Heat swept through Skippii's lungs, bellowing the coals of an old abandoned forge. Pressing his hand to the earth, he sighed as it radiated through his heart. It had always been there, like a quiet ember awaiting the tinder. But it could not be magia, for no Gods spoke to him–no visions or commandments from the heavens. He could not shape the feeling into wrath as warmagi could. Rather, his strength lay with his shield and spear, and combined arms of the phalanx. Strength in order. That was the legion's way.

A trumpet blurted: the call to war. Skippii withdrew his hand from the earth. A cold draft whispered after its absence–a longing. But he pushed it from his mind, resolute to perform his duties.

"Advance." The command came from their Primus. Hoisting his shield, Skippii ran forward to survey the valley for their enemy. All seemed peaceful at a glance, but he knew not to trust the shadows of the treeline. The Ürkün moved deftly, garbed in animal hides like spirits of the wild. His heart quickened as he imagined crossing blades with the heretics who infested this land.

The spark of excitement lit a flame inside him. As a boy, he had soaked up campfire tales of the cyclops-fighting, city-conquering, heretic-defying deeds of the Imperium's legionnaires. The danger and thrill of facing the enemy–the pride in performing his duty–all things he had craved for so long… Finally, he was making his mark, even if it was just a simple supply run.

"Halt."

Their cohort settled in the tall grass. Skippii knelt among his companeight–a unit of seven other legionnaires with whom he shared each day's march, rations, and a cramped tent's quarters.

"Have you sight of the enemy?" Tenoris asked, kneeling in the grass beside him. The pale sun shimmered in the deep bronze of his helmet and glossily upon his white thorax armour. Nearby, five hundred legionnaires stooped in sun-dappled undergrowth overlooking the valley. Red cloaks hung proudly from the Imperium's finest, painting the untamed forest in legion colours.

"No, but they're out there," Skippii said.

"I should like to meet him," Tenoris said menacingly.

A smile crept across Skippii's lips. The big man had an oddly archaic manner of speaking. He was the same nineteen-years of age, but Tenoris was much taller and more muscular, with thick labourer's hands and kind blue eyes.

"They can't have gone far since last night," Skippii said.

"What horrid luck." Tenoris shook his head. "Two men dead, ever before their spears were bloodied."

"Novice mistake," he said. "Don't venture outside the palisade at night. It's not safe in the highlands, not even with the auxiliaries about."

"Not even for women?" Kaesii interrupted. "I heard that's why they went out." The hefty legionnaire sat atop his round shield with his back to the valley, impatiently tearing up clumps of grass. If Kaesii's plump body told a story, it was that his family's hamper hadn't been short for a single winter. However, despite his stature, Skippii had not heard him complain of fatigue once during their first two weeks of marching upon the campaign.

"Our enemy set a lustrous trap?" Tenoris said. "Rather than send harlots to do their evil deeds, I would rather they line up and face our phalanx like men."

"Cowards," Kaesii grunted.

"Who knows what got them?" Skippii said. "Could have been the Ürkün. Could have been wolves, beasts…"

"Or monsters," Kaesii said plainly.

"Maybe the heretic," Skippii whispered.

Tenoris hissed at their mention. "The legionnaire's bane."

An uneasy silence fell upon them. Emissaries of the Urkun's dark gods commanded their tribes–wielders of a fell magia, of which little was known. Only the legion's own warmagi stood a chance of facing the heretic in battle. But surely, none would be at such a farmstead as was before them. Fear clouded their vision, but Skippii was not one to fear the fates. Rather, he trusted to reason.

Dispelling the gloom from his mind, Skippii focussed on their task at hand: they were to sequester supplies from a farmhouse at the head of the valley. A rushing stream cut through fields of crops; a dirt path wound alongside it to a quaint stone bridge. The air was fresh and floral with the spices of spring, enticing the legion's approach.

"I'm hungry, aren't you?" he said cheerfully. "Maybe they could spare some meat. Wouldn't that be nice? I'd face a heretic magi for a lean cut."

Kaesii snorted. "I would face one merely for the shank. We've eaten nothing but oats since we landed on these shores."

