The next morning came slower than usual.
No shouted orders. No snapping banners. Just the faint reek of wet ash blending with the low clatter of cooking gear and the muted rustle of soldiers stirring from where they lay down to sleep, cuddled together around fires. The field where the den had stood was quiet now; the troll's corpse burned to ash, the goblin gear stacked or stripped and tallied by Marcus.
Harold walked the camp perimeter just after dawn, cloak drawn tight, boots slick with dew. He passed tired legionaries huddled over their rations — thicker than usual this morning. Hale had told Marcus to add extra bread and dried fruit to the breakfast rotation. Energy for the march, he'd said. But everyone knew what it really was.
A small reward.
Near the burned-out hollow where the troll had died, a short row of shields had been staked into the earth. Three of them. Polished clean, the insignias still visible — not as decorations, but as names. The centurions had made sure the fallen weren't forgotten.
There was no priest or prayer—just a moment of silence.
Then Garrick stepped forward, cleared his throat, and said:
"We remember the victorious fallen." Then saluted the berms and said, "Vivat Imperium."
No one shouted. But every soldier there stood a little straighter, saluted the berms and said "Vivat Imperium" as they turned back to their squads and shouldered their packs.
The terrain changed fast.
What had been sloping hills and dry passes gave way toa denser forest, filledk with brambles, ancient trees, and branches that clawed at cloaks and caught on spears. The airgrew coolere, heavier
Wagon progress slowed to a crawl.
The tatanka, usually dependable, began spooking more often. Snorting. Stomping. One even reared and snapped its harness after a flock of unseen birds bolted through the trees. It took two full squads and a handler with a blunt spear to calm it.
Marcus fumed at every delay for his wagons. But they pressed on.
The adventurers bore the worst of it — forced to screen constantly ahead and to the flanks. The goblins weren't gone. Twice on the second day, small swarms staged ambushes along ravines or from fallen logs, springing up from dirt-covered hides with squeals and rusted blades.
Neither attack got through the scouts.
But it kept the army tense and tired.
Forest cats struck once during camp setup, moving swiftly and silently, drawn by the scent of fresh meat. One adventurer was clawed across the ribs, and Mira's potion quickly sealed his wound with scarlet liquid. Sarah's sword was the first to reach the danger, slicing through the air with practiced speed, a testament to her perk. Two other adventurers with quick spears followed her lead, finishing the beast. After the den, the adventurers were much better equipped, each now wielding a real weapon, with most having more than one.
The fourth night out, camp was calm.
Scouts said they were close now, about a day out, if the terrain held.
Harold sat by the central fire with Hale, Carter, and Garrick, their mugs filled with the same bitter tea they had been sipping for days. The stars were out. The wagons were parked tight. And for once, no one was yelling. Yet, a wary glance was cast toward the distant woods, where shadows seemed to shift and play tricks on the eyes.
Carter stretched his legs toward the fire. "You know, I was halfway convinced we'd lose a wagon to a forest cat."
Garrick snorted into his mug. "Yeah? I had my bets on a Tatanka trampling someone. I saw one try to fight a tree yesterday." His laugh, however, was hollow, and his eyes darted momentarily to the treeline, betraying a concern beneath his amusement.
"That tree started it," Carter said deadpan.
Even Hale cracked a tired smile at that, though his eyes remained fixed on the woods, always watching, always wary.
Harold leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The firelight danced across the worn lines of his face.
"We're close," he said. "You can feel it."
Carter nodded. "Half the boys are already thinking about what they'll get out of this relic. Perks. Items. Stories."
"They earned something," Garrick said. "They didn't break. Even when things got hard. And the First got some good perks out of that fight. Especially the ones who managed to use their mana skills in combat for the first time."
Hale raised his mug slightly. "First Century's better than I thought they'd be."
Carter tilted his head. "Bah, Second would've done just as well. They're just lucky we flushed out those archers for them."
Harold raised his own mug, just a little. "Calm down, children. You'll both have your turn to prove your mettle before we get our reward."
