The main Suebi camp was a storm of preparation when Seigmer's detachment returned.
Warriors sharpened axes around roaring fires. Women bundled supplies into wagons. Boys too young to fight ran messages between tents. The air stank of pitch, horse sweat, and the metallic tang of whetstones on iron. Reik Hans stood at the center like a bear on a hill, bellowing orders, his massive frame silhouetted against the afternoon sun.
He saw the returning riders first.
Twenty-four men on horseback, moving at a steady trot instead of the frantic gallop the rest of the tribe had expected. No blood-soaked banners. No triumphant whoops. Just quiet, disciplined formation — and at the center, Seigmer, forearm wrapped in a clean linen bandage, leading a bound Roman officer slung facedown across a spare horse like a sack of grain.
The camp went quiet as they rode in.
Reik Hans strode forward, boots thudding on packed earth. His eyes flicked from the prisoner to his son's face.
"You were summoned for battle," he rumbled. "Not to play at raiders."
Seigmer dismounted smoothly, handed the reins to Eadric, and met his father's gaze without flinching.
"We were," he said. "We arrived early."
Hans looked past him at the twenty-four men. Not a single missing face. Not even a serious wound visible. Then at the tribune, who had stopped struggling and now stared at the barbarian horde with wide, calculating eyes above his gag.
"Explain."
Seigmer gestured. Ingvar and two others cut the tribune down from the horse, forced him to his knees, and removed the gag.
The Roman coughed, spat blood, then spoke in clear, accented Germanic.
"I am Marcus Flavius Severus, tribune of the Legio XXII Primigenia vexillatio. My men will—"
Seigmer cut him off with a raised hand.
"Your men are leaderless. Your standards are broken. Your centurions are dead or dying on the road two miles west. Your cohort is in disarray, shouting contradictory orders, burning villages without coordination. They will reach this camp by nightfall… but they will not be the same army that crossed the Rhine this morning."
A murmur rippled through the gathered warriors.
Hans's eyes narrowed. "You killed their officers?"
"Most," Seigmer confirmed. "From the trees. With crossbows that reach farther than any Roman javelin. We struck the head, not the body. The cohort is headless. They march on instinct now, not orders."
He stepped closer to his father, voice low enough that only the Reik and the nearest warriors could hear.
"And we took this one alive. He knows their supply lines, their signal fires, their planned reinforcements. With him we can bleed them for weeks. With him we can choose where and how to fight — instead of meeting them in open field like cattle to slaughter."
Hans studied the bound Roman for a long moment. Then his gaze returned to Seigmer — to the calm, blood-streaked face of the boy who had once been kicked in the skull by a Roman horse.
"You defied my summons," he said slowly.
"I obeyed the greater summons," Seigmer replied. "To win, not to die gloriously."
A long silence stretched between father and son.
Around them, the camp waited. Warriors who had been sharpening blades now held them still. Women paused in their bundling. Even the children sensed the weight of the moment.
Hans finally spoke.
"Show me."
Seigmer nodded once. He turned to Eadric.
"Bring the heavy crossbow."
The young sniper stepped forward, unwrapping the oiled hide. The weapon gleamed darkly in the firelight — larger, meaner, its laminated prod taut with promise.
Seigmer took it, spanned the cranequin with smooth, practiced motions, seated a quarrel, and pointed to a distant tree at the camp's edge — two hundred paces away, a straw effigy tied to the trunk.
He exhaled halfway.
Thwack.
The bolt vanished. A heartbeat later the effigy's head exploded in straw and splinters. The shaft punched clean through and buried itself in the trunk behind.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Hans walked forward, pulled the bolt free with one massive hand, studied the deep penetration.
Then he looked at his son.
"You did this… alone?"
"With my men," Seigmer said. "They are no longer a war-band. They are a blade. And this blade struck true today."
Hans handed the bolt back. His voice was quieter now, almost thoughtful.
"The tribe wants a charge at dawn. They want blood and glory."
"They will have blood," Seigmer said. "But on our terms. Let me take my fifty ahead again tonight. Let us continue to soften them. When the main force meets what is left of the cohort, it will not be a battle. It will be a slaughter."
Hans looked at the tribune again. The Roman was watching the exchange with the cold calculation of a man who knew his fate hung on the next words spoken.
Then the Reik turned back to Seigmer.
"You will have your fifty. You will have the night. But when the sun rises, the tribe marches. And if your 'softening' fails, boy, you will stand in the front rank with me."
Seigmer nodded once.
"It will not fail."
Hans grunted — almost a laugh.
"Then go. Take your blade and carve deeper."
He turned to the waiting warriors.
"Prepare! We march at dawn! But tonight… my son shows us the new way."
A roar rose from the camp — half awe, half hunger.
Seigmer watched it spread like fire through dry grass.
He had not asked for permission. He had demonstrated necessity.
And necessity, he knew from every briefing room and battlefield of his first life, was the only true source of power.
He turned to his men.
"Rest two hours. Then we ride again. The cohort is wounded. We will make sure it never heals."
As the fifty moved to obey, Seigmer glanced once more at the bound tribune.
The Roman met his eyes — no fear now, only cold recognition.
Seigmer gave the smallest nod.
You are the first piece, he thought. There will be more.
The sun dipped lower.
The war in his name was no longer a whisper in the trees.
It was a promise carved in Roman blood.