"Their harvest seems well," Tenoris mused. "I am sure we will find them amenable."

Behind him, their Primus barked orders. With the rustle of armour, legionnaires rose and prepared to advance. Untying his travelsack, Skippii pressed one hand into the earth and clutched his brooch–a gift from his mother before he'd left her for the legion.

"One day, you'll understand," he whispered. "I'll return with wealth, and renown, and stories to tell."

Just come home alive. His mother's words echoed in his memory.

Suddenly, the earth beneath his palm blossomed with heat like a spring flower opening its face to the sun. Pressing his hand into the wet soil, he sought after the hidden flames. The raw energy fizzled between his fingers, rising up his arm. The faster his heart beat, the stronger it pulsated within him. He grew dizzy with the feeling of rushing tides. Something powerful awaited him beneath the earth–familiar, yet unfathomable.

A shadow eclipsed the sun. He opened his eyes to see Cur standing above him. The old legionnaire glowered beneath the rim of his helmet. Wrinkles stretched the corners of his eyes, creasing his brow into a permanent scowl.

"Strumping velvets," Cur said. "Not getting nervous now, are you?"

Skippii glared back. "What's velvets? You keep saying that?"

"Velvet cloaks," Cur said. "Clean cloaks."

Tenoris laughed beside him. "So what if our cloaks are clean?"

Cur wrinkled his nose. "Two of us are already curled up with stomach cramps." He spat at his feet. "Barely weaned before the battlefield. This companeight's the sorriest bunch of legionnaires I've ever met."

"Hey, take it easy, Cur. Save some for the enemy." Orsin leaned over from further down the line. Another of their companeight's veterans, Orsin was stern and clean shaven, muscular but worn. Two bronze bracelets hung from his wrists–medals of renown.

"Get up lads, we're heading out," Orsin said, rising to his feet. Then, he lowered his voice so that their superiors would not overhear. "We're two-down due to soured oats, but let's not make a scene. It's a simple job, but there's no point in them getting worn out. We've still got a march ahead of us. So Arius and Fulminis will stay behind and look after our packs."

"Glory to them," Cur said sarcastically.

"The six of us, plus the slaves and mule, will make it to the farmstead." He scanned their group, reduced from eight legionnaires to six. "Sound good?"

Cur shrugged. "Tomorrow, maybe I'll get ill, and you can all carry me aloft like an emperor."

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With a snort, Orsin led them on a path which wound into the valley. Their unit was flanked by two more companeights down the file, and the small force of twenty-two legionnaires descended upon the farmstead. The remainder of Cohort II remained atop the valley's ridge in reserve. Skippii knew why without needing telling–he had grown up amongst Legion III, and had observed their tactics from afar: if the foraying force was ambushed, the whole cohort would not be caught off-guard. That put him at the spear's tip.

The muddy hoofprinted path leading to the farmstead was patrolled by a flock of chickens and guarded by one curious cow. Not much of a battlefield or foe. Their quest was simple, but to Skippii, it was significant–it marked his venture as a brick in the mortar of Legion IX. The stiff leather armour dug into his shoulders, and bronze greaves chafed his shins–but finally, they were his. His cloak, his weaponry. His oaths.

"No workers in the fields," Skippii said. "And in spring. Do you think they're hiding?"

"Perhaps their eyes do not work so well," Tenoris replied. "Once they see the red of our cloaks, they shall sally forth with all manner of breads, meat and cheeses."

"You think they'll just give all their food up?" Kaesii scoffed. "I wouldn't."

"We'll take what they can spare," Orsin replied over his shoulder. "We're liberators, not conquerors, remember."

At the rear of their companeight, Drusilla snorted. Black rivulets of hair sprouted from the rear of his helmet, and a thin black moustache defied the legion's shaving regulations. He glared at the peaceful cow with murderous eyes. "What's the difference?"

"Who wants to explain?" Orsin said.

"Isn't it obvious?" Kaesii was quick to answer, embellishing a lofty lecturer's tone. "Philoxenia is our ancient ally. We have come to free them, and re-unite their lands under the glorious banner of the Imperium Auctoritas."

