The new legion arrived under a sky the color of bruised iron.
Legio XIV Gemina — one of the oldest and most decorated in the Empire — marched across the Rhine bridge at Mogontiacum in perfect order. Eight thousand men, banners high, eagles gleaming, the thunder of hobnailed boots rolling like distant storm. At their head rode the new legatus, Gaius Valerius Maximus, a tall, hawk-faced man in his late thirties, scar running from left temple to jaw. He had fought Goths on the Danube and Persians in the east. He did not believe in ghosts.
Behind him rode six new tribunes — young, ambitious, hungry for glory — and a dozen centurions hand-picked for discipline and cruelty. The governor in Augusta Treverorum had sent them with explicit orders:
End the terror east of the Rhine. Burn the Suebi to the ground if necessary. Bring back the head of the boy they call Seigmer.
Valerius Maximus reined in his horse on the eastern bank and stared at the forest wall.
"So this is where the nightmares live," he said to his primus pilus.
The veteran centurion spat.
"Nightmares bleed, Legatus. We'll find this boy and nail him to a tree."
Valerius nodded once.
"Double the night pickets. Triple the scouts. No fires after dusk unless the camp is fully fortified. We march in three days."
He did not mention the rumors — the hanged tribune, the silent murders, the two-hour bombardments that left men weeping in their sleep. He did not need to. Every legionary in the column had heard them. And every one of them carried a small iron amulet against evil under his tunic.
Rome had sent an army.
Now the forest would learn fear.
In the Suebi camp, the mood had shifted from awe to something sharper.
Seigmer was no longer "the boy." He was "the Reborn." "The Forest's Voice." "Wodan's Spear." Young warriors carved his name into shield bosses. Girls braided black feathers into their hair in imitation of the soot he wore on raids. Children played at "being Seigmer," hiding in bushes and pretending to fire invisible crossbows.
The legend grew faster than the tribe could contain it.
And legends make enemies.
Gundahar and Wulfric no longer met in the old men's tent.
They met in the deep woods north of the camp, in a small hollow screened by brambles and watched by six loyal warriors who had fought beside them for decades.
Gundahar's voice was a low rasp.
"He is no longer a boy pretending to be a man. He is becoming a god in their eyes. If we wait until spring, the tribe will follow him without question. Hans will not even need to speak — the young ones will cut our throats for him."
Wulfric turned a knife slowly in his hand, watching the blade catch moonlight.
"Then we do not wait until spring."
The six men around them shifted, uneasy but attentive.
"We strike soon," Wulfric continued. "Before the next raid. Before he returns with more Roman heads and more miracles."
Gundahar nodded.
"Not in the open. Not yet. The thing gave him one year. We honor that — in our way. But accidents happen in the forest. Arrows fly wide. Ropes snap on trebuchets. Men fall from watchtowers."
One of the warriors — a squat, scarred man named Sigvald — spoke up.
"And if Hans finds out?"
Wulfric's smile was thin.
"Hans is old. His eyes are on the Romans, not on us. And if the boy dies in battle — or by mischance — the tribe will mourn… and then move on. They will need new leaders."
Gundahar looked at each man in turn.
"We do this for the Suebi. Not for ourselves. If he succeeds, we become Rome's echo. If he fails — or if he dies — we remain who we are."
The six men murmured agreement, hands tightening on weapons.
Wulfric stood.
"Watch him. Learn his routines. Find the moment. When it comes, we will be ready."
They melted back into the trees, leaving the hollow empty except for the wind.
Seigmer stood alone on the ridge overlooking the Forge.
Below, his men trained by torchlight — silent movements, crossbow drills, rope climbs, hand signals. The six trebuchets waited under camouflage netting, their arms lowered like sleeping beasts. Fifty kilograms of black powder rested in sealed jars inside the powder shed, guarded day and night.
He felt the weight of eyes on him — not just his own men's, but others. Watching from the shadows.
He had known this would come.
Every revolution has its counter-revolution.
Every legend has its assassins.
He touched the small iron amulet he wore under his tunic — not for protection, but as a reminder of what the Romans believed in.
Then he turned his face toward the distant glow of Mogontiacum.
Rome had sent a new legion.
Gundahar and Wulfric had sent their knives.
Seigmer smiled — small, cold, professional.
Let them come.
Both of them.
They will find the same thing.
A war that already has a name.
And it was not theirs.