The moon hung low over Seigmer's Hold, pale and thin, like a blade half-drawn from its sheath.
Six hundred and thirty men of the First Prussian Regiment stood in perfect ranks on the central parade ground. Torches burned at regular intervals along the edges, casting long shadows across brigandine vests and skull-caps. No one moved. No one spoke. The wind carried the faint creak of living-timber bastions settling deeper into concrete, the low crackle of watch-fires, and the distant lowing of oxen in the corrals.
Seigmer stepped onto the raised platform that had once been the Roman principia steps.
He was fifteen now — taller, broader, the boyish lines of his face sharpened into something harder, something that no longer asked permission. The black cloak hung from his shoulders. Across his back, slung in the old Germanic style but with the precision of a man who had trained with modern slings and scabbards, rested his hand-and-a-half sword — the blade he had designed himself, the first one the smiths had forged to his exact specifications. The hilt rose just above his left shoulder, the pommel a simple iron disc, the grip wrapped in dark leather. It was not worn at the hip like a Roman spatha or a tribal seax. It was worn high and centered, ready to be drawn over the shoulder in a single fluid motion — the way he had practiced a thousand times in the dark hours before dawn.
He looked out over the regiment — his regiment — and let the silence stretch until it felt like a physical weight.
Then he spoke.
"Almost a year ago you all were a bunch of rabble who lived to become bodies thrown at Roman spears and swords."
His voice carried clear and steady across the square. No shouting. No theatrics. Just truth.
"Today you are my hounds honed for the hunt."
A low murmur ran through the ranks — not quite a cheer, but a hungry sound, like wolves catching a scent.
He stepped forward one pace.
"Tomorrow we prove to everyone that Rome is no longer the eagle that terrorizes us, but a chicken that fills up our stew pot."
The murmur became a ripple of grim laughter, quickly stifled.
Seigmer's gaze swept the lines — artillery officers on the left, infantry in the center, special operators on the right. Brigandine gleamed under torchlight. Rank stripes showed black on sergeants' arms. Every man stood straighter when his eyes passed.
"Remember your training. Trust that your brother fighting beside you will protect you just as you will protect him."
He paused, letting the words settle into every chest.
"Hail Prussia. Hail victory."
The response came instantly — six hundred and thirty voices as one, deep and rolling like distant thunder:
"Hail Prussia! Hail Seigmer!"
The chant rose once, then twice, then faded into perfect silence.
Seigmer raised his fist.
The regiment answered with six hundred and thirty fists raised in unison.
Then he dismissed them with a single nod.
They broke ranks quietly, moving to their posts, their duties, their final preparations. No wild celebration. No drunken songs. Just the calm certainty of men who knew what dawn would bring.
Seigmer remained on the platform a moment longer.
He reached back with his right hand and touched the hilt of the sword across his back — the leather grip cool under his fingers, the weight familiar and comforting. He had carried it this way since the first one was finished: high, centered, ready to be drawn in a heartbeat whether he was on horseback, in a trench, or standing on a wall. The motion had become instinctive — a cross-body draw that let him clear the blade in less than a second without fouling his cloak or armor.
He looked west — toward the Roman campfires that now dotted the horizon like a constellation of angry stars.
Three legions.
Twenty-four thousand men.
He had six hundred and thirty.
But he had trenches that swallowed testudo, cannons that spat iron rain, explosive shells that burst above ranks, grenadiers who struck from the dark, and a people who now believed he could do the impossible.
He touched the black spiral banner.
Then he stepped down.
The night before the assault belonged to silence.
Five miles west, in the Roman command tent, the war council gathered under flickering oil lamps.
The tent was larger than most — canvas reinforced with leather, the map table covered in fresh parchment sketches of Seigmer's Hold. Three legates sat at the table: Gaius Valerius Maximus (face still scarred from the wagon-bomb), Flavius Arcadius from the eastern legion, and Quintus Aelius from the Italian field army. Around them stood tribunes, senior centurions, auxiliary commanders, and two Christian bishops who had insisted on attending.
Valerius tapped the map where the star-shaped fortress had been sketched from scout reports.
"Tomorrow we assault," he said. "Three legions. Twenty-four thousand men. We advance in three columns. Left wing — Legio V Macedonica — takes the northern approach, using the riverbank to anchor the flank. Center — our own remnants reinforced with Legio II Italica — strikes the main gate and the eastern wall where their cannons are concentrated. Right wing — auxiliary cavalry and light cohorts — sweeps the southern flank, drawing their mobile guns away from the trenches."
Arcadius leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the sketch.
"You lost one legion to him already. What makes you think three will be enough if he has those… thunder-tubes waiting?"
Valerius's scarred face tightened.
"Because this time we do not probe. We do not hesitate. We bring overwhelming force. We fill the ditches with fascines and captured shields under testudo cover. We use onagers and ballistae to suppress the walls from five hundred paces. We send engineers forward with ladders and rams once the outer ditch is bridged. We storm the ramparts. We kill the boy and every man who stands with him."
Quintus Aelius rubbed his chin, voice heavy.
"I've read the survivor reports. The ditches are deep. The stakes are thick. Their crossbows are faster and longer-ranged than our bows. And those bronze tubes… they fire faster than any ballista we have. Canister shot, you said? Like a thousand slings in one barrel?"
Valerius nodded.
"That's why we do not give them time to reload. We advance under continuous bombardment. We accept the losses in the first wave. The second wave breaks through. The third wave finishes it."
Arcadius looked at the bishops.
"And if he is… something more? The men are already whispering about demons."
One bishop spoke softly.
"We will pray for the soldiers. We will bless the standards. If he is touched by darkness, God will protect us."
The other bishop added:
"But if he is merely a man with dangerous knowledge… then we must end him before the frontier collapses entirely."
Valerius stood.
"Enough. Tomorrow we advance at first light. No prisoners. No mercy. We burn his fortress to the ground and scatter his ashes on the Rhine."
The officers rose.
They saluted.
They left the tent.
Outside, the legion slept under triple watch.
But the night was restless.
And five miles away, six hundred and thirty men waited in silence — brigandine gleaming, cannons loaded, trenches ready.
The eagles marched.
The hounds waited.
And dawn would decide which would drink deepest.