Caius exhaled slowly, tension easing from his shoulders. Any day now, he expected news from Dalmatius. Soon, Laran’s Chosen would be within his grasp. His fingers drummed against the marble edge of the altar, impatient and restless.
“Perhaps it is time to take action,” Sagar said, voice steady.
“Action?” Caius snapped, leaning forward, eyes narrowing.
“To rally your legions and strike your enemy before their numbers grow,” Sagar explained, lifting the censer with a practised flourish. “Once Laran’s Chosen is ready, she can lead your army.”
Caius felt the gears of strategy clicking into place. The Achaeans had barely begun to rally, their forces still scattered. If he acted now, before they reached the Western Lands, their combined armies would crumble against his disciplined legions. The Omega was young, inexperienced—surely they would fail.
He straightened. “Make sure everything is ready for Laran’s Chosen,” he ordered Sagar. “He was excited to meet her when we spoke.”
Sagar inclined his head. “And he will bless us with yet another great victory.”
“Praise Laran,” Caius muttered before leaving. Now all he needed was a way to convince the Senate to break the peace treaty.
“The Twelfth Legion is gone,” Caius declared, his words carrying through the marble hall. He stood tall beneath the coffered ceiling, draped in his most elegant purple tebenna, Velthur and his guards flanking the bronze doors. “The barbarians crept upon our men in the dead of night, striking like cowards, and showed no mercy. After years of negotiation—after we gave them peace, prosperity, and trade—this is how they repay us?”
A low rumble of outrage swept through the Senators, who pounded their feet. Dust drifted from the beams above, the scent of oil lamps and old parchment thick in the air. Yet amid the uproar, one corner of the chamber sat conspicuously still.
Cilnius and his loyal circle did not join the clamour. The senator’s hawk-like gaze never left Caius, as though he could see straight through the Emperor’s display and into the game beneath.
Caius ignored him and turned back to the sea of eager faces. He raised a hand for silence, his gaze sweeping over the rows of senators, holding each man beneath the weight of his stare. “Now they march for the Western Lands, eager to join their new commander. And if they are allowed to unite—if their strength joins with his—then they will turn their sights upon Rasenna herself.”
Murmurs swelled to shouts, the air thick with anger. Fists struck benches, and Perperna and Sanquinius, his faithful men, leaned forward to call for action.
Caius allowed the uproar to grow, feeding on it, before lowering his voice to a knife’s edge. “We must stop them. Now. Before two enemies become one.”
The chamber thundered with assent.
“I propose,” Caius continued, his tone sharp and commanding, “that we break the peace treaty forged after the Battle of Kendrisia and march into the Western Lands. The Third Legion still holds the hillforts of the Green Mountains, and I will send the Sixth and Fourth to reinforce them.”
A senator in white rose to his feet. “But what of the river gods, Imperator? They have always protected the borders.”
Caius’ eyes gleamed, a thin smile curling at the edge of his mouth. He spread his hands as if unveiling a secret. “Laran has already answered us. He has rewarded our faith, our sacrifices, with a gift—a warrior. Chosen by the god himself, she will lead our legions into battle and deliver us victory.”
A hush fell for a heartbeat, then voices rose anew, this time laced with rapture. The scent of incense seemed to grow stronger, the chamber alive with praise to Laran.
Then Cilnius rose from his bench with deliberate calm, unrolling a parchment for all to see. “And yet the Achaean gods have answered as well.” His voice cut through the fervour like steel on stone. “I received word from soldiers in the Twelfth who survived the attack. It is written here—a girl with the Omega Mark. A girl prophesied to destroy this Empire.”
Caius’ jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he glared at Velthur. How in the gods’ names had Cilnius received news from the Twelfth?
“She killed the Blood Wolf,” Cilnius pressed on, his voice swelling with conviction, “and seized his Gift.”
A ripple of shock coursed through the Senate benches—murmurs, curses, the scrape of sandals against wood.
“And then at Dodona, she struck again. Twice Gifted now by the gods themselves, she laid waste to the Twelfth Legion.” Cilnius thrust the parchment forward like an accusation. “And yet you—Imperator—neglected to share thiscrucialdetail with your Senate. What else are you hiding?”
The chamber stilled. Benches creaked as every eye fixed on Caius.
“Yes—it is true. The girl was Gifted by the Achaean gods, but they are weak. We have destroyed their temples and priests.” Caius spread his arms wide, gaze taking in the rows of uneasy faces. “The girl’s magic was strong in Tiryns, but we will defeat her in the Western Lands.”
Murmurs stirred among the senators, uncertain yet listening. Cilnius pounced on the hesitation. “You gamble with our lives, Imperator! With the Empire itself! This girl apparently brought an army of hounds to defeat our legion.”
Senator Sanquinius rose, his crimson-edged toga sweeping the floor, and fixed Cilnius with a scornful look.
“An army ofhounds?” he said, voice dripping with disdain. “Tell me, Cilnius—are we to tremble before a kennel?”
Laughter rippled through the benches.
