Chapter 23: The Iron Wind

The sky above the valley turned a deep, bruised gray, and the wind shifted. It wasn’t a natural breeze—it carried a sharp metallic tang, stinging their faces like needles. Marcus Domitus halted his soldiers on a narrow path, his senses prickling with unease.

Seneca sniffed the air, his brow furrowing. "That smell... it’s like iron dust. We need to move fast."

Marcus scanned the jagged cliffs that loomed around them. "This wind isn’t just weather. Something’s coming."

Gaius adjusted the straps of his armor, though he winced with each movement. "You think it’s them again?" he asked quietly.

Marcus tightened his grip on his sword. "It’s not a question of if—it’s when."

They pressed forward, the wind picking up speed, swirling snow and shards of ice around them. It howled through the mountains like a chorus of tortured souls, and the air grew heavier with each passing moment, as if something unseen was bearing down on them.

Seneca jogged ahead, his scanner sputtering weakly in the storm’s interference. "The energy signature is fluctuating—it’s like the whole environment is... waking up."

Marcus clenched his jaw. "We don’t stop. The ridge ahead should give us a better view. We make it there, regroup, and plan."

Drusus pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "If this wind gets any worse, we won’t make it five paces, let alone to the ridge."

"Then we make it six," Marcus said flatly. "Move."

They had just reached the ridge when the first attack came.

A metallic scream tore through the air, and dark shapes emerged from the swirling snow—figures clad in blackened armor, their movements sharp and unnatural. These were not mere soldiers. They were the Iron Wolves, their bodies augmented by strange devices, their weapons humming with dangerous energy.

"Form up!" Marcus bellowed. "Shields locked!"

The soldiers responded immediately, snapping into formation. Their shields clanged together, and spears bristled outward like the fangs of a cornered beast.

The Iron Wolves surged forward, relentless and silent. Marcus raised his sword and met them head-on, his blade colliding with the jagged edge of an enemy’s weapon. Sparks flew as steel bit into steel.

The clash on the ridge was brutal and chaotic. The Iron Wolves fought without mercy, their mechanical limbs giving them speed and strength beyond that of ordinary men. Marcus moved through the melee with precision, his sword a blur in the dim light. He fought not just for survival but for every man standing beside him.

Seneca stayed near the center of the line, frantically trying to adjust his scanner in the midst of the battle. "Their armor—it's running on eterium conduits! If I can short-circuit them—"

"Do it fast!" Marcus shouted, driving his sword through the chest plate of an enemy before yanking it free. "We won’t hold them off forever."

Gaius fought at Marcus’s side, his strikes fierce and determined, though his breathing grew heavier with each swing. The earlier battle had drained him, but he fought on, driven by a grim sense of purpose.

Just as the Iron Wolves seemed poised to overwhelm them, Seneca let out a triumphant shout. "I’ve got it!" He jammed a copper spike into his device, and a pulse of energy shot through the battlefield. The conduits on the Wolves' armor flickered—and then dimmed.

"They’re vulnerable!" Marcus yelled. "Push forward!"

The soldiers roared in unison, surging against their enemies with renewed strength. Marcus led the charge, cutting through the disoriented Wolves with ruthless efficiency. One by one, the attackers fell beneath the weight of the legion’s fury.

But the battle wasn’t over.

As the last of the Wolves collapsed into the snow, a low, rumbling sound echoed across the ridge. The Iron Wind intensified, howling through the mountains like a living thing. It swept over the fallen bodies, pulling at the twisted armor and scattering loose fragments into the air.

"What the hell is that?" Drusus muttered, shielding his face from the storm.

Seneca’s face paled. "It’s not just wind—it’s gathering their remains."

Marcus watched in horror as the fragments of armor and machinery began to move, clinking together like pieces of a puzzle assembling themselves. The air shimmered with strange energy, and the remains of the fallen Wolves reformed into something new—something larger.

"Fall back!" Marcus ordered. "Now!"

From the swirling snow emerged a massive figure—an Iron Colossus, forged from the broken bodies of the Wolves. Its limbs were jagged and crude, but it moved with terrifying precision. Eterium sparks crackled along its joints, and its eyes burned with an unnatural light.

"That’s not possible," Seneca whispered, his voice trembling. "It shouldn’t be able to—"

"It doesn’t care what should or shouldn’t be," Marcus snapped. "We bring it down, or we don’t leave this ridge."

The Colossus charged, each step shaking the ground beneath their feet. Marcus steadied himself, gripping his sword tightly. "Hold your ground! Hit it at the joints—bring it down!"

The battle against the Colossus was unlike anything Marcus had ever faced. The creature’s sheer size made it nearly unstoppable, and its attacks sent men flying with every swing. Marcus dodged a crushing blow and slashed at the creature’s knee, but the blade barely scraped its armor.

"It’s too strong!" Drusus shouted, narrowly avoiding a massive swing. "We can’t take it down like this!"

Seneca scrambled through the snow, pulling wires from his device. "I need a minute! If I can reverse the energy pulse—"

"You’ve got thirty seconds," Marcus growled, blocking another strike. "Make it count."

As the Colossus raised its massive arm to crush the soldiers, Gaius roared and hurled himself at the creature. His sword dug into the creature’s shoulder joint, wedging deep into the eterium core beneath the armor. Sparks erupted, and the Colossus staggered, its movements faltering.

Marcus saw his opening. "Now! Hit it with everything!"

The soldiers swarmed the Colossus, driving their weapons into its weak points. Seneca’s device buzzed, and with a final, desperate twist of a wire, he unleashed a surge of energy through the battlefield.

The Colossus shuddered—and then collapsed, its massive form crumpling into a heap of twisted metal and shattered machinery.

The wind died as suddenly as it had risen, leaving only silence in its wake. The soldiers stood among the wreckage, panting and bloodied but victorious. Marcus wiped his sword clean on the snow, his heart still pounding in his chest.

"Everyone accounted for?" he asked, scanning the group.

Drusus gave a weary nod. "We lost two, but the rest of us made it."

Seneca sagged with exhaustion, his device sparking faintly in his hands. "That was... closer than I’d like."

Marcus turned to Gaius, who leaned heavily on his sword, his breath ragged. "You did good, Gaius," Marcus said quietly.

Gaius gave a faint, tired smile. "Still here. For now."

With the storm behind them and the Colossus in ruins, Marcus looked toward the distant horizon. The path ahead was still uncertain, but they had survived this battle—and they would survive the next.

"Let’s move," Marcus ordered, sheathing his sword. "There’s no telling how long this calm will last."

The soldiers gathered their gear and began their march, leaving the shattered remains of the Colossus behind. As they moved forward into the fading light, Marcus knew one thing for certain:

The Iron Wind would return. And next time, it would not come alone.