Chapter 4: Storm over the Forests

The forest stretched endlessly beneath a sky choked with dense clouds. The storm had arrived without warning, rolling in with unnatural fury—thunder cracking like war drums, rain hammering down in relentless sheets. Visibility dropped to mere meters as the winds howled through the trees, scattering leaves like broken feathers.

Marcus Domitus tightened his cloak, water pouring off the hood, while his soldiers cursed the storm’s sudden arrival. Trees groaned under the pressure of the wind, and mud clung to every step they took, turning the ground into a battlefield of its own. The Imperius waited hidden among the clouds above, unable to assist until the weather cleared. They were on their own.

“This storm isn’t natural,” Seneca muttered, his voice barely audible over the roaring wind. His mechanical scanner sputtered, sparks flying as rainwater trickled into its delicate gears. “The readings are... wrong. It’s like the storm has its own pulse.”

Gaius Varro, who trudged alongside Marcus with a scowl, shook water from his eyes. “First ghosts, now cursed weather? If the barbarians don’t kill us, the gods will.”

Marcus pressed on through the deluge, unwilling to slow. “We make it to the treeline. No stops.”

The squad, fifteen soldiers in total, followed in grim silence, weapons at the ready. Every shadow cast by the flickering lightning seemed to move, every gust of wind carried the faint suggestion of whispered voices. The deeper they ventured into the forest, the more Marcus felt the sensation—an awareness crawling along the edge of his mind, as if the forest itself were watching.

“Hold,” Marcus commanded, raising a hand as they reached a small clearing. His soldiers spread out, forming a defensive circle, their breath steaming in the cold. Lightning flashed again, and in that brief moment, Marcus saw something—just at the edge of sight.

A figure, standing beneath the canopy. Motionless. Watching.

Gaius squinted into the darkness. “You see that?”

“I saw it,” Marcus confirmed. His heart pounded, but he forced himself to remain calm. “Don’t engage until I say.”

A strange noise followed—a low, melodic hum that rose and fell with the storm, as though carried by the wind itself. The soldiers shifted uneasily, exchanging nervous glances. Seneca’s hands trembled on his scanner, which flickered and went dead.

Then the wind shifted, and the hum took on a shape—words, distant and unclear, like a voice calling from across a vast chasm.

“...leave... or be consumed...”

The words crawled into Marcus’s mind, unsettling and unfamiliar. They were not a warning; they were a promise. He clenched his jaw and signaled the men forward, determined not to lose control to fear.

But as the squad moved deeper into the forest, Marcus felt it—an oppressive weight pressing down on them, as if the very air resisted their presence. Each step became harder than the last, the mud sucking at their boots, the rain blurring the path ahead.

“This place feels... wrong,” Gaius muttered under his breath, gripping his sword tighter. His usual humor had vanished, replaced by tension Marcus rarely saw in him.

“You think the barbarians did this?” one of the soldiers asked, glancing nervously at the shadows between the trees.

“Whatever it is,” Marcus said, “it’s not just barbarians. Keep moving.”

They pressed forward until they stumbled upon a crude encampment—empty tents sagging under the weight of rain, fires long extinguished, and weapons scattered across the ground. It looked as though the occupants had fled in a hurry.

Gaius bent to examine a weapon—a spear with its tip shattered, the wooden shaft splintered. “Whatever they were fighting... it wasn’t just a skirmish.”

“Something drove them out,” Marcus murmured, eyes scanning the tree line. “And it wasn’t us.”

The camp bore signs of panic—supplies abandoned, armor discarded mid-flight. But no bodies. No blood. Just emptiness.

Seneca knelt by a pile of strange stones arranged in a rough circle, their surfaces etched with jagged symbols. His brow furrowed as he traced the markings with a gloved hand. “These aren’t tribal runes. They look... mathematical. Like patterns designed for a purpose.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes. “Eterium-related?”

“Possibly,” Seneca said, “but not in any way I recognize.”

Before Marcus could respond, the air around them shifted—an unnatural stillness settling over the camp. The storm quieted for a brief moment, as if holding its breath.

Then the forest erupted with movement.

Figures emerged from the shadows—tall, lithe shapes draped in strange, blackened armor. Their faces were hidden behind masks fashioned from bone and metal, and their weapons glimmered with shards of raw eterium. They moved with unsettling grace, circling the Romans like predators sizing up prey.

“Form up!” Marcus barked, raising his sword.

The soldiers snapped into formation, shields locking together with a metallic clatter. Gaius stood at Marcus’s side, blade drawn, his expression dark.

“These aren’t Goths,” Gaius muttered. “They don’t fight like barbarians.”

Marcus agreed. These warriors moved too fluidly, too deliberately—like soldiers trained for precision, not chaos. And there was something else, something far more disturbing. Their presence felt... cold, as though the life had been drained from them.

One of the figures stepped forward, its voice rasping through the storm like wind over broken glass. “This land is not yours.”

Marcus’s grip tightened on his sword. “It belongs to Rome.”

“No,” the figure hissed. “Not anymore.”

Without warning, the figure lunged, blade flashing in the stormlight. Marcus parried the strike, and the two warriors clashed with brutal efficiency—steel against steel, sparks flying as rain poured down around them.

The other masked figures surged forward, and the forest erupted into chaos. Marcus’s soldiers fought fiercely, but these enemies were unlike any they had faced before—faster, stronger, their movements perfectly synchronized. Every strike was calculated, every parry precise.

Gaius fought beside Marcus, the two men moving in tandem. “These bastards are trained,” Gaius growled, slashing at an opponent. “This isn’t some rebel rabble.”

Marcus blocked a blow aimed at his head, driving his attacker back with a powerful kick. “Then we fight smarter.”

The battle was brutal and swift. Blood mixed with rain as swords cut through flesh and armor alike. But for every enemy they felled, more seemed to emerge from the shadows, relentless and unyielding.

Marcus knew they couldn’t win—not like this.

“Fall back!” he shouted over the storm. “Regroup by the river!”

The soldiers disengaged, retreating through the forest in a controlled withdrawal. Gaius covered the rear, cutting down any pursuers who got too close. Seneca led the way, guiding them toward the river with the boy from the previous chapter clinging to him, his face pale with fear.

As they reached the riverbank, Marcus spotted their salvation—a narrow stone bridge spanning the rushing waters. “Across the bridge! Now!”

The soldiers sprinted across, boots pounding against wet stone. Marcus was the last to cross, turning just in time to see the masked figures halt at the edge of the forest, watching silently from the shadows.

They did not follow.

Marcus sheathed his sword, breathing hard as the rain continued to pour. “What the hell was that?”

Gaius spat on the ground, wiping rain from his face. “Something worse than Goths.”

Seneca’s expression was grim as he checked the boy, who huddled against him, trembling. “They’re not just soldiers,” Seneca whispered. “They’re hunters.”

Marcus stared back at the forest, where the masked figures still stood, unmoving. He knew in his gut that this was only the beginning.

The storm wasn’t just a coincidence. It was a warning.