Chapter 7 – Sacramentum
The rebels' camp was restless. The firelight danced uneasy shadows across faces hollowed by hunger and fear. They had grown in number, but with each soul freed came another mouth to feed, another heart to sway.
Whispers rippled through the camp that night. A traitor among them. Someone had spoken to Rome.
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The Betrayal
The attack came swift and brutal. Roman scouts struck the camp in the dead of night, steel flashing, torches flaring. Screams tore through the dark as rebels scattered, caught half-sleeping, unarmed.
Spartacus roared orders, rallying men. Crixus charged headlong into the fray, swinging steel with wild fury.
Ivar woke with blades already in hand. His sea-green eyes burned as he cut through the chaos, twin swords flashing in arcs of crimson. He struck with precision — tendons, throats, arteries — turning the tide where the line faltered.
But in the center of the storm, he saw it.
One of their own, a freed slave, guiding Romans with frantic gestures, pointing at supply carts, shouting over the din. A traitor.
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The Edge of the Storm
Rage boiled inside Ivar, hotter than any blade. He charged, cutting through Roman steel until he reached the man. The traitor stumbled back, face pale, stammering excuses.
And Ivar felt it — the blood in the man's veins, rushing, panicked, alive. His power called to it, begged to seize it. One thought, and the man's heart would still, his veins would burst like rivers breaking their banks.
His fingers twitched. The air trembled. A drop of blood from his own wound floated, suspended, shimmering in torchlight.
The man gasped, choking, his pulse stuttering under Ivar's unseen grip.
For a heartbeat, the camp froze, the chaos drowned in something far more terrifying.
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The Choice
Then Spartacus' voice cut through the haze.
"Ivar!"
The boy's eyes snapped to him. Spartacus stood bloodied, sword raised, gaze fierce.
"Steel, not storm!" he barked.
Ivar's jaw clenched. His blades trembled in his hands. For a long moment, the storm inside howled for release.
And then, with a shudder, he let it go. The blood dropped into the dirt.
With one swift strike of his short sword, Ivar cut the traitor's throat the old way — with steel.
The camp exhaled as if waking from a nightmare. The Romans broke, fleeing into the dark, leaving their dead behind.
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Aftermath
The rebels buried their losses at dawn. Smoke from the pyres curled into the sky, heavy with grief.
Spartacus found Ivar apart, cleaning blood from his swords by the river.
"You nearly lost yourself," Spartacus said quietly.
Ivar did not look up. "I nearly gave in. And if I had, Rome would know me not as man, but as monster."
Spartacus studied him, unease sharp in his eyes. "You hold power I cannot name. Yet you choose to bind it."
Ivar's gaze lifted at last, sea-green and calm once more. "Because steel is enough. The gods gave it to me first. The storm… I save for when the gods themselves demand it."
Spartacus nodded slowly. Respect and fear warred in his face, but no more words were spoken.
Behind them, the brotherhood whispered of the night's battle. Some called Ivar savior. Others swore they had seen blood move like a living thing.
Either way, Twin Steel was no longer only a legend of blades.
He was becoming something far more dangerous.
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⚔️ Do you want me to go directly into Chapter 8 (Episode 8 – Balance) where Crixus and Spartacus' rift deepens and Ivar earns unexpected respect from Crixus, or pause to add a short interlude scene showing how the rebels whisper uneasily about what they think they saw when Ivar almost unleashed his blood manipulation?