Chapter 9: The Northern Insurgents

The Imperius sliced through the freezing winds of the northern expanse, its hull groaning under the pressure of relentless gusts. The terrain below had shifted from dense forest to a barren wasteland, jagged rocks piercing through snow-covered plains like the bones of a buried titan. The enemy encampment lay just beyond these ridges—an alliance of rebels, exiles, and northern tribes.

Marcus Domitus stood on the ship’s deck, his hands clasped behind his back. The chill in the air seemed sharper than usual, a fitting prelude to the battle awaiting them. He knew this insurgency wasn’t like the chaotic barbarian skirmishes Rome was used to. These rebels were organized, deliberate, and disturbingly efficient.

"They're not just insurgents," Marcus whispered to himself. "They're builders."

Gaius Varro joined him, adjusting the leather straps on his gauntlets. "You always get that look when you’re about to make us do something dangerous," he remarked, raising an eyebrow.

"Good." Marcus turned, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. "Means you’re paying attention."

"Should I start saying my prayers now or wait until the fighting starts?" Gaius asked with a grin, but Marcus could see the seriousness in his friend’s eyes.

"Wait until it starts," Marcus replied. "Then pray we survive."

The Imperius hovered over the ridge, concealed by heavy clouds and out of sight from the encampment below. Marcus, Gaius, and a small detachment of soldiers descended by rope into the valley, moving quickly across the frozen ground. Each step crunched softly underfoot, and the bitter air stung their lungs with every breath.

Seneca brought up the rear, adjusting the straps on a bulky device slung across his back. "We won’t have long once we’re inside," he warned. "If they spot us, every tribal warrior within ten miles will come running."

"Then we don’t get spotted," Marcus said flatly, leading the group toward the outskirts of the camp.

They approached the rebel encampment under the cover of darkness. It was a chaotic sprawl of makeshift tents, wooden barricades, and war machines assembled from scavenged Roman parts. Fires dotted the landscape, their flickering light casting long shadows against the snow.

Marcus crouched behind a broken wagon, scanning the camp. "They’re better supplied than we thought," he murmured. "Look at those machines—Roman engineering. Someone’s arming them."

Gaius squinted toward a pile of dismantled catapults. "This isn’t just a rebellion. It’s a workshop."

Seneca knelt beside them, fidgeting with a small spherical device. "If I plant this near the eterium tanks, it’ll disrupt the power flow and disable their war machines. But it’ll also make a hell of a noise."

Marcus nodded. "Good. We’ll only need one noise."

They slipped deeper into the camp, sticking to the shadows. The smell of burning wood and wet leather filled the air, mixed with the distant clatter of hammers on metal. As they moved closer to the center, Marcus’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of a figure standing alone near one of the larger tents—a tall man in armor that looked distinctly Roman.

"That’s no barbarian," Gaius whispered, narrowing his eyes. "What’s a Roman officer doing here?"

Marcus’s expression darkened. "A traitor."

The officer stood with his back to them, inspecting a crate of eterium shards. His armor, though battered, still bore the faint insignia of the imperial eagle—a mark that should have meant loyalty, now tarnished by betrayal.

"Hold," Marcus whispered, raising a hand to stop his men. "We need him alive."

Gaius gave a slow nod, unsheathing a curved dagger. "Alive, but maybe missing a few fingers?"

"Later," Marcus replied dryly. "For now, we need answers."

They moved swiftly, surrounding the officer before he could react. Gaius tackled him to the ground with practiced ease, pinning him with a knee against his back.

"Don’t move," Marcus said, pressing the tip of his sword against the officer’s neck. "Talk, and you live. Lie, and I’ll let Gaius get creative."

The officer gasped, his breath steaming in the cold air. "You don’t understand—"

"Then explain," Marcus interrupted coldly. "Why is an imperial officer helping the enemy?"

The man struggled, his voice hoarse. "I wasn’t given a choice. They have something... something that could end the empire if we don’t stop it."

Marcus’s grip on his sword tightened. "What do they have?"

"An ancient artifact," the officer whispered. "It’s buried beneath this camp. They’ve been trying to unlock it for weeks. If they succeed..." He trailed off, his face pale with fear.

Gaius gave Marcus a grim look. "Sounds like the kind of thing we should stop."

Marcus nodded, sheathing his sword. "Seneca, plant the device. We blow this place apart and take that artifact with it."

The camp stirred as Seneca placed the disruptor near the eterium tanks. The hum of machinery faltered, and the fires dimmed as the rebels scrambled to restore power. Marcus and his men moved swiftly, cutting through the confusion like shadows in the night.

"Five minutes until detonation," Seneca warned, adjusting the device’s timer. "We need to get clear."

They sprinted through the camp, dodging between tents and barricades. Rebel warriors shouted in confusion, and alarm horns blared across the valley. Marcus could hear the rumble of enemy reinforcements approaching, their footsteps pounding like thunder over the frozen ground.

"Almost there!" Gaius shouted, pulling Marcus toward the extraction point. "The ropes are just ahead—"

A sudden explosion rocked the camp as the disruptor detonated prematurely. The blast sent a shockwave through the valley, throwing Marcus and his men to the ground. Eterium tanks erupted in bursts of blue fire, consuming everything in their path.

Marcus staggered to his feet, his ears ringing. "Gaius!" he shouted, searching through the smoke. "Seneca!"

"I’m here!" Gaius coughed, emerging from the wreckage. He hauled Seneca to his feet, the engineer groaning as he clutched his bruised ribs. "We’re not dead yet."

Marcus scanned the burning camp, his mind racing. They had disrupted the enemy’s plans, but the artifact was still buried beneath the ruins—and the rebels weren’t going to give up that easily.

"We need to move," Marcus said, helping Seneca to his feet. "This isn’t over."

The Imperius loomed above them, ropes dangling from the deck as the crew prepared for extraction. Marcus and his men scrambled up the ropes, their muscles burning with exertion. Below them, the camp burned, and the rebels scattered like ants from a broken hive.

As they reached the safety of the ship, Marcus turned back toward the valley. The artifact remained hidden beneath the ice, untouched but not forgotten. Whatever power the rebels sought still lingered—waiting for someone brave enough, or foolish enough, to claim it.

Gaius clapped Marcus on the shoulder, his grin returning despite the chaos. "Not bad for a day’s work, eh?"

Marcus gave a tired smile. "Let’s hope it was enough."

Seneca leaned against the railing, catching his breath. "If that artifact stays buried, maybe it will be."

Marcus nodded, though a familiar weight settled in his chest. "Maybe," he murmured. "But somehow, I doubt it."