unnervingly quiet valley. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword. "We have marched for days, risking my men in these cursed mountains on your Emperor's intelligence. You promised us a target! An enemy! This valley is empty! Where is this nexus? You have led us into a trap!"
Just as Galba drew his sword, his accusation hanging in the frigid air, a new sound began. It was not a war horn or a battle cry. It was a low, resonant humming, a sound that seemed to come not from any single direction, but from the very rocks and earth all around them. It was a sound of immense, awakening power. The ground beneath their feet began to vibrate.
It was the sound of multiple psychic amplifiers, hidden within the valley walls, being activated at once. The entire valley was the trap.
Then, from the high ridges on all sides, from every slope and every pass, they appeared. They did not charge with wild cries. They simply rose from the snow, a thousand silent figures, then two thousand, then more, their dark armor a stark contrast to the white landscape. It was not a small garrison. It was a legion of the Silenti, a disciplined, silent army that had been waiting for them.
Galba stared, his face draining of all color, his anger forgotten, replaced by the sheer, uncomprehending horror of a perfectly executed ambush.
At the same time, the priest, Decianus, who had been recovering in a litter, sat up. He looked at the unfolding chaos, at the thousands of Silenti warriors pouring down into the valley to encircle and annihilate the Roman force. He looked at the terrified faces of the legionaries. And a slow, cold, utterly alien smile spread across his face. The suppressant had not cured him. It had not broken his connection to the Silence. It seemed to have done something else entirely. He looked at the unfolding massacre not as a victim, but as a spectator, a priest watching his god's terrible, beautiful work begin.
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