The night had a way of whispering in the palace.
It wasn't just the wind through the high windows or the faint creak of beams that had been standing for generations. It was subtler than that — the slow shuffle of air under the doors, the hushed hiss of an oil lamp somewhere far off, the occasional soft knock of wood as the cooling walls shifted. It was the kind of whisper that could pull thoughts out of your head and scatter them into shadows.
I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, the patterns in the wood fading in and out of focus as my mind replayed the evening. Sabara's voice still echoed in my ears, low and deliberate as he spoke of the Romans. He had not spoken of them like one speaks of a faraway people you might never meet. He spoke like a man who had seen a predator in the wild — tall, pale, intelligent, dangerous. And there was that undertone… not fear exactly, but the sharp respect you give only to something you know can kill you.
That feeling had taken root in me the moment he said the word Romans.
I rolled onto my side and stared at the door. The guards' steps outside came at steady intervals — tak… tak… tak — and then faded, only to return again after a predictable pause. They moved like clockwork, which was good for me, because I was about to be where I had no business being.
Father's private library.
It was not forbidden to me in a way that carried punishments. No one had ever said, "You must not go there." But that was almost worse. The place carried its own kind of unspoken authority — the weight of generations, of knowledge collected at a price in gold, blood, and time. It was a place where you walked with purpose, in daylight, under Father's gaze… not barefoot in the dark, in the middle of the night.
But Sabara's words had lit something inside me, and I couldn't put it out. I needed to know.
I swung my legs over the bed, my feet sinking into the cool woven mat. The air was thick with the faint scent of burnt oil and the cooler bite of night air that crept in through the high shutters. I slipped to the door, waited for the last tak… tak… tak of the guard's passing, then opened it just enough to slide into the corridor.
The moonlight caught the polished floor in a long silver stripe. The rest of the hall lay in shadow, the tall pillars black against the dim glow of oil lamps mounted high along the walls. My steps were silent, my breath slow. I had learned how to move like this in the training yards, sneaking up on other boys during games we played — games that had rules and safety. But here, the only rule was not to get caught.
The library doors loomed ahead — thick teak, carved with curling vines and flowers that glowed faintly in the lamplight. I had seen them a hundred times in the day, but at night they looked heavier, like they knew I shouldn't be here.
I pressed my palm to the cool wood and pushed. The hinges gave a slow, reluctant groan, the kind that made you wince and wait to see if anyone had heard. No shouts came. I slipped inside.
The smell hit me first — old paper, polished wood, the faint bitterness of leather, and something deeper… the scent of age itself. It was the smell of a place that remembered more than any living man.
Tall shelves rose like cliffs, stretching higher than I could reach even if I climbed. Scrolls lay in neat bundles bound with silk, books stacked in precise rows, some wrapped in cloth to protect them. The lamps inside burned lower than those in the halls, leaving pools of golden light that faded into thick shadows between the shelves.
I walked slowly, running my fingers along the spines, feeling the different textures — smooth lacquered wood, soft leather worn to silkiness, rough cloth. Titles stared back at me in Sanskrit, Prakrit, Greek, and other scripts I couldn't place.
And then I saw it.
A book half-hidden between two plain ledgers, its cover so dark it was almost black, though faint traces of gold curled across it in strange, looping symbols. It didn't look like the others — it felt older, heavier, as if even the air around it was still.
I pulled it free. Dust swirled in the lamplight. It was heavier than it looked, the kind of weight that made you adjust your grip without thinking.
I carried it to a low reading table, set it down, and eased it open.
The first page took my breath for a moment. A map, drawn in faded inks, showed lands far to the west — strange coastlines, mountain ranges I'd never seen, rivers that curved like serpents. Text wound around the map in neat lines, and beneath it, illustrations of men unlike any I had seen.
"The Romans," the first line read, "stand taller than the men of any other empire. Their frames are broad and their presence commands the eyes of friend and foe alike."
