Chapter 3: The Scarred Frontier

The Imperius cruised toward Castra Octaviana’s northern edge under a sky veiled by rolling clouds. Cold winds scraped across the hull as the warship glided over the fractured wilderness below—a jagged expanse where trees stood lifeless, and the ground cracked from long-forgotten battles. The land bore the scars of endless conflict, marked by trenches, burnt ruins, and fields where nothing grew. This was no longer Rome’s territory. It was no man’s land.

Marcus stood at the bow, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Below, rivers meandered like black veins through a diseased landscape, and the distant peaks were coated in frost. His breath steamed in the cold air, but he ignored the discomfort.

“We’re not just chasing rebels anymore,” Marcus muttered to himself. “This is something else entirely.”

“Talking to yourself again, Marcus?” Gaius teased from behind, stomping toward him with a heavy step. “Should I be worried?”

Marcus gave him a sidelong glance. “If I’m talking to myself, it’s because the company’s lacking.”

Gaius barked a laugh, but his smile was short-lived. He leaned against the railing, his mood shifting to something more serious. “I don’t like it out here. It feels wrong.”

“You’re just noticing that now?” Marcus asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Gaius muttered. “It’s worse than usual. Look at that.” He pointed to the ground below, where the remnants of abandoned villages dotted the landscape. Entire hamlets were scorched, their wooden walls blackened and collapsed, with no sign of life or battle—just eerie, empty silence.

Marcus nodded grimly. “The scouts said the people fled, but they never mentioned where they went. No trails, no bodies. They just vanished.”

“People don’t just vanish,” Gaius said. His voice held a trace of unease—a rare crack in his usual confidence.

Marcus shared the feeling. He had fought across Rome’s farthest borders, from the deserts of Africa to the forests of Germania, and had seen horrors in every form. But this... this was different. There was no sign of ordinary warfare—no broken weapons, no discarded armor. Only absence.

“Captain,” a voice called from the bridge, breaking their thoughts. Seneca, their chief engineer, waved them over from the control console.

“We’re approaching the next waypoint,” Seneca said. His fingers danced over the brass dials, calibrating the ship’s instruments to pierce the thick clouds. “You should take a look at this.”

Marcus joined him at the helm, peering over the instruments. A schematic of the terrain projected onto a glass panel flickered in shades of blue, revealing the outpost they were searching for—a waypoint positioned at the furthest edge of Roman control. But what caught Marcus’s attention was the absence of heat signatures. The place was completely cold.

“Another empty outpost?” Marcus muttered.

Seneca shook his head, his face pale. “Not just empty. Something shut it down. All energy readings vanished three days ago—no signals, no communication. Not even distress beacons.”

Marcus exchanged a glance with Gaius. “That doesn’t happen by accident.”

The Imperius drifted to a halt above the ruined outpost, its sails folding inward as the engines whirred down. Marcus and Gaius disembarked, boots crunching against a layer of frost and brittle grass. The fortress loomed before them, its gates sagging on broken hinges. Inside, the walls bore deep claw marks, as if something large and feral had tried to tear its way in—or out.

Seneca followed them reluctantly, cradling a strange mechanical scanner that emitted soft, rhythmic beeps. “This place is dead,” he muttered. “Not even residual energy left in the eterium nodes. It’s like someone drained it.”

Marcus strode forward, unsheathing his sword as he crossed into the central courtyard. The air smelled faintly of ash, and the snow here was stained with dark patches—not blood, but some other substance, oily and iridescent.

Gaius crouched near one of the stains, running a gloved finger through it. “What in the gods’ names is this?”

“Don’t touch it,” Marcus warned sharply. “We don’t know what it is.”

Gaius wiped his glove on the stone, his expression grim. “This is no ordinary raid, Marcus. No tribe leaves behind something like this.”

Marcus’s gaze swept the ruined structures, his unease deepening. “No tribe has ever fought like this. And no one drains eterium... unless they know exactly what they’re doing.”

Seneca’s scanner gave a shrill beep. “Got something,” he muttered. “Weak signal, but it’s moving... beneath us.”

They found the entrance to the underground storage chamber hidden beneath a collapsed building. A narrow staircase led into darkness, the walls lined with rusted pipes that once carried eterium-infused steam. Marcus descended first, torch in one hand, sword in the other.

The lower levels smelled of rot and old metal, with puddles of stagnant water gathering in the corners. But worse than the smell was the sound—soft, irregular scratching noises coming from further down the corridor.

“Seneca, stay close,” Marcus ordered. “And Gaius—stay sharp.”

“I’m always sharp,” Gaius muttered, though his knuckles whitened around his sword hilt.

They moved slowly through the passage, torches flickering against damp stone. At the far end of the chamber, Marcus spotted movement—something small, darting just out of sight.

“Show yourself!” Marcus barked, advancing with his blade raised.

A shape stumbled forward—a young boy, no older than twelve, his face smeared with grime. His clothes were torn, and his eyes were wide with terror.

Gaius reached him first, kneeling beside the child. “Easy, kid. You’re safe now.”

The boy didn’t respond. He stared past them, his lips trembling. “They’re still here,” he whispered. “They never left.”

Marcus’s blood ran cold. “Who? Who’s still here?”

The boy pointed down the hall, toward the shadows. “The ones who don’t sleep.”

Before Marcus could react, the scratching noises returned—louder this time, and closer. A low, guttural hiss echoed through the chamber, followed by the soft click of metal joints.

Gaius swore under his breath. “I hate it when they make that sound.”

From the darkness emerged figures—twisted forms clad in scavenged armor, their limbs jerking unnaturally as they moved. Their eyes glowed faintly, flickering with the unmistakable gleam of corrupted eterium.

“They’re not alive,” Seneca whispered, backing away. “Not anymore.”

The creatures lunged without warning. Marcus met the first with a swift slash, his blade cleaving through rusted armor and brittle bone. But more kept coming, relentless and unfeeling, driven by some unseen force.

“Fall back!” Marcus shouted. “Gaius, cover the rear!”

The battle was chaotic—blades clashed, sparks flew, and every movement felt like fighting through a nightmare. For every creature they cut down, two more emerged from the shadows, dragging themselves forward with inhuman strength.

“We can’t fight them all!” Gaius yelled, parrying a blow that nearly knocked him off balance.

“Just hold the line!” Marcus growled, driving his sword into the chest of another attacker.

They fought their way back toward the stairwell, the boy clinging to Seneca as they retreated. Marcus held the rear, his sword arm aching from the relentless strikes, until at last, they reached the surface.

“Seal the entrance!” Marcus ordered.

Gaius slammed the iron gate shut, locking the creatures below. For now, the nightmare was contained.

Breathless, Marcus turned to the boy. “What are those things?”

The boy’s eyes were hollow, haunted by memories too dark for words. “They were... soldiers. Once.”

Marcus exchanged a grim look with Gaius. Whatever those creatures were, they weren’t just rebels.

They were something worse.