The thing was called at noon the next day.
Every free Suebi who could walk gathered in the great clearing beside the river — hundreds of warriors, women with babies on their hips, boys barely old enough to hold a spear. Shields were planted in the ground in a wide circle. Reik Hans sat on the great oak stump that served as the high seat, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the grass.
Gundahar and Wulfric stood ready.
The moment the formal words of opening were spoken, Gundahar stepped into the center, voice booming like an old war-horn.
"Reik! People of the Suebi! We have won a great victory, yes. But at what cost? Our young men now march in straight lines like Romans. They hide in trees like thieves. They bow to a boy who was still chasing goats when the snows last fell. This… Seigmer… speaks of machines and secrets. He keeps a Roman alive in our camp like a favored dog. I say he has forgotten who we are!"
Wulfric joined him, spear raised.
"He calls himself touched by the gods, yet he acts like a merchant counting coins. We are warriors, not builders of toys! If we follow this path, the Suebi will become soft shadows of Rome — clever, yes, but without honor, without soul!"
A rumble of agreement rose from the older warriors. Axes thumped against shields in support.
Seigmer stepped forward.
He wore only a simple tunic and the wolf-fur cloak his mother had given him, but every eye turned to him. The younger warriors — the ones who had run the Forge with him, who had fired the heavy crossbows and felt the thunder of clay pots — watched with open hunger. Girls whispered behind their hands. Even some of the older men leaned forward despite themselves.
Seigmer did not shout.
He spoke clearly, carrying to every ear.
"The world is vast," he said. "Rome is not the only fire in the night. Beyond the great river lie endless grasslands where horsemen ride from horizon to horizon. Beyond those, deserts of burning sand where men drink their own piss to survive. In the far north, frozen tundras where the ground never thaws and the sun forgets to set. In the south, rain forests so thick the sky is lost and serpents grow longer than our longest spears."
He let the words settle.
"And far to the east, in a land called China, the crossbow and the trebuchet you saw yesterday are children's toys. Ancient relics. They have weapons there that make our new machines look like sticks and stones."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even Gundahar looked unsettled.
Seigmer's voice grew quieter, yet somehow louder.
"Gundahar. Wulfric. You are loyal. You have bled for this tribe since before I was born. No one questions your courage. But loyalty without change is a slow poison. You would have us charge the same way our grandfathers charged — brave, glorious… and dead. In sixty years, if we do not evolve, the name Suebi will vanish from the earth. Our people will be swallowed, scattered, forgotten. I have seen it."
He raised his hands slightly.
"But I have also received knowledge — from the same place the gods cracked my skull open — that can make us greater than Rome. Stronger. Lasting. I do not ask you to follow me because I am strong. I beg you to let me protect you. Let me give our children a future that does not end in Roman chains or unmarked graves."
As he spoke the last words, he reached out with his mind.
The great central fire roared higher. Red sparks rose in a sudden column. Then, invisible fingers of telekinesis caught them — spinning them into tight, glowing spirals that whirled upward like living constellations. Vortexes formed and danced, twisting faster and faster, red-gold light painting every face in the clearing.
The crowd gasped as one.
Young warriors fell to their knees. Girls cried out in wonder. Even some of the elders stepped back, hands rising in the sign against evil — then lowering again in awe.
Gundahar's face twisted in fury and fear.
"Witchcraft!" he roared. "See? He bends fire itself! This is no gift from Wodan — this is sorcery!"
Wulfric pointed his spear.
"He would make us slaves to his machines and his Roman pet!"
But their voices were drowned.
The younger crowd surged forward, chanting Seigmer's name. Boys who had once played at his side now looked at him like a living god. Women clutched their children and whispered prayers. Even Reik Hans rose slowly from the oak stump, eyes wide with something between pride and unease.
Seigmer let the sparks spin one final time — a great double helix that climbed into the sky and then dissolved into harmless red motes.
He lowered his hands.
"I do not ask for your fear," he said softly. "I ask for your trust. Give me one year. Let me show you what we can become. If I fail, you may cast me out — or kill me. But if I succeed… Rome will be the one begging for mercy."
Silence fell.
Then a single voice — a young warrior who had fired the first heavy crossbow — shouted:
"One year!"
Hundreds took up the cry.
"One year! One year! One year for Seigmer!"
Gundahar and Wulfric stood alone in the roar, faces pale.
Hans raised his massive arms for quiet.
"The thing has spoken," he rumbled. "One year. My son will lead the new way. And any man who raises a hand against him in that time answers to me."
Seigmer bowed his head in respect.
But as he turned to leave the circle, he glanced once at Gundahar.
The old warrior's eyes burned with hatred.
Seigmer met the gaze calmly.
You had your chance to evolve.
Now the clock runs for both of us.
In the hidden shed at the Forge, fifty kilograms of black powder waited in sealed clay jars — enough to turn the next Roman fort into ash and legend.
The war in his name had just been given its first year of life.
And the sparks were only the beginning.