Chapter 13: The Ruins We Leave Behind

The air was bitter and sharp, biting at exposed skin as Marcus Domitus and his soldiers trudged through the wilderness. Snowflakes drifted lazily from a leaden sky, settling across the jagged landscape. Every breath felt heavy, a constant reminder of how far they had marched since escaping the ruined cavern.

The mountains behind them loomed like silent sentinels, jagged peaks rising into the clouds, their dark crevices hiding enemies and secrets. The mission to seal the rift had come at a high price—Gaius was still missing, and Marcus couldn’t shake the weight of guilt pressing on his chest.

But survival demanded that they keep moving.

"Keep the pace steady!" Marcus called, his voice hoarse from the cold. "No stragglers."

His men shuffled forward, their faces drawn and pale, exhaustion setting deep into their bones. They had been on the march for hours, navigating through snowdrifts and frozen ravines. There was no path, only harsh wilderness, but Marcus knew they had to reach safer ground before nightfall.

"How much farther?" Seneca asked, his breath steaming in the cold air. He clutched a thick cloak tightly around him, his steps faltering on the uneven ground.

"Far enough to stay out of their reach," Marcus replied grimly.

The wind shifted suddenly, carrying with it a faint, distant sound—the sharp clang of metal on metal. Marcus’s heart skipped a beat.

"Did you hear that?" Seneca whispered, his hand falling to the hilt of a short blade strapped to his belt.

Marcus nodded, raising a hand to signal the others. "Stop. Everyone, quiet."

The soldiers froze, tension settling over them like a second skin. The sound came again, sharper this time—echoing through the narrow ravine like a distant bell. Marcus scanned the horizon, his senses sharpened by years of experience.

"Could be a skirmish," one of the soldiers muttered. "Or maybe..."

"It’s them," Marcus interrupted, his voice low. "The Iron Wolves. They’re not far."

Seneca’s face paled. "We can’t outrun them, not with the men in this condition."

Marcus knew he was right. His soldiers were on the verge of collapse, their strength drained by cold and fatigue. Fighting now would be suicide.

"We’ll need a diversion," Marcus said, his mind racing through options. He glanced at the steep cliffs that framed the path ahead. "If we can draw them into the pass, we might be able to slow them down."

"That’s a big 'if,' captain," Seneca muttered.

Marcus gave a tight smile. "It’s the only option we have."

They reached a narrow choke point between two cliffs—a natural bottleneck where the ground dipped into a narrow ravine. Marcus gathered the soldiers around him, his voice low and urgent.

"We’ll plant charges along the ridge," he explained. "When they follow us into the pass, we trigger the explosives. The rocks will bury them."

"Assuming they take the bait," Seneca said doubtfully.

"They will," Marcus replied. "They think we’re running scared."

He turned to one of the younger soldiers, a boy no older than twenty. "Take three men and circle back toward the cliffs. Place the charges, then signal when you’re ready."

The boy nodded, his face pale but determined. "Yes, captain."

Marcus watched him go, a knot of worry tightening in his chest. They were working on borrowed time. Every moment counted.

The soldiers huddled in silence, waiting for the signal. Snow drifted lazily from the sky, settling on their armor and melting into rivulets that ran down their faces.

Seneca crouched beside Marcus, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Do you think they’ll come?"

"They’re already here," Marcus murmured, his gaze locked on the distant ridge.

And then he saw them—figures moving in the distance, dark shapes against the snow. The Iron Wolves were approaching, their black armor gleaming beneath the gray sky, their movements deliberate and relentless.

"They’re closing in," Seneca whispered.

"Hold steady," Marcus ordered, gripping the hilt of his sword. "Not yet."

The minutes stretched into what felt like hours as the enemy drew closer. Marcus’s heart pounded in his chest, but he kept his expression calm. His soldiers needed to see confidence, not fear.

Finally, the signal came—a sharp whistle that echoed through the pass.

"Now!" Marcus shouted.

The soldiers triggered the charges, and the ground shook as the explosives detonated. A deafening roar filled the air as rocks tumbled down from the cliffs, crashing into the ravine below. The Iron Wolves were caught in the avalanche, their armor glinting briefly before being swallowed by dust and debris.

Marcus stood at the edge of the pass, his sword drawn, watching as the dust settled. "That should slow them down," he said quietly.

Seneca gave a nervous laugh. "That was... surprisingly effective."

Marcus allowed himself a brief smile. "Let’s not stick around to find out how long it holds. Move out!"

The soldiers regrouped quickly, moving down the path with renewed urgency. The Iron Wolves were buried, but Marcus knew it wouldn’t be for long. They needed to reach friendly ground—and fast.

As they marched through the snow, Seneca fell into step beside Marcus. "Do you think Gaius made it out?" he asked quietly.

Marcus’s expression darkened. "I don’t know," he admitted. "But we’ll find him."

"And if we don’t?"

Marcus gave Seneca a hard look. "We will."

As night began to fall, the soldiers reached the edge of the wilderness, where a vast expanse of frozen plains stretched before them. In the distance, Marcus could see the faint outline of a fortress—one of the last outposts still loyal to the empire.

"That’s our destination," Marcus said, pointing toward the distant walls. "We’ll rest there and plan our next move."

Seneca gave a tired nod. "And after that?"

Marcus’s eyes narrowed as he looked back toward the mountains, where the Iron Wolves lay buried beneath the rocks. "We keep going," he said quietly. "Until this is finished."

They set out across the plains, their footsteps leaving shallow prints in the snow. The wind howled around them, cold and unforgiving, but Marcus felt a strange sense of calm settle over him.

For the first time in days, he felt something close to hope. The path ahead was long, and the dangers were many, but he knew they would endure. They had to.

Rome depended on it.