Chapter 17: The Broken Oath

The bitter wind howled through the crumbled watchtower as Marcus Domitus gathered his men beneath the twilight sky. Their faces were etched with exhaustion, each of them haunted by what they had encountered in the cavern. The echoes had retreated for now, but Marcus knew they were only a taste of what was coming.

He scanned the horizon. Beyond the distant mountains, darkness spread like an unspoken promise. They were no closer to understanding what hunted them—and no closer to trusting Gaius.

Seneca knelt beside the dwindling fire, warming his hands against the cold. "We can’t keep going like this, Marcus. The men need rest. We all do."

Marcus stood with his back to the fire, arms crossed. "We’ll rest when we reach safer ground. If there’s such a thing left."

Gaius leaned against a frost-covered wall, his movements slow and deliberate. "If you don’t trust me, just say it, Marcus."

Marcus met his gaze, expression unreadable. "Trust isn’t something you earn back with words, Gaius."

"I came back, didn’t I?" Gaius shot back, frustration flickering in his eyes. "That has to count for something."

"It counts," Marcus said quietly. "But it doesn’t erase the doubt."

Marcus turned to the gathered soldiers, his voice low but firm. "When we joined the legion, we took an oath. We promised to protect Rome—no matter what. That oath still holds, even now."

The men listened in silence, their faces grim. They were soldiers, but they were also tired, worn thin by endless battles and creeping uncertainty.

"We move at dawn," Marcus continued. "The enemy is gathering, and we need to find out what they’re planning. If we falter now, we lose everything."

Drusus, standing at the back of the group, folded his arms. "And what happens if the oath breaks us before the enemy does?"

Marcus’s gaze hardened. "Then we fight broken."

Later that night, Marcus found himself alone with Gaius, seated on a stone ledge overlooking the snowbound wilderness. The two men sat in heavy silence, the wind whistling through the ruins.

"You think I’ve changed," Gaius murmured, not looking at Marcus.

Marcus exhaled slowly. "I know you have. The question is how much."

Gaius leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Something followed me out of that cavern. I feel it... inside me. Like a crack that’s spreading." He clenched his hands into fists. "I don’t know how much longer I can keep it from breaking."

Marcus studied his friend’s profile, searching for the man he once knew. "Then fight it, Gaius. Fight it until you can’t anymore."

Gaius gave a bitter laugh. "Easy for you to say."

"It’s the only choice we have," Marcus replied. "We keep fighting. No matter what."

At first light, the soldiers set out from the watchtower, following a narrow path that wound through the cliffs. The air was sharp, carrying the distant scent of pine and frost. Every step forward felt heavier than the last, weighed down by the knowledge that the enemy was watching—waiting to strike.

Seneca’s scanner hummed faintly as they marched, picking up scattered traces of eterium energy. "The readings are faint," he muttered. "But they’re consistent. Whatever’s out here... it’s close."

Marcus kept his sword hand loose, ready for whatever lay ahead. "Stay alert. They’ll try to draw us off the path."

Drusus scowled, glancing at the snow-covered trail. "Feels more like we’re walking into a trap."

"Every path is a trap if you think that way," Marcus said quietly. "We have no choice but to move forward."

They reached a dense forest as midday approached, the trees crowding close together, their branches heavy with snow. The path narrowed, forcing the soldiers to move single file through the shadows.

Marcus’s instincts flared as they entered the woods. Something was wrong—too quiet, too still. His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword, his senses straining.

"Hold!" Marcus hissed, raising a fist.

The soldiers stopped in their tracks, weapons drawn. A moment of silence stretched thin between the trees, broken only by the whisper of falling snow.

Then, without warning, the forest erupted in chaos. Dark figures surged from the shadows—armored raiders with jagged weapons, their faces hidden behind steel masks.

"Ambush!" Marcus shouted. "Form up! Defend the line!"

The battle was swift and brutal. Marcus fought at the front, his blade moving like a flash of silver in the cold air. His soldiers met the attackers head-on, their shields locking together in a desperate attempt to hold the line.

Gaius fought beside him, wielding his sword with deadly precision. For a moment, Marcus felt a flicker of hope—his old friend, fighting like the man he once knew. But then he saw it—the faint glow in Gaius’s eyes, the same unnatural light that flickered within the echoes.

"Gaius!" Marcus shouted, driving his sword through an attacker’s throat. "Stay with me!"

Gaius grunted, slashing through an enemy soldier. "I’m trying!" he growled, though his voice sounded strained—like something else was fighting for control.

The ambush ended as quickly as it had begun. The raiders melted back into the forest, leaving behind the dead and wounded. Marcus stood in the aftermath, breathing hard, his sword dripping with blood.

"Everyone accounted for?" he asked, wiping sweat from his brow despite the cold.

Seneca nodded, though his expression was grim. "We lost two. Another three are injured."

Marcus clenched his jaw, suppressing the wave of frustration that threatened to rise. "We bury them here. We can’t carry them with us."

The soldiers worked in silence, digging shallow graves beneath the snow. It was a harsh task, but one they had grown used to—too many battles, too many losses.

As they finished, Marcus turned to Gaius. "You fought well today."

Gaius gave a weary nod. "Doesn’t feel like it."

"It will," Marcus murmured. "In time."

As the soldiers prepared to move on, Seneca knelt beside one of the fallen raiders, inspecting the strange armor. "This isn’t from any tribe I’ve seen," he muttered. "It’s... newer. More refined."

Marcus knelt beside him, running his hand over the jagged plates. "These aren’t just raiders. They’re organized—someone’s arming them."

Seneca’s gaze darkened. "The Iron Wolves?"

Marcus shook his head. "No. This is something else."

He rose to his feet, glancing toward the dark line of the forest ahead. "Whatever it is, we need to find it. And stop it."

They resumed their march as the light began to fade, the shadows stretching long across the snow-covered ground. Marcus’s mind churned with questions—who had armed the raiders? What force controlled the echoes? And how much longer could Gaius hold out before the crack inside him broke wide open?

The path ahead was uncertain, but Marcus knew one thing for sure: they couldn’t afford to turn back. Not now. Not ever.

As the forest closed in around them, Marcus tightened his grip on his sword and pressed forward—toward the unknown, toward whatever waited in the darkness.

Toward whatever remained of hope.