The scent of the legion's camp filtered through the trees–of man and beast toiling in the mud–enticing his mind out of hiding. Skippii savoured the stale air like the perfume of a bakery, stretching his limbs atop the cart. The soreness had set into his muscles, soaking every inch of his body with a plethora of pains. The cuts on his limbs stung like biting insects. Many stones and battens had bruised his flesh a patchwork of blue and yellow. He groaned and sat upright, draped in the legionnaire's cloak which Tenoris had bestowed him.

The dank scent of camp was followed by the shouts of men and horns, bleating sheep and whinnying horses. It was the symphony of his childhood–a forever moving city, like the stars above, forming constellations across the land. Nearby, upon the flatlands beside a wide stream were penned the horses of the Lacustrian cavalry division. As a child, Skippii had foraged for apples, sneaking around orchards to fetch a treat for the mighty stallions.

Elsewhere on the camp's perimeter were scattered the lean-to tents of the Brenti Javeliners. Small game animals hung from branches, and their pelts were stretched over racks. Skippii had been told from an early age to avoid the reclusive auxiliary troops, but it had only tempted his curiosity. Sneaking into their camps, he and a few friends had thrown rocks at their tents and made animal noises, before scurrying back into the forests. But one day, they had been caught in the act. He still shuddered at the memory of the bearded Brenti man grabbing him by the arm and dragging him into the firelight. There, they teased him in their jovial accents, threatening to torture him. He had been about ready to grab a javelin and make a fight of it when the Brenti broke out in laughter and revealed their deceit.

"Knuk for tot," the fearsome man grinned, tapping his tooth with his knuckle. "Teach ya' te throw stones, ye' scamp."

No matter where he found himself, on whatever misadventures, Skippii had landed on his feet with Legion III. He knew no other world. He'd possessed no other ambition than to don the red legionnaire's cloak.

Now, not for the first time, his pride had been stripped or burned from his back. Another man's cloak was laid upon him. It may not have been his fault–he had never wished this magia upon himself–but it was his nature. He knew that for certain now. All doubts had been beaten and bled from him. He had been wrong–a fatal error. He was not fated to be a legionnaire.

Gloom sat atop his shoulders, its hands around his throat, darkening the day. Tonnage VI marched around him in a solemn silence. His companions glanced at him concerned but composed, all but Cliae, who would not leave his side. They clutched the cart's edge like a raft in rough waters. Skippii could still not look them in the eye for fear of admitting what he must do next.

Upon approaching the palisade, no trumpets hailed them, nor any commotion. It wasn't unusual for divisions of legionnaires to sally out on tasks; word must not have reached their superiors yet of what had happened between Tonnage VI and the Coven. Suddenly, his heart stung for Custos Maritor. His Primus had rallied the rescue, and he would reckon for its consequences. Would Praegesta Summitus think favourably of the tonnage's actions–an honourable pursuit or treacherous endeavour?

They were lucky to have survived the Coven's damnation, but a brutal punishment may yet come for their insubordination. Skippii shuddered at the thought of decimation–a punishment reserved for the most severe crimes, wherein one-in-ten legionnaires were picked at random and executed. And it had all been for him. What had he done to earn such graceful compassion from his peers for them to risk their very lives for him?

But that was, of course, the legionnaire's way. The men were honorbound, and he would have done the same for them. He had done, for Cliae. He had been so certain that he was on the right path, but the fates proved otherwise. Gloom dug its fingers into his throat, squeezing his chest with its vice-like legs. He was humbled by them, and blessed to have been regarded as one amongst them, and all the more sorrowful that it must come to an end.

He would not let them pay for his errors. But neither would he submit to the Coven, or Octio, for punishment. That left him only one course of action, but it was miserable to admit it.

As the cart trundled through the muddy path, leading to Legion IX's camp gate, Skippii hopped meekly from the cart. His ankle seized up and he gritted his teeth against the pain, fighting not to show it on his face. A heavy hand was extended in aid. Kaesii marched before him, but the usual confidence had drained from his eyes.