That drew a few chuckles.
Hale just looked at him and said flatly, "I'm older than you."
Harold glanced over his cup. "Ah," he said, "but if you include my previous time here, I'm almost as old."
He leaned a little closer, lowered his voice just enough to make Carter and Garrick lean in.
"And when it comes to women…" He gave Hale a sly smile. "I'm far more experienced."
Garrick groaned. Carter choked on his tea. Hale didn't even blink — just took another sip and muttered, "Still not sure how you convinced anyone to follow you."
Harold leaned back, satisfied. "Charisma, and looks," he said, deadpan. "Clearly."
The final camp before the relic was something else entirely.
The scouts picked the spot—a low ridge overlooking the approach, with sparse trees. Good sight lines. Solid ground. Water was a short walk downhill, and the slope meant any attackers would have to come up through kill zones.
Harold gave the order.
"Build it by the book."
The legion moved with purpose. They had not been trained to do this yet, but Marcus and Hale directed people with a purpose. The sound of shovels biting into the earth echoed through the camp, the smell of fresh-cut stakes filling the air as pickets were posted. Work details, energized and focused, turned the clearing into a flurry of organized activity. A ditch was dug, earth thrown in steady rhythm, while a low berm of soil and stakes rose around the encampment like a protective cocoon. Fires were laid in ordered rows, the smoke curling lazily skyward. A command area was set up because there weren't any tents for anyone yet, and banners were planted at its corners.
For the first time, it looked like a real army's camp — not a scrambling survival group.
The auxilia bivouacked just inside the berm — less strict, more relaxed, but still watchful. Sarah's team was already sharpening blades. Marcus had all four wagons in a tight square, almost in the center of the formation. Potion and food crates are double-covered. Tatanka tethered and calmed, they were allowed to graze as far as the tethers allowed.
Everything was ready.
Then Harold gathered all the Optios and above and all the adventurers. It was time to tell them why they were out here.
They stood in a wide circle inside the earthen berm, just beyond the tight ring of wagons—Optio's in a complete kit. Adventurers leaned on spears and blades, hands rough, eyes alert. At the center, the firelight played across the dual banners and the faces of the four men who had led them this far: Hale, Garrick, Carter, and Harold.
Harold stepped forward. The flames caught the edge of his leather coat, the glint of iron at his side. He didn't shout.
Harold stepped forward. The flames caught the edge of his leather coat, the glint of iron at his side. He didn't shout.
"Well, we made it," Harold said.
He continued, his voice steady and strong. "Tomorrow, we will reach the site of a Relic. With a capital R."
In the wake of his words, an uncanny stillness settled over the camp. A shiver seemed to ripple through the air, as though an invisible force hovered around them, its presence felt but not seen. The closest men to Harold exchanged glances, reaching instinctively for the comfort of their weapons, while the crackling fire dimmed slightly as if in respect of the ancient power just spoken of.
He let that word sit for a breath before going on. The adventurers were murmuring excitedly to each other.
"This is not just a magical trinket, or something you hand off to a noble to buy favor. This relic is old. Don't ask how I know this, accept it as truth. It was supposedly made by races that failed their crucible here on Gravesend."
He took a slow step forward, voice gaining weight.
"It's not protected by puzzles or in some ancient temples. It is surrounded by two still maturing armies. One of the kobolds. One of the goblins. At this time, there are probably around 1000 monsters, clawing over that relic, killing each other for even a moment of control where it rests."
He let the image sink in.
"And every day it's left alone, the relic defends itself a little more. It draws power. It turns the land around it into a living battleground."
Murmurs moved through the ranks — quiet, serious. Some of the adventurers looked to one another. The legionaries stayed still.
Harold's voice dropped — not softer, but deeper, as if it carried something heavier than sound.
"We need this," he said.
A pause.
"Humanity needs this, and the Landing needs it. He said.
He looked across the firelit faces. Some are hardened, and others are young. Some are still bruised from the last fight.
