Aetherian Empire - Capital Aethas - 19th Day of the Seventh Month, Year 7 of the Augustus III Era
The heavy wooden cup gave off a scent of oak and damp earth. I spun it with my fingertips, the motion a fragile mask for the tension coiling in my gut. "Gods, they're worse than I feared. The auxiliaries I served with could at least hold a line. This lot? A small pay for a third of the legion's quality. A fool's bargain."
I took a deliberate gulp of the honeyed wine, letting its sweetness drown the bitter taste of my anxiety. Below, the training yard was a symphony of chaos. Soldiers stumbled over their own feet, their formations dissolving as quickly as they formed. Officers screamed conflicting orders.
- HOLD THE LINE!
- PUSH FORWARD!
The result was a cacophony of grunts and the pointless clatter of wooden swords. A cloud of dust rose around them, shrouding men who looked the part in their dark blue gambesons and crested Corinthian helms, but fought with the discipline of a barroom brawl.
I let out a sigh, the weight of the reality settling on my shoulders. Sixteen of these men weren't legionaries; they were laborers who knew which end of a spear to hold. The remaining four were barely competent soldiers, hired for a sliver of leadership. They were a testament to my frugality, not my command.
The wine's warmth did little to cleanse the sight. I glanced at my father. Marco's jaw was clenched so tight I thought I could hear his teeth grinding, his brow furrowed into a permanent scowl of disdain. This was my chance, my only chance, to step out of his shadow and forge my own name. I couldn't let him see my doubt.
I cleared my throat.- At least they are well-armed. The journey will be their real training. By the time we reach Dawn Castle, they'll be a functional squad.
Marco's face twisted as if he'd bitten pile of salt. He slammed his cup on the table, the impact making me flinch. - Tch. A joke. You waste good steel on gutter-scrap. This gear on my veterans would win battles. On this rabble? It'll be in a ditch before the Strigum border. He leaned forward,his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl.
- Do you have any idea what I sacrificed to get the Crimson Court to even consider our trade proposal? The Strigum branch could be worth half our Imperial business. And you would protect it with... this?
His words were a physical blow. They were imposing statues in fine armor, but their performance was a disaster. My mind raced, scrambling for a foothold. - They will improve. Discipline comes with miles. And we need to look the part. Who would contract a mercenary band that looks like beggars? Trust me, they will make the right impression at Dawn Castle.
Marco spat on the ground, the gesture thick with contempt. - Hah! If they don't die along the way.
- Replacing men is cheaper and faster than replacing that armor, - I retorted, the words coming out harsher than I intended. - We'll recruit on the road. The goal is a full Centuria at destination. We have eighty more sets in the wagons. We will arrive as a force to be reckoned with.
Marco's expression didn't soften. It became cold, calculating.
- Prove it, then. You showed promise in the legions. The only man in your cohort to reach the Third Tier. I saw a glimmer of genius. - His eyes swept over the training yard. - I don't see it now.
He tossed a papyrus scroll onto my lap. The action was dismissive, final.
- A mission for the Scorpion Band. There's a goblin infestation between here and Bethlehem. A chance for your 'soldiers' to bleed a little, for you to earn some coin, and maybe... maybe... find a recruit with actual spine. Five coppers a head. The camp organizer is an old friend. Don't embarrass me.
He stood, his chair scraping back like a judge's gavel. His heavy footsteps echoed as he walked away, but he paused at the villa door, not bothering to look back. His final words hung in the air, a cold threat.
- Son. Do not disappoint me.
My fists clenched, the papyrus crinkling in my grip. I had failed to convince him with words. So be it. I would prove it with action, with results.
- I will not... - I whispered to the empty space he left behind. - I will not.
---
This is excellent work. You've integrated the previous feedback masterfully, adding a much stronger, more visceral voice to Lucius and sharpening the conflict. The line about his father - "They will live all the way, you bastard!" - is a fantastic injection of raw, personal emotion.
The gate of the villa closed behind us with a final, thunderous boom, the sound a death knell for my comfort. The ragged column of twenty men and two wagons stretched out along the Imperial road, a pale worm against the vast, green expanse of the countryside. My command.
For the first hour, the only sounds were the crunch of gravel under boot, the creak of wagon wheels, and the labored breathing of men already struggling under their pristine armor. The discipline I'd hoped for was a phantom, a childish desire. Shields banged against greaves, and the four veteran legionaries I had tasked as section leaders barked constant, frustrated corrections.
