Chapter 15: The Burden of Command

A pale moon crept across the night sky, casting faint light over the snowbound fortress. The gate stood bolted, groaning under the weight of the unnatural forces pressing against it. Marcus Domitus paced the narrow guard tower above the wall, his breath misting in the freezing air. Below him, the rest of his men huddled in silence, sharpening blades or watching the shadows for signs of movement.

This was a fragile moment—one that could shatter with the slightest mistake.

Seneca crouched beside a stack of supply crates, his hands busy with the broken eterium scanner. "This thing is useless," he muttered, tossing a cracked wire aside. "I can’t get a reading. Too much interference from whatever those... echoes are."

"Then we’ll fight blind," Marcus replied grimly. "It wouldn’t be the first time."

Gaius would have known what to say here, Marcus thought, to ease the tension and keep spirits high. But Gaius wasn’t with them, and each step without him felt heavier.

"We need to send word back to the nearest outpost," Marcus said, breaking the silence. "If reinforcements don’t come soon, we won’t last the night."

"Even if the signal gets through," Seneca muttered, adjusting his cloak, "it could be days before they arrive."

Marcus gave him a hard look. "Then we hold until they do."

He motioned to two of his soldiers. "Get the fire lit. Make it bright—something they can see for miles."

The men saluted and set to work, piling kindling onto the iron brazier at the center of the wall. Sparks leapt into the cold air, and soon a pillar of flame roared to life, casting flickering light over the snow-covered courtyard.

Marcus stared toward the distant mountains, hoping—against reason—that someone out there would see their flame and answer.

The temperature dropped further as the night deepened. Marcus paced along the ramparts, keeping his men sharp and ready. Below, Seneca and the others stood guard, casting uneasy glances toward the gate as the strange echoes continued their relentless scratching.

"This cold isn’t natural," Seneca muttered, rubbing his hands together. "It’s like it’s... following us."

Marcus nodded grimly. "We’re being watched. And not just by the things outside."

The thought hung heavy in the air—an unseen presence, waiting in the dark, patient and calculating.

"We need to stay ahead of it," Marcus said quietly. "Whatever’s coming... it wants us off balance."

A sharp knock echoed from the heavy gate. The soldiers froze, their hands tightening on their weapons.

"That can’t be right," one soldier whispered. "No one could survive out there."

Marcus signaled for silence, motioning for his men to stay ready. He approached the gate cautiously, his sword drawn.

"Who’s out there?" he called, his voice cutting through the cold night.

A moment of silence followed. Then a voice—low, strained, and familiar. "It’s me... Gaius."

Marcus’s heart lurched. "Gaius?"

"It’s me!" the voice repeated, more urgently this time. "Open the gate!"

Seneca glanced at Marcus, his brow furrowed in doubt. "How did he get here? No one’s supposed to survive those things."

Marcus hesitated, his instincts warring with hope. He had fought beside Gaius for years—knew his voice, his mannerisms—but this... this didn’t feel right.

"Prove it’s you," Marcus demanded, his grip tightening on his sword.

There was a pause. Then, from the other side: "You still owe me a drink from the last campaign. Don’t tell me you forgot, captain."

Marcus clenched his jaw. It was the kind of thing only Gaius would say. But something about the tone—it was close, yet... off. As though it was being worn like a mask.

"We can’t risk it," Seneca whispered urgently. "If it’s not him—if it’s one of those things—"

Marcus cut him off with a sharp glance. "We can’t leave him out there."

He raised a hand to the soldiers guarding the gate. "Open it. But stay alert."

The heavy gate creaked open, revealing Gaius—tattered, frostbitten, and slumped against the doorway. His eyes were sunken, his skin pale, and his armor caked with ice.

Marcus rushed forward, catching his friend as he stumbled. "You look like hell," he muttered, a mixture of relief and suspicion curling in his chest.

Gaius gave a weak grin. "Feel worse."

Seneca watched from the shadows, his expression tight. "We need to make sure he’s not compromised."

Marcus nodded. "Take him to the infirmary. Get him warm and checked over."

Two soldiers helped Gaius toward the barracks, and Marcus stood watching them disappear into the shadows. Something still didn’t sit right.

Later that night, Marcus sat across from Gaius, who lay bundled in furs by the fire. The infirmary was quiet, save for the crackling of flames and the soft hum of eterium-powered lanterns.

"I need to know how you survived," Marcus said quietly, keeping his gaze locked on Gaius.

Gaius shifted under the blankets, his expression weary. "After the cavern collapsed, I slipped out through a side passage. It was close, but I made it."

Marcus folded his arms. "And the Iron Wolves? How’d you get past them?"

Gaius hesitated, his gaze flickering for just a moment. "Got lucky, I guess."

"Lucky," Marcus repeated flatly.

Seneca stood in the corner, watching the exchange with folded arms. "Luck doesn’t get you past the Wolves."

Gaius’s grin faltered, and for the first time, Marcus saw something in his friend’s eyes that unsettled him—something cold and distant, like a stranger wearing his face.

"You don’t trust me," Gaius murmured, his voice low.

Marcus leaned forward, his eyes hard. "I trust Gaius. I’m not sure if you’re him."

A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling fire. Gaius looked down at his hands, clenching them into fists. "It’s me, Marcus. I swear it."

Marcus’s instincts screamed otherwise, but doubt lingered at the edge of his mind. If it was truly Gaius, leaving him in suspicion would fracture their bond at a time they couldn’t afford.

"Rest for now," Marcus said quietly. "But if you’ve lied to me... you won’t get another chance."

Gaius nodded slowly, pulling the blankets tighter around himself. "I understand."

Marcus rose and gestured for Seneca to follow him outside, leaving Gaius by the fire.

Out in the cold night air, Seneca’s breath steamed as he adjusted his cloak. "You know that’s not him, right?" he whispered.

Marcus didn’t respond immediately, staring into the night. "I know," he muttered. "But if it’s not him... then what is it?"

Seneca shook his head. "I don’t know. But whatever it is, it’s wearing your friend’s face—and we need to be ready when it shows its true colors."

Marcus gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white against the leather. "If it comes to that, we’ll be ready."

Above them, the signal fire still burned, its flickering flame a fragile beacon in the dark wilderness.

But Marcus knew the fire wouldn’t burn forever. And when it finally went out, the truth—whatever it was—would come to light.