"So what?" Drusilla's mountainous accent rolled the words like stones. "Still need subjugating, don't they?"

"Only if they give us trouble," Orsin said.

"They can spare a few chickens at least," said Kaesii.

"That they can," Orsin agreed.

Treading down the garden path, Orsin knocked on the farmstead's door with the haft of his spear. Skippii took one look at the foundation's brickwork, and the upper floor's overhanging wooden beams, and knew he could climb all the way to its roof. He had learned to make his own fun as a kid, and farmsteads provided the best playgrounds for mischief. Whether it was chasing chickens around their pens, or as he grew older, spying on the women in the fields, some of his fondest memories were valleys like this.

However, he was a child no more, and his actions bore consequences. He represented the legion now, and would do it proud.

Beside him, Cur tossed his shield down and slouched on a bench. The leathery man had somehow avoided both death and promotion during his long career as a legionnaire, choosing to serve as a lowly foot soldier in his ripe forties. Skippii wondered what tied him to the army; was it a passion for war, or financial debtors at home?

"Hurry up," Cur murmured. "My arse is going numb. The longer I sit here, the less likely I'm gonna get up."

Definitely the debtors.

A latch scraped, and the door opened. An old man peered out, his rigid Philoxanian nose coming first like a boat's prow. Wispy grey hair settled atop his sun-pocked scalp, mirrored in a goat-like beard. He gripped the doorframe limply, shoulders slouched, cheeks a little red. He did not seem surprised by the legionnaires, rather he seemed reserved. Not quite fear… Skippii couldn't put his finger on it, but something felt off.

"Yah." Orsin greeted them in the local tongue and went on to relay the legion's demands. The Philoxanian language shared a lot of similarities with Auctorian, and Skippii managed to pick out a few words: "Grain," "Ninth Legion," and "Cooperate." Basically: Give us what we came here for, and we won't have to take it by force.

The old man nodded, then spoke tersely with someone beyond the door. Slipping on a pair of sandals, he squeezed past Orsin, shutting the door behind him. They began to follow him behind the house, but Skippii hesitated.

"I think I'll check inside," he said.

Orsin turned, a question on his face.

"Come," the old farmer said irritably. "Come entháde. Take…Pollè eourish"

Skippii ignored him. "Could be something in the kitchen."

"Silverware?" Drusilla piped, taking a step towards the farmhouse.

Orsin held out the haft of his spear to stop him, like a shepherd controlling his cattle. "No silverware. No plunder. Just supplies."

"Why?" Drusilla protested. "They don't need it."

"Neither do you," the old Cur grumbled. "You want to carry a candle stick half way across the world? Sweet Virelisus, who are these recruits you have sent me? Magpies and thieves. Pack mules. Trinket mules."

Drusilla scowled, but said nothing in return.

"Not silver," Skippii explained. "Salt. Maybe some pepper and luger root for seasoning. A little goes a long way."

Orsin raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly. "Alright, good call, Skip. You and Tenoris take a look inside."

He and Tenoris bowed through the doorframe and shut the door behind them. Tenoris' helmet grazed the ceiling as he ducked into the farmhouse's cloakroom, and into the kitchen beyond. An old woman eyed them from across a large table, hands crossed nervously beneath her chest. Cupboards and racks lined the walls, but there was no food on display. A dog hobbled up to him and sniffed his leg. It was a large breed of a healthy age, yet it walked with a limp, and behaved oddly timid.

"Hey boy." Skippii let the dog sniff his hand. "Greetings," he said to the farm lady, keeping his tone light. "Salt. You have salt?"

The old woman nodded abruptly and hurried across the kitchen. Frowning, he watched as she fumbled through the cupboards with shaky hands. It was normal for farmers to be cautious of the legion, but fear was unwarranted. The Imperium and Philoxenia were ancient allies; their bonds had been severed by the invading Ürkün. But in just forty years of campaigning, the Imperium had freed two major Philoxenian cities from the barbarian's grasp, liberating and reinstating their rightful senate.