The drawings were precise — soldiers lined in perfect formation, their armor reflecting light as though each piece had been polished by the same hand. They made me think of the soldiers I'd seen from the southern kingdoms, proud and well-armed, but always a little varied — one man's sword slightly longer, another's armor patched differently. The Romans in these pages were uniform, identical in their perfection, as if carved from the same block of stone.
"Their skin is pale as unbaked clay, their eyes sharp and cold. In the heat of the sun or the chill of winter, their bearing does not falter."
I had seen pale men before — traders from faraway lands, mercenaries who drifted in and out of our ports. But there was something in the way this book described them that felt different. This wasn't the soft pale of a merchant's hands. This was something… harder. Like their very color carried a warning: we are not like you.
The next section made me lean closer.
"Masters of the blade and of the empty hand, the Romans are versed in a thousand ways to end a man's life. Their martial skill is not limited to weapons — a Roman can twist an arm until it breaks, crush a throat with the heel of his hand, or throw a foe to the ground with the swiftness of an eagle taking prey."
I felt my pulse quicken. I thought of the wrestling pits I'd seen in the north, of warriors from the mountains who could throw a man twice their size. I thought of Father's swordsmen, fast and deadly with curved steel but untrained in fighting barehanded. The Romans, it seemed, could kill with anything — or with nothing at all.
And then came the swords.
The drawings were beautiful — short, broad blades that looked nothing like our own. Ours were curved, meant for slicing through flesh and bone in great sweeping arcs. The Roman blades were straight, heavy at the center, built for thrusting and cutting alike. The book spoke of them as if they were living things.
"They wield the sword as a potter shapes clay — with control, patience, and deadly artistry. Every movement is measured, every strike is planned before it is made. In their hands, the sword is not a weapon. It is the final word in an argument."
I almost laughed at the phrasing — the final word. But there was nothing humorous in the image it painted. A man who spoke only with steel, whose sentences ended in blood.
The text shifted then, speaking of the mind.
"A Roman soldier fights with his mind as much as his body. Each is trained to think as a general — to see the field, to understand the enemy's mind, and to act not with blind rage, but with cold calculation."
That chilled me more than anything else so far. I had fought alongside men who were brave, strong, and loyal — but most thought only of the fight in front of them, not the one that was coming next. A soldier who could think like a general… that was an army in himself.
And then… I reached it.
A section with no illustrations, only words. Heavy words.
"The Romans are not born warriors — they are made into them. From the moment a child can stand, he is given the weight of a wooden sword. From the moment he can run, he is made to run until his legs scream for rest. Hunger, pain, and cold are his earliest companions, and he learns to bear them without complaint. To be Roman is to be shaped in the forge from the first breath of life."
I read it again. And again.
Images rose in my mind — boys barely older than toddlers gripping swords almost as big as themselves, their small faces already hard with discipline. No games, no festivals, no softness. Their childhood stripped away and replaced with iron.
"The art of war is their alphabet," the page continued, "and each lesson is beaten into memory with the rhythm of marching feet."
I thought of the young warriors in my father's guard, men who had started their training in their teenage years. I thought of the mercenaries from the deserts who had boasted of learning the spear at twelve, the horse at fifteen. Against a man who had been drilled since his first breath? They would be children still.
I sat back, the flame in the lamp swaying slightly, casting the words into moving shadow. I felt… unsettled. Threatened. Awed. And — though I hated to admit it — I felt something else too.
Possibility.
An army shaped from childhood… what could it do? What kingdom could stand against it?
The thought was dangerous, and I knew it. But it clung to me all the same, like a spark landing in dry grass.
I closed the book slowly, my hand lingering on the cover. For a moment, I wanted to take it — to hide it in my room and study it every night until I knew every word. But something about the way it sat between those two ledgers made me think it had been put there deliberately, as though waiting for someone… or hiding from them.
I slid it back into its place.
The lamps were almost out by the time I left, the corridors darker now, the air cooler. I walked in silence, my mind still marching to the rhythm the book had given me.
Children of Iron.
That was what they were.
And now… I knew.
(Continued in Chapter 16)