Preparations

Without armor or weapons to mark their rank, or in this case allegiance , Lucius and Marcus moved silently among the lines of workers, indistinguishable from the peasants toiling in the fields or hauling timber. The air was thick with the pungent blend of sweat, damp earth, and the faint metallic tang of tension—a smell they knew all too well. It was the odor of a battlefield waiting to happen.

They were young, neither yet twenty-five winters past , but their youth belied their experience. Five battles had already etched their names and skin, and with them came an intimate familiarity with this grim atmosphere. The rhythmic grunt of laboring men, the scrape of wood against stone, and the muted clang of distant hammers filled their ears. They knew this song by heart—it was the orchestra of preparation, that preluded bloodshed

Lucius stole a glance at Marcus, his jaw set in that same resolute grimace he wore before every battle.