CHAPTER 26: The Imperial Army's Experience
The Dusty Road to Oakhaven – Vanguard of the Silver Banner
Corporal Titus wiped sweat from his brow with a dirt-stained forearm. The midday sun beat down on the column of the Silver Banner, baking the dust into their throats. For three days, they had marched through land that felt increasingly… wrong.
"Anything in that village, **Garron**?" Sergeant Livius called from the head of the column, squinting at the cluster of buildings in the distance. Oakhaven was marked on their maps as a decent-sized settlement, expected to yield supplies.
**Garron**, the lead scout, a veteran with a perpetually weary look, shook his head. "Smoke, Sergeant. That's all I saw. And a smell… like nothing I've ever smelled before."
As they drew closer, the smell intensified: acrid, bitter, carrying the faint tang of burnt meat. The village wasn't just smoky; it was a ruin. Blackened timbers stood like skeletal fingers against the sky. The stone foundations radiated a heat that lingered days after the blaze.
"By the gods…" muttered Private Kella, her young face pale. "What happened here?"
Sergeant Livius dismounted, his boots crunching on ash. The silence was unnerving. No dogs barking, no chickens clucking, no villagers emerging with wary curiosity. Just the whisper of the wind through the charred remains.
"Rebels," Livius said grimly, though there were no signs of battle. No bodies, no discarded weapons. Just utter destruction. They found the well easily enough, the wooden frame still standing. But when they lowered a bucket, it came up half-empty, the water within thick and foul-smelling.
"Don't drink that!" **Garron** yelled, recoiling from the stench. "Something's been put in it."
A wave of unease rippled through the ranks. This wasn't the welcome they had expected. They were the Emperor's legions, come to restore order. Where were the grateful loyalists?
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The Supply Train – Fifty Miles South of the Blackwood
The teamster, old Marus, cursed under his breath as his oxen strained against the heavy wagon. The promised oats for his animals hadn't materialized at the last staging post. The quartermasters claimed a shortfall. A disturbing rumour had begun to circulate among the drivers – that some local granaries were mysteriously empty, others… tainted.
At the midday halt, Marus grumbled to his fellow drivers. "Heard old Man Tiberius near Greensward say his whole storehouse spoiled overnight. Black mold, he said. Never seen anything like it."
"Just the rebels trying their tricks," another driver, a younger man named Silas, scoffed, though his eyes held a flicker of doubt.
Later that day, an Imperial supply officer rode up, his face tight with annoyance. "These requisition orders are being refused! Half the farms on this route claim their stores are either burnt out or… unusable. What in the Emperor's name is going on?"
Marus shrugged, playing the ignorant peasant. "Bad luck, ser. Maybe the harvest wasn't good this year."
But he exchanged a knowing glance with Silas. He'd heard whispers, carried on the wind like dust devils. Whispers of Imperial quartermasters diverting supplies, of Black Legates taking what they wanted without recompense, of grain stores deliberately ruined by… someone. The whispers didn't name the rebels. They spoke of rot from within.
That night, huddled around a meager fire, the soldiers guarding the supply train shared nervous tales. A patrol near the Blackwood had vanished without a trace, save for their horses returning spooked and riderless. Sergeant Valerius had returned with a wild tale of ghosts in red and a chilling warning. Now, the empty roads and silent villages felt less like victory and more like a trap closing around them. The sermons from the Purifiers' iron pulpit, booming across the plains about divine judgment, offered little comfort when their bellies were empty and fear gnawed at their hearts.