- Keep the line!
- Watch your spacing, you oaf!
The tension was a physical presence, thick enough to taste. I rode at the head, my back straight, feeling the weight of every misstep as if it were my own. "This is what you fought for, Lucius. A nursemaid to children playing soldiers."
Then it happened, as if the heavens had no mercy on my petty soul. A sharp cry, followed by a curse and the screech of wood. I turned in my saddle to see one of the wagons listing heavily, its front wheel lodged in a deep rut. The soldiers around it milled in confusion, one man nearly impaling his comrade with his spear as he turned to gawk.
- Gods above, - I muttered, dismounting. This was the test. Not against goblins, but against the road itself.
I didn't shout. I pushed through the crowd, my voice low and sharp. - You, you, and you. Help removing the cargo. The rest of you, form a line to lift the side. Now! Are you waiting for bandits to invite us to tea?
My sudden, quiet intensity cut through the panic. They scrambled to obey, heaving the wagon free with a collective grunt. The incident was minor, but it left a cold clarity in its wake. They were green, and this world was not. I made a note to drill them on marching formations at the next stop. We were a target, and my father's doubt was a ghost riding on my shoulder, his spat and his phrase repeating in my head, so i cursed in my mind: "They will survive all the way, you bastard!"
---
The mercenary camp was less a military installation and more a small, armed village that had erupted from the earth. Tents of stained canvas and leather dotted the field, surrounded by a hastily dug ditch and a low palisade of sharpened stakes. The air was thick with the smells of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and unwashed men. The sounds were a constant din, the clang of a smith's hammer, drunken laughter, and the lowing of oxen.
My men drew stares the moment we passed the sentry. Their fine armor and fresh-faced nervousness marked them as outsiders, prey among predators. I felt their formation tighten instinctively behind me.
- Keep your chins up and your hands off your hilts, - I ordered, my voice carrying just far enough. - Look like you belong here, and you will.
We found the command tent by the banner flying above it, the Imperial eagle snapping in the wind, and beneath it, the numeral XIV. I left my second-in-command to see to the men and ducked inside.
The interior was hazy with smoke from a brazier. A man in full plate armor stood over a large table strewn with maps, his presence dominating the space. His face was a roadmap of old battles, a scar cutting through his brow and down a weathered cheek. His helmet rested on a stool, a closed helm with a blood-red crest and the number XIV etched into the brow. The Centurion.
He didn't look up as I entered, his finger tracing a path on the map.
-...five hundred goblins.We have one hundred and fifty men. A direct assault on their palisade is suicide. So, we hunt. Tomorrow, we clear their patrols. Small groups will flank through the woods, while the main body advances up the center road. We converge and secure this hill, here, by sunset. - He tapped the map decisively.
- Once we have the high ground, we siege. They're fortified against the land, but the lake at their rear is their weakness. We build rafts, cross under cover of darkness, and hit them where they're soft. Your groups will be credited for kills during the hunt; the final assault's bounty is shared.
The other mercenary leaders—a motley crew of grizzled veterans and scarred brutes—grunted their understanding. When he finished his summary, they filed out with curt nods, their business concluded.
Only then did he lift his head. His eyes, the color of flint, found me. They didn't just look; they assessed, calculated, stripping away the fine armor to the man beneath.
- You must be Lucius Scipio, I am Theo Armanii Centurion of the Fourteen Legion - he said. His voice was gravelly, devoid of warmth. He walked around the table, his gaze sweeping over me from head to toe, pausing on the polished hilt of my sword, the way I held myself. A dry, humorless chuckle escaped his lips. - Presumptuous. Just as your father said. He warned me you'd show up looking like a parade-ground fop. I'm putting you on the left flank. Try not to get your pretty boys lost in the woods.
My spine stiffened. I could feel the heat rising in my neck. - My father enjoys his stories. I don't presume. I deliver.
- Is that so? - He walked to a barrel, filling two wooden cups with cheap, sour-looking wine. - The vigor of youth. You all think you can will the world to bend. You've led boys on a march. Can you lead them in a butcher's yard? - He held out a cup, not in friendship, but as a challenge. - Your little 'Moon Band' has the finest gear in this camp and the least experience. That makes you a liability. The others will watch you. They'll hope you break, so they can pick your carcass clean for that shiny armor.
