Chapter 6: The Iron Wolves of Germania

The Imperius sliced through the frigid northern skies like a silent predator, its engines thrumming with the steady pulse of eterium. Below, the dense forests of Germania stretched out like a shadowed sea, broken only by jagged cliffs and frozen rivers winding like scars across the landscape. Ice clung to the branches of pine trees, and the wind howled with an eerie intensity, as though warning travelers to turn back.

Marcus Domitus stood at the prow, the cold biting through his armor. His gaze was fixed on the jagged horizon, where the first rays of dawn struggled to pierce the thick clouds. He had fought in many campaigns across the empire, but something about this mission felt different. Ominous. Like an invisible hand was pushing them toward something far worse than a simple skirmish with barbarians.

“We’ll touch down in five minutes, Captain,” Seneca called from the helm, adjusting the flight stabilizers.

Marcus gave a curt nod, his thoughts already turning to the task ahead. They had orders to intercept a barbarian raiding party that had attacked several Roman outposts. But these weren’t just any raiders—the reports spoke of warriors clad in blackened steel, with weapons crackling unnaturally, fueled by eterium shards scavenged from forgotten battlefields.

“I hope these wolves fight better than the last lot,” Gaius Varro muttered, joining Marcus at the railing. “At least they’ll give us some proper sport.”

Marcus glanced at his second-in-command, noting the restless gleam in his friend’s eyes. Gaius thrived on battle, but even his usual bravado was tinged with unease.

“They’re not ordinary raiders, Gaius,” Marcus said grimly. “The scouts called them Iron Wolves. Something’s not right about them.”

Gaius shrugged, though his smile was tight. “A wolf’s just a dog with sharper teeth. And dogs bleed the same.”

Marcus didn’t share his optimism. Something gnawed at him—a sense that they were walking into a trap. But there was no time for doubt.

The Imperius descended with a low hum, its metal wings folding inward as the engines powered down. The landing bay opened with a hiss of steam, and Marcus led his men down the ramp, boots crunching against the snow-covered ground.

They had touched down near the ruins of a Roman outpost, now little more than a scattering of broken walls and burned towers. A blackened standard fluttered weakly in the wind, the imperial eagle barely visible beneath layers of soot and grime.

“Search the area,” Marcus ordered. “Look for survivors—or bodies.”

The soldiers fanned out in groups, their cloaks billowing as they moved through the ruins. Gaius remained at Marcus’s side, his sword already drawn.

Seneca crouched beside a collapsed wall, running his fingers over strange scorch marks etched into the stone. “These weren’t caused by fire,” he murmured, his voice laced with curiosity. “It’s as if the stone itself melted.”

Marcus knelt beside him, tracing the marks with a gloved hand. The surface was smooth and cold, as though the heat that had caused it had vanished without a trace. “Eterium?”

“Not just eterium,” Seneca whispered. “Something... corrupted. It’s unstable.”

Before Marcus could respond, a low growl echoed through the ruins—a deep, guttural sound that sent a shiver down his spine. The soldiers froze, their hands tightening around their weapons.

“Form up,” Marcus ordered, rising to his feet. “Stay alert.”

The growl deepened, reverberating through the air like the rumble of distant thunder. Then, from the shadows of the forest, figures began to emerge—tall, broad-shouldered warriors clad in blackened armor that gleamed like obsidian. Their helmets were shaped like snarling wolves, and their gauntlets crackled with jagged lines of blue energy.

The Iron Wolves had arrived.

The air snapped with tension as the two forces stood across from each other, the snow-covered battlefield a stark canvas waiting to be painted with blood. Marcus raised his sword, its polished blade gleaming in the dim light.

“Hold the line!” he barked. “Do not break formation!”

The Iron Wolves moved with unsettling speed, closing the distance in a matter of heartbeats. Their weapons crackled with eterium energy, slicing through the air with deadly precision. Marcus met the first blow with a powerful parry, sparks flying as his sword clanged against a jagged axe.

Gaius fought beside him, his laughter fierce and wild as he drove his blade through the throat of an armored raider. “They bleed!” he shouted triumphantly. “See? Wolves or not, they bleed!”

But Marcus wasn’t so sure. The Iron Wolves fought with an almost mechanical precision, their movements synchronized and unnervingly efficient. For every warrior they cut down, another surged forward, relentless and unfeeling.

“They’re not just soldiers,” Marcus muttered under his breath, deflecting another strike. “They’re something else.”

Seneca, crouched behind a ruined wall, pulled a small mechanical device from his satchel and began adjusting its gears. “These suits—look at them! They’re drawing energy from eterium cores embedded in the armor. If we can disrupt the flow—”

“Less talking, more fighting!” Gaius shouted, slashing through the arm of another attacker.

The battle raged on, the snow stained crimson beneath the clash of steel. Marcus fought with brutal efficiency, his sword a blur as he cut down one enemy after another. But the Iron Wolves kept coming, their eyes glowing with the unnatural light of corrupted eterium.

“We can’t hold them!” a soldier cried, his voice ragged with fear. “They’re too strong!”

Marcus knew he was right. They were being overwhelmed, pushed back step by step toward the ruins. If they didn’t act fast, they would be slaughtered.

“Seneca!” Marcus shouted over the din. “Whatever you’re doing—do it now!”

Seneca twisted the final gear on his device and slammed it against the ground. A pulse of energy rippled outward, disrupting the flow of eterium within the Iron Wolves’ armor. The warriors faltered, their movements slowing as the glow in their eyes flickered and dimmed.

“Now!” Marcus roared. “Push forward!”

The Roman soldiers surged, driving the disoriented raiders back with renewed ferocity. Marcus’s sword cleaved through armor and flesh, and Gaius fought like a man possessed, his laughter echoing through the battlefield.

Within moments, the tide of the battle shifted. The remaining Iron Wolves, their armor useless without the eterium flow, retreated into the forest, vanishing into the shadows from which they had come.

The battlefield fell silent, save for the ragged breaths of the survivors. Marcus stood in the center of the carnage, his sword dripping with blood. Around him, his men tended to the wounded and gathered what little supplies remained.

“That was too close,” Gaius muttered, wiping his blade on the cloak of a fallen enemy. “What the hell were those things?”

“Not barbarians,” Marcus replied grimly. “Something far worse.”

Seneca knelt beside one of the fallen Iron Wolves, prying open the helmet to reveal the lifeless face beneath. The man’s eyes were dull and glassy, his skin pale and cold.

“They weren’t just soldiers,” Seneca whispered, his voice tinged with unease. “They were altered—fused with eterium in ways I’ve never seen.”

Marcus sheathed his sword, his mind racing. “This isn’t just a rebellion. Someone’s using these warriors to test something. And if we don’t stop them—”

“Rome will be next,” Gaius finished, his grin replaced by a grim scowl.

Marcus nodded. The battle might be over, but the war was just beginning.

“Get the wounded aboard the Imperius,” Marcus ordered. “We need to move—now.”