"I won't lie to you. You've already bled. Some of you will bleed again. Some of you will probably die tomorrow, but the relic at the center of this storm — we need this."
He touched the center of his chest.
"It's a lever."
Then he raised his hand slightly, palm open.
"We have a chance here. To pull something out of the dark that will change everything. For the Landing. For every human trying to survive in this broken world. This is our shot to carve out a future that's more than scavenging and surviving."
He turned slowly, so that everyone had a chance to see him, to hear him clearly.
"We are first. And if we win tomorrow, we won't just have survived. We'll have staked a claim that we belong here and we aren't going anywhere!" He said boldly.
He let that hang.
Then, quieter, like a promise:
"We remember the victorious fallen."
A pause.
Then, as one voice — from the legionaries first, then the adventurers — the answer came:
"Vivat Imperium!"
The fire flared slightly in the wind.
The oath lingered in the air like smoke.
The scout lay flat against the ridge, one cheek pressed to the cold moss, barely breathing. His cloak blended into the brush, patterned like bark and leaf. He had no metal to shine. Just a dull, wary man, weathered by weeks of holding the line.
The camp near him glowed like a fallen constellation — fires carefully spaced, each one ringed by dark forms. Figures moved between them. Dozens of them. Some sitting, others standing. A few sharpening blades. Many just resting, their gear still within reach. Not a single tent. Not a single wasted fire.
He narrowed his eyes.
Discipline. That was the word. It dripped off every formation, every movement. The entire camp felt… constructed. It was apparent it had just been built.
He'd expected some backwater militia, maybe a large adventuring party pushing too deep. Not this.
He counted in his head. By groups. By silhouettes.
Two hundred? Maybe more.
His chest tightened.
Lord Dalen had… maybe a hundred trained fighters left. Not even that, if he was honest with himself. Most were half-starved. Half of them still limped from the last fight with the kobolds. And they couldn't spare the Crafters. Every non-disabled person in Dalen's hold was now on picket duty. They had to. The goblins never gave them time to rebuild. And the kobolds — smarter, crueler — had started striking during the rain. They lost people in every engagement.
But this force… this army next to him?
They had structure and numbers. They had organization. Fires lay in even rows. Weapons stacked. Watches rotated. He couldn't hear their voices from this distance — but he could feel their readiness. A camp that expected to fight and was ready to win.
And for a moment, for the first time in weeks, he felt something warm stir under the fear: hope. His grip on the bow loosened, and a deep breath filled his lungs, giving him a fleeting sense of calm. Maybe they were here to help. Maybe someone had finally rallied. A real lord. One with steel. With people and plan. All of a sudden, he heard some call; it was a different language than he knew, but it was said with gusto and belief.
He began to shift, crawling backward to reposition. Just a little farther to the right, past the rockfall, and he might find a better angle—
A hand closed around his ankle.
His body froze — heart jackhammering, throat too tight to scream.
Then — pressure. Light and cold just under his ear.
"Don't move."
The voice was low and steady. A professional female, her voice steady and firm.
He froze, his breath locked in his throat, eyes wide.
She leaned in closer — he couldn't see her fully, but he caught the glint of a short spear tip just past his cheek. Leather armor. Mud-caked boots. A short scarf pulled up over her mouth.
"You're good," she said. "Almost missed you."
A pause. "But you got too close."
He exhaled, slowly—the universal response of someone trying not to die.
"I'm not a threat," he whispered.
"Everyone says that," she replied. "Now get up. Slowly."
He rose to a crouch, hands out. No weapons drawn. He didn't dare look her in the eyes.
"I came from the west," he said. "I'm a scout. From Dalen's Hold."
She didn't lower the spear. But something in her stance eased.
"You're going to come with me," she said. "And if you're lucky, you'll get to explain that to someone who cares. I'll take that bow."
Then she gave a sharp whistle — one note, low and fast.
And from the trees behind them, more shadows moved.