Chapter 1: The Eagle That Never Fell

Rome, AD 1924.

The capital stood as a monument to human ambition and dominance. Towering marble pillars fused with intricate metal frames soared above the Tiber River, casting shadows over the bustling streets below. Steam-powered machines glided effortlessly along iron walkways, carrying senators and citizens alike, while flying warships patrolled the skies, their engines humming with the distinct thrum of advanced eterium cores.

Rome had not fallen. It had evolved.

Through the centuries, the might of the empire never waned. Julius Caesar had survived the assassination attempt that history once scripted for him, securing Rome’s unchallenged dominion over the known world. Under his reign, the Republic dissolved fully into an Empire, uniting lands under a single banner, stretching from the Atlantic to the Indus. And as the world entered what other timelines might have called the Industrial Revolution, Rome had already discovered something far more powerful than steam or electricity. Eterium.

Eterium—an energy source both mysterious and omnipotent—powered Rome’s greatest inventions. Machines of flight, mechanized war suits, and structures suspended high above the earth. It was said that those who stayed too close to eterium cores could see visions—faint glimpses of gods and demons, lost within dreams that felt dangerously real.

For most Romans, this was merely myth. But for Marcus Domitus, it had become a curse.

Marcus gripped the railing of his warship, Imperius, as it glided silently above the towering spires of Capitolium. His fingers dug into the cold metal as the familiar weight settled over his chest. The dreams had been getting worse.

Ever since his last mission on the borders of Germania, sleep had become a battlefield. Every night, the visions came: shadowy figures draped in winged cloaks, their voices whispering of collapse. “Rome will fall,” they murmured. “All empires fall.”

He inhaled sharply, forcing himself back to the present. Below him, the Forum buzzed with life—merchants haggled in the markets, while soldiers patrolled in squads, their boots clanking rhythmically against stone streets. Above it all, statues of emperors stood resolute, as if reminding the citizens that Rome’s glory was eternal.

But Marcus knew better. He could feel the cracks forming beneath the surface.

"Lost in thought again?" a voice broke through the noise.

Marcus turned to see Gaius Varro, his second-in-command, stepping onto the deck. Gaius was younger, sharp-eyed, and always wore a grin that never quite reached his eyes. Despite his easy demeanor, Gaius was a skilled tactician—a man born for war.

"Just thinking," Marcus muttered, rubbing his temples. "I hate these patrols. The skies feel heavier every time we fly."

Gaius chuckled. "Well, it’s not like the Imperius is about to fall out of the sky. The engineers down below swear the eterium core is stable."

Marcus shot him a grim look. "It’s not the engines I’m worried about."

Gaius’s grin faltered for a moment, but he shrugged it off. "Come on, Marcus. Don't let those visions get to you. The gods love Rome. They always have. We're untouchable."

Marcus wanted to believe him. But the dreams lingered in the back of his mind like a wound that refused to heal.

As the Imperius began its descent toward the main military harbor, the city unfurled beneath them—a glittering expanse of steel and stone, stretching toward the horizon. In the center stood the grand palace of the Emperor, its golden domes shimmering under the midday sun. Beyond the palace, massive warships hovered in formation, ready to enforce the empire’s will at a moment’s notice.

Marcus felt a knot tighten in his stomach as they approached the landing docks. There was a tension in the air—something unspoken, like the calm before a storm. He had seen it before, on the eve of battles fought against rebellious tribes on the borders of the empire.

Something was brewing. He could feel it.

The Imperius touched down with a soft thud, its metal wings folding inward as the engines powered down. Marcus and Gaius descended the ramp, greeted by the familiar scent of oil, iron, and incense—an odd mixture that had become synonymous with the empire’s might.

Waiting for them at the dock was Seneca, the empire’s chief engineer and one of the most brilliant minds of his generation. His robes, though worn and stained with oil, carried the insignia of the Emperor himself—marking him as a man whose counsel was not to be ignored.

"Seneca," Marcus greeted him with a curt nod. "What’s the situation?"

The engineer glanced around, as if ensuring no one was listening, before leaning in close. "We have a problem. The Emperor has requested your immediate presence. There’s been... an incident on the northern frontier."

Marcus’s jaw tightened. "What kind of incident?"

Seneca’s face darkened. "One that could change everything."

Marcus and Gaius followed Seneca through the maze of corridors that led to the heart of the imperial palace. The walls were adorned with murals depicting Rome’s victories—battles fought across continents, cities brought to their knees, and legions standing triumphant under the imperial eagle.

But Marcus barely registered the grandeur around him. His mind was focused on the words Seneca had whispered to him earlier. “An incident on the northern frontier.”

It could mean only one thing: the barbarians were stirring again.

When they entered the Emperor’s chamber, the air grew heavier. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows over the massive throne that dominated the room. Seated upon it was Emperor Lucullus, a man whose presence was as commanding as the city he ruled. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked to Marcus as he approached.

"Marcus Domitus," the Emperor’s voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it. "You are aware of the unrest in the north?"

Marcus inclined his head. "I am, my lord. The Goths have been restless."

Lucullus nodded slowly. "Restless, indeed. But that is not the full extent of the problem." He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "Our scouts report strange activity near the borders. The barbarians... they’ve acquired something. A weapon, perhaps. Or a power source."

Marcus frowned. "What kind of power source?"

Lucullus’s expression darkened. "They may have discovered eterium."

The words hung in the air like a curse.

If the Goths had gained access to eterium, it could shift the balance of power in ways Marcus couldn’t begin to predict. Rome’s dominance had always relied on its control of the mysterious energy. If that monopoly was broken...

"The Imperius will fly north at dawn," Lucullus declared. "You are to investigate this matter personally. Find out what the Goths have uncovered—and if necessary, eliminate it."

Marcus bowed his head. "As you command, my lord."

But as he turned to leave, the Emperor’s voice stopped him. "And Marcus... be careful. There are forces at play that even we do not fully understand."

Marcus stood on the deck of the Imperius, watching the city lights flicker below. The dreams had returned the moment the sun dipped below the horizon, slipping into his mind like shadows through a crack in a door.

He could see them again—the winged figures, their faces shrouded in darkness. They whispered of Rome’s downfall, of an empire built too high, too proud, and destined to collapse under its own weight.

And yet... there was something else in their words. A warning. Or perhaps, a prophecy.

Marcus clenched his fists, forcing the images away. He couldn’t afford to doubt now. Not when the future of the empire rested on his shoulders.

"Ready for tomorrow?" Gaius’s voice broke through the silence, pulling Marcus back to the present.

"As ready as I’ll ever be," Marcus muttered, his gaze still fixed on the horizon.

Gaius gave him a knowing smile. "You worry too much, old friend. The Goths don’t stand a chance against us."

Marcus wished he could share his friend’s confidence. But deep down, he knew the truth.

All empires fall.

It was only a matter of time.