Perhaps the recent Ürkün raids had put the old lady on edge. Perhaps she didn't know the difference between the barbarians and the noble Imperium Auctoritas. Young men with spears were rarely a good omen, despite what banners they flew.

"We are Legion Nine," Skippii said gently. He set his spear aside and motioned for Tenoris to do the same.

"Legion," he repeated, patting his chest. "Imperium Auctoritas. Friend…" He searched for a translation. "Phile."

"Philia," the old woman repeated, pouring salt into a pouch and tying it closed.

"Philia," Skippii repeated, matching her accent with care. "Pepper? Luger root?"

She nodded and began rummaging again. Skippii rounded the table and looked out of the kitchen window. The rest of his companeight were walking towards a shed at the back of a small orchard.

"I hope they find plenty," Tenoris said, his low voice reverberating around the small kitchen. "I have missed the flavour of fruit."

"They could bring out a sack-full and we'd be lucky to see any in our porridge tomorrow morning."

Tenoris' expression fell. "There are many mouths to feed."

"Five hundred."

"Oh, what I would do for a handful of raisins or the skin of a lemon."

"We'll see yet."

Flowers climbed the farmhouse's wall, curling around the windowframe and poking their white and purple heads through the slats. His mother had picked flowers like them–a mild relaxant; their sweet smell mingled with the kitchen's cosy woodsmoke. A glimmer of peace and normalcy amongst the uncertainty of war.

The floorboards creaked above Skippii's head. The old woman froze, hands in the pantry. He turned slowly to look at Tenoris. A tense silence hung between them, then a heartbeat later, the old woman continued her search.

A feeling of wrongness hollowed inside him as he peered up beneath the rim of his helmet at the ceiling, a mere handspan above his head.

"Family?" he asked. The woman ignored him. "Philia?"

When the woman turned, the look she gave him spoke a thousand words. No difficulty in language could contain the wave of anxiety which spread from her. Her hands shook, her lips quivered. She averted her eyes, clenching her fists, then hurried over to him and thrust the spice pouches into his chest.

"Go," she said. "Shoo."

"Has our welcome expired so soon?" Tenoris said.

"I don't think so," Skippii murmured. Dropping his shield, he took the woman gently by her shoulders.

Her eyes sparkled with tears. She shook her head. "Go."

"Who is upstairs?" Skippii asked, pointing.

The old woman's lip quivered. "Kleresá." She clenched her jaw. Tears streamed down her face freely.

Skippii's heart pounded. He glanced at Tenoris, who seemed to suddenly grasp the strangeness of the situation. The big legionnaire snatched his spear, then reached for the front door.

"Wait," Skippii said in a hushed voice. "If they're here… the Ürkün, upstairs… and they have a girl…" His mind raced, organising the scenario before him like pieces of a puzzle. His training told him to alert the others outside so that they could face the enemy at full strength, but it wasn't that simple. This wasn't a field battle, nor an arena duel. This was someone's home.

"It has to be us."

"What?" Tenoris blurted. "But why?"

"They have a prisoner," Skippii said, motioning to the old woman's distress. "Maybe a few. If we cause a fuss, they'll slit their throats and make a run for it."

"If the enemy are here-"

"Then we'll deal with them," Skippii said. "Quickly and quietly. You and I."

Tenoris looked at him shocked. During their two weeks of travelling together, they had shared a few conversations by the campfire; idle talk about their homelands and ambitions. But all that was smoke when it was time for spears to be raised and a hard decision made. He found himself hoping quite desperately that all Tenoris' muscle was not merely an outfit for someone less brave.

Tenoris' nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, eyes wild like a bull's. His shoulders swelled, and a flash of anger shone in his eyes. With a jolt, Skippii feared that the big man would strike him down.

"I see, brother, that you are fearless," Tenoris growled, hefting his spear and raising his shield in the cramped kitchen. "Chrysaetos be our witness. Let us make quick butchery of these villains."

Invigorated, Skippii took up his spear and strode from the kitchen towards the stairs. His vigor was to be tested sooner than he had anticipated. What kind of legionnaire would he make before the day was up? He prayed, not a dead one.

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