I took the cup, my grip tight. This wasn't a briefing; it was a warning shot.
- We will earn our keep.
- See that you do. - He raised his own cup, his flinty eyes locked on mine. - Tomorrow, we'll see what you're made of.
I met his gaze, refusing to blink. - Ave Imperium Aeternum.
The ghost of a smile touched his lips. - Ave Imperium Aeternum.
I drained the cup, the vinegar-wine burning its way down. It was a taste of the reality I now faced. The plan was set. The enemy was waiting. And my command was balanced on a knife's edge.
---
The vinegar-wine sat heavy in my stomach, a knot of cold dread. Theo's words were a poison I couldn't purge. A liability. A target. He was right. In the eyes of this camp, we were a prize to be plundered, not allies to be trusted.
I found my men where I'd left them, a tight, nervous knot on the periphery of the camp. They'd set up our two wagons in a defensive V, a pathetic imitation of a legionary castra, but it was something. A few were already rubbing sore muscles, their faces etched with the day's exhaustion and humiliation.
- Gather around - I said, my voice cutting through the evening chill. They shuffled forward, their eyes wide and uncertain. I retrieved a skin of decent wine from my personal gear, not the honeyed vintage from my father's villa, but far better than the swill Theo had offered.
- Tonight we drink, - I stated, uncorking it. - Not to the Empire. Not to my father. To us. The Moon Band. Our first day on the road, and we are all still breathing. That is a victory.
I took the first swig, then passed it to the man nearest me, a hulking former carpenter named Brennus. He hesitated, then took a pull, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. The skin made its way around the circle. Slowly, tentatively, the silence began to thaw.
- The Centurion, - I began, and every eye locked onto me. - He has given us the left flank tomorrow. The hunting ground. It is the place of honor, and the place of greatest danger. He thinks we will break. He thinks we are children in expensive armor.
I let the words hang, watching them land. I saw fear, but beneath it, a flicker of defiance.
- I was there, you know, - said a young, sharp-faced soldier named Cassius. He was one of the four regulars. - When you reached the Third Tier in the legions. They said you summoned a shield of light that held the line at Graystone Pass. Is it true?
A few men leaned in. This was the legend, the reason Marco had given me this command. It was also a weight that threatened to crush me.
- The stories exaggerate, - I said, choosing my words carefully. - It was not a shield. It was... a distraction. A flash of light that bought us five seconds. But in a battle, five seconds is the difference between a ordered retreat and a slaughter. It is not about grand displays. It is about holding the line for one more heartbeat than the enemy believes you can.
I looked at each of them in the firelight. - That is all I ask of you tomorrow. One more heartbeat. Hold your ground for one more breath. Look to the man on your left and right, and do not let him fall. We are not the Scorpions. We are not the veterans in this camp. But we are the Moon Band, and we will be remembered.
It wasn't a rousing speech, but it was honest. I saw backs straighten. I saw jaws set. The wine skin completed its circuit, and a fragile, hard-won solidarity settled over us. We talked then, of small things, of home, of the road. For a moment, the immense pressure lifted.
It was as Cassius laughed at a crude joke that I finally leaned back and looked up, seeking solace in the familiar tapestry of the night sky.
My blood ran cold.
The full moon hung overhead, vast and luminous. But it was wrong. A deep, bloody crimson stained its silver face, casting a hellish, dim light over the entire world. The stars around it seemed to retreat, their pinpricks of light smothered by the ominous glow.
The laughter died on my lips. The fragile camaraderie of the moment shattered.
Gaius, the oldest of the veterans, followed my gaze. His face, leathery and scarred, went pale. He made a warding sign with his fingers, his lips moving in a silent prayer.
- Lucius ? - Brennus whispered, his voice thick with terror.
I could not look away from the crimson eye in the sky. Every campfire tale, every old soldier's superstition, crashed down upon me. A Blood Moon. An omen of chaos, of monsters stirred to frenzy, of battle-madness. It was a curse.
I finally found my voice, but it was hollow, stripped of all its former confidence.
- It is a Blood Moon, - I said, the words tasting of ash. - The heavens themselves have declared this night an abomination, Rest tonight my man, tomorrow we will bath in carnage.
I looked from their terrified faces back to the bleeding sky, the Centurion's warning now a prophetic taunt.
- Tomorrow, we'll see what you're made of.