Chapter 11: The Knife in the Dark

The Imperius drifted silently through the night sky, gliding above a frozen expanse that seemed to stretch endlessly beneath the moon’s cold light. Marcus Domitus stood on the deck, his breath clouding the air, eyes scanning the distant horizon. Below, frost-covered plains shimmered under the stars, deceptive in their stillness.

For the first time in weeks, the ship flew without pursuit, but the tension on board was thick. Marcus could feel it—something lurking just out of reach, waiting to strike.

"Trouble doesn't always announce itself," Marcus whispered to himself.

"You’ve been saying that since we left the pass," Gaius Varro muttered, appearing at his side. "What exactly are we waiting for?"

Marcus’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword. "A sign."

Gaius chuckled softly, though the sound lacked humor. "How ominous."

The crew below decks worked in tense silence. A kind of fatigue had set in among the men—not just physical exhaustion, but something deeper, a weariness that made every glance sharp and suspicious. Marcus had seen it before, on campaigns where soldiers began to doubt the loyalty of those beside them. It was the kind of atmosphere that made men reckless—or dangerous.

Seneca emerged from below, wiping grease from his hands onto a rag. "The stabilizers are running smooth, for now. No ambushes on the horizon, no malfunctions. Maybe, for once, things are looking up."

Marcus shook his head. "It’s too quiet. Something’s wrong. I can feel it."

Seneca gave him a tired smile. "When isn’t something wrong, captain?"

Marcus didn’t answer. His instincts screamed that the danger wasn’t out there in the night—it was closer. Much closer.

The attack came without warning.

A sharp cry echoed from below decks, followed by the unmistakable clang of metal against metal. Marcus’s sword was in his hand before the sound had faded. Gaius moved beside him, and the two sprinted toward the stairwell, their boots slamming against the metal grates.

"Stay close," Marcus barked as they descended.

The narrow corridors were dimly lit by flickering lanterns. Shadows danced across the walls, and every creak of the ship seemed to carry menace. They followed the sound of the commotion to the engine room, where two soldiers lay sprawled on the floor—one dead, the other clutching a wound on his side, blood pooling beneath him.

"Who did this?" Marcus demanded, kneeling beside the injured man.

The soldier’s lips trembled, his face pale from the blood loss. "One of ours..." he whispered, gasping for breath. "A traitor..."

Gaius cursed under his breath, glancing around the cramped engine room. "One of ours? Are you sure?"

The dying soldier gave a faint nod. "He... he cut me when I saw him near the core. Said I wasn’t... supposed to be there."

His voice faltered, and then his head slumped to the side, breath escaping in a final exhale.

Marcus rose slowly, gripping his sword tighter. "We’ve got a traitor on board."

Marcus and Gaius moved swiftly through the narrow corridors, alert for any sign of the infiltrator. Every noise, every flicker of a lantern, felt like a warning. The traitor could be anyone—a soldier they trusted, an officer they had fought beside. It was the kind of betrayal that rotted armies from the inside.

"We need to get to the core," Marcus whispered. "If he sabotages it, we lose everything."

The two men reached the engine control room, where Seneca was already waiting, adjusting valves and stabilizers. "What’s going on?" Seneca asked, noticing the tension in their movements.

"Lock down the core," Marcus ordered. "We have a traitor on board."

Seneca’s eyes widened, but he didn’t hesitate. He began sealing the control consoles, fingers flying over the brass dials.

"Any idea who it is?" Seneca asked without looking up.

"Not yet," Marcus replied grimly. "But we will soon."

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the ship’s lower decks. Marcus followed the noise, Gaius close behind, their swords drawn. They moved through the labyrinth of cargo holds and supply rooms, their eyes sharp and unyielding.

The footsteps stopped abruptly, and Marcus slowed his pace, his senses on high alert. He motioned for Gaius to circle around, cutting off any escape routes.

Then, from the shadows, a figure emerged.

It was one of their own—Cassius, a veteran soldier who had fought with them since the start of the campaign. His armor was scratched and bloodied, and in his hand, he clutched a dagger stained red.

Marcus’s heart sank. "Cassius."

The soldier gave a bitter smile, his eyes cold and distant. "I didn’t want it to end this way, captain."

"Why?" Marcus demanded, lowering his sword but keeping his grip tight. "Why betray us?"

Cassius shook his head, the ghost of regret flickering across his face. "Because Rome is already dead. You just don’t see it yet."

"Drop the knife," Marcus ordered, his voice calm but firm. "We can end this without more bloodshed."

Cassius’s grip tightened on the dagger. "It’s too late for that."

Before Marcus could react, Cassius lunged. The two men collided in a flurry of movement, blades flashing in the dim light. Marcus deflected the first strike, twisting his body to avoid the second.

The fight was brutal, swift, and intimate—two soldiers who knew each other’s movements all too well. Gaius circled, waiting for an opening, but Marcus gave him a subtle shake of the head. This was his fight.

Cassius fought with the desperation of a man who knew his time was running out. Every strike was fierce, every movement fueled by regret and anger. But Marcus was faster, more precise. He parried one final blow, then drove the hilt of his sword into Cassius’s temple.

The traitor crumpled to the ground, unconscious but alive.

Marcus stood over Cassius’s prone form, breathing hard. Gaius sheathed his sword, his expression unreadable. "What do we do with him?"

"Lock him in the brig," Marcus replied, wiping the blood from his blade. "We’ll deal with him once we reach safer ground."

Seneca appeared in the doorway, his face pale from the tension. "The core is secure. What happened?"

"We found our traitor," Marcus said quietly. "But this isn’t over."

Seneca frowned. "What do you mean?"

Marcus glanced down at Cassius, his mind racing. "He said something. Something about Rome being already dead."

Gaius scoffed. "Madness. He’s just a traitor looking for excuses."

"Maybe," Marcus murmured, though a knot of doubt tightened in his chest. "Or maybe he knows something we don’t."

The Imperius sailed through the night, the air thick with unspoken tension. The traitor was in chains, but Marcus knew the real danger still lay ahead. Cassius’s words echoed in his mind, a warning he couldn’t shake.

Rome is already dead.

Marcus leaned against the railing, staring out at the dark horizon. Gaius stood beside him, silent for once. The sky ahead was clear, but Marcus knew better than to trust it. Storms didn’t always announce themselves with thunder.

And when they came, they hit hard.

"We’re not done yet," Marcus whispered, his breath a mist in the cold night air.

"No," Gaius agreed quietly. "We’re just getting started."