Chapter 14: Spread Out

The snowstorm finally relented as Marcus Domitus and his soldiers approached the fortress. Its dark, ancient walls jutted from the icy plains like a monument to forgotten battles, looming and silent beneath the gray sky. This was Fort Ardent—once a symbol of Rome’s might. Now, its gates stood closed, shrouded in stillness.

"That doesn’t look welcoming," Seneca muttered, pulling his cloak tighter against the wind.

Marcus narrowed his eyes, scanning the ramparts. No torches burned along the walls, and no banners flew in the wind. There were no guards, no signs of life at all. Only the distant caw of crows circling high above.

"Something’s not right," Marcus murmured. "Stay sharp. Weapons ready."

Gaius would have cracked a joke to break the tension, Marcus thought. But Gaius wasn’t here. And the silence weighed heavily in his absence.

The soldiers formed a cautious line as they marched toward the main gate. Their boots crunched against the frozen ground, the only sound breaking the eerie quiet. Seneca kept close to Marcus, fiddling with his eterium tracker, which blinked weakly in the cold.

Marcus raised a fist, signaling a halt. "Spread out. Check the walls for any sign of movement."

The men moved swiftly, fanning out along the outer defenses. Marcus approached the heavy wooden gate, laying a hand against its frost-coated surface. It felt solid, unyielding, but something about the way it stood—partially ajar—unnerved him.

"Captain," one of the soldiers whispered, motioning toward the gate’s edge. "No signs of a struggle. The doors weren’t forced."

Marcus nodded slowly. "They left willingly. Or they let something inside."

With a low groan, the gate swung open, revealing a courtyard blanketed in untouched snow. Empty barracks lined the walls, their doors hanging open, swaying gently in the wind. Wooden training dummies leaned askew, half-buried in the snow, as if abandoned in a hurry.

The soldiers entered cautiously, fanning out to secure the area. Marcus’s hand never left the hilt of his sword. He could feel it—something hidden beneath the surface, waiting to strike.

"Where is everyone?" Seneca whispered, his breath clouding the air.

Marcus shook his head. "Gone. But they didn’t take their supplies."

He gestured toward the open barracks, where crates of rations and weapon racks remained untouched. It was as if the entire garrison had vanished without warning, leaving everything behind.

Marcus moved toward the center of the courtyard, his boots crunching against the snow. As he neared the well, a faint noise reached his ears—a rhythmic tapping, barely audible beneath the wind.

"Do you hear that?" Marcus asked, glancing toward Seneca.

Seneca listened carefully, then nodded. "It’s coming from the well."

Marcus approached cautiously, peering into the dark shaft. The cold air that rose from below smelled of damp stone and iron. Then he heard it again—tap, tap, tap—echoing from deep within the well.

"Something’s down there," Marcus muttered.

One of the soldiers stepped forward. "Do you want me to—"

Marcus cut him off with a sharp gesture. "No. We need to see what we’re dealing with first."

Seneca produced a small lantern from his pack, lighting it with a flick of his wrist. The warm glow spread through the icy air as Marcus tied the lantern to a rope and lowered it slowly into the well.

They watched in tense silence as the lantern disappeared into the darkness, swaying gently on the rope. The tapping noise grew louder as the light descended, echoing up the shaft like a heartbeat.

Then, just as the lantern reached the bottom, the rope jerked violently.

"Pull it up!" Marcus barked.

The soldiers hauled on the rope, their breaths puffing in the cold air. When the lantern emerged, something clung to it—a small, metallic shard coated in rust and frost.

Seneca examined the fragment with a frown. "This... this isn’t from the fortress. It’s old. Really old."

Marcus took the shard, turning it over in his hands. It was covered in strange symbols, similar to those they had seen in the cavern beneath the rift.

"What do you think it means?" Seneca asked.

Marcus’s expression darkened. "It means we’re not alone."

The sound came suddenly—a sharp, metallic scraping from the far side of the courtyard. Marcus spun, drawing his sword as shadowy figures emerged from the open barracks. Their armor was ragged, their movements stiff and unnatural, as though they had forgotten how to walk.

"Hold the line!" Marcus shouted, rallying his men. "Form up!"

The soldiers moved quickly, raising shields as the strange figures advanced. Marcus’s sword gleamed in the lantern light as the first of the attackers lunged. He met the blow head-on, parrying with practiced ease.

The figure’s strength was unnatural—its movements jerky, yet unnervingly fast. Marcus drove his sword through its chest, but the figure did not fall. Instead, it twisted its head toward him, eyes glowing faintly with the same eerie blue light that pulsed from the rift.

"Seneca!" Marcus called over his shoulder. "What are these things?"

Seneca’s voice was tight with fear. "They’re... echoes. Fragments of what the garrison used to be."

The battle raged across the courtyard, blades flashing in the dim light. Marcus fought with precision, cutting down the strange, corrupted figures one by one, but they kept coming—silent, relentless, and seemingly endless.

"They’re not staying down!" a soldier cried, panic creeping into his voice.

"Sever the limbs!" Marcus shouted, slashing through the arm of one attacker. "They can’t fight if they can’t move!"

His men adjusted quickly, hacking at the limbs of the echoes with brutal efficiency. But the creatures fought harder, as if driven by a singular, unseen force.

"Fall back to the gate!" Marcus ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos. "We hold them there!"

The soldiers retreated in tight formation, shields locked as they moved toward the entrance. Marcus stayed at the rear, cutting down any attackers that drew too close.

"Seneca!" Marcus barked. "Seal the gate! Now!"

Seneca sprinted toward the gate, slamming it shut with a heavy thud. He pulled the iron bolt into place just as the echoes reached the other side, their hands clawing at the wood with unnatural strength.

Marcus leaned against the gate, breathing hard. The courtyard fell silent once more, save for the faint scraping of claws against the other side.

"We need answers," Marcus muttered, sheathing his sword.

Seneca nodded, catching his breath. "Whatever those things are... they’re tied to this place. Something happened here."

Marcus stared at the strange shard in his hand, the symbols etched into its surface glowing faintly in the lantern light. "And we’re going to find out what."

The fortress was supposed to be a refuge—a place to regroup, to plan their next move. But now it had become another battleground.

As Marcus looked toward the darkened barracks, one thought weighed heavily on his mind:

Whatever had taken the garrison wasn’t finished yet. And neither were they.