"A spear," Skippii said, wrapping Tenoris' cloak around himself.

Kaesii proffered his, and he took it up like a cane, hobbling towards a landbridge entryway through a deep staked ditch and high palisade. Two towers rose on either side, adorned with the bright red banners of Legion IX. Skippii's eyes widened, taking in the sight unblinkingly, pressing it like a burning brand into his mind so that the memory might remain for the rest of his days. The God for whose month it was–Lacustris the Rivermaster–flew their sigil the highest, tied atop a staff which straightened towards the heavens. Beneath was the sigil of Titus Virellix, Legion IX's Imperator: A golden eagle, each feather a gem to represent one of the Pantheon, with shield in one claw and a sheaf of wheat in the other. And draped over the walls of the towers were each cohort's banner–the ten arms of the legion.

Gatesmen watched his tonnage approach, their leather caps and cloaks pulled tight against the night's approaching chill. Beneath them on the path, four legionnaires stood guard, bronze helmets flickering like faded stars in the firelight of torches.

Skippii lagged behind as the legionnaires overtook him, but his companeight drew back to accompany. Finally, the nine of them reached the threshold and entered without opposition. A haunting grief drifted through him like a cold wind, summoning fresh grief. But resolute, he strangled his heart. He would not feel it yet, not while he still had a duty to perform. After a brief, agonising journey, the companeight found their camp and Skippii collapsed by the ashen fire. Cliae retrieved his legionnaires gear, which had been confiscated upon his arrest, and placed it beside him. Skippii strapped his belt and knife at his side.

Drawing heat from the ground, he brought the charred logs to light. Tiny flames rose in the ashes, warding off the chill. Lying, wrapped in Tenoris' cloak, Skippii stared into the fire, his heart beating with the flickering of flames. His companeight sat around him, talking quietly. He could sense the tension in their air–they all wanted to ask him questions–but were afraid that he was too fatigued. Resolutely, Skippii sat upright, bending over the flames, and raised his head to address them, but found there were no words suitable for his brevity of woe.

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"I'm sorry."

"Do not be sorry for our pursuit of duty," Tenoris smiled, kneeling beside him. "Nor for the villainy of those zealots. The fault is not yours."

"Skip," Orsin said, matter-of-fact like. "Listen, we've followed you through most of this. We've been there. We know your intentions. I know who you are. I know you're an honest man. All of this strangeness, this magia, and your nightmare which came true… That's not enough to condemn a man. We couldn't let that happen. It wasn't… There are some things you just can't let slide."

"I am a man of God," Arius said deeply, standing tall above fire. "I know my God, Summitor. He is more patient than Kylin. More stone, than storm. The Coven of Kylin do not declare for all of the Pantheon. The Stormstress is but one divine being amongst twelve. She is not their commander. The Gods do not suffer tyranny. I will not suffer it."

"You said it yourself," Kaesii said. "You had the Imperator's pardon. A golden spear, right?"

"Custos Maritor knows what's right," Drusilla added brashly, as though there was no doubt in his mind. "Like Orsin said, if we let this slide, who's to say what legionnaire they'll pick next for their sick rituals?"

"It's not right." Fulmin gazed into the fire, poking at the embers with a stick. "We're fighters. Not cattle for the sacrifice. That's not why I pledged my life. They can't get away with it."

"We've got enough to think about with that heretic," Orsin grimaced, raising his chin to Nerithon's nearby walls. "Now we've got to watch our backs for our own Coven? How's that fair?"

"Titus will reprimand them," Kaesii said. "He has to."

"Yeah," Drusilla agreed firmly. "He will."

"But he needs them," Fulmin added. "We're all relying on them for the siege. You heard what happened to the Fifth Legion's Coven. If they can't kill the heretic magus, we don't stand a chance."

"Yeah, he needs them," Kaesii said. "He needs us too. He needs Skippii."

"He needs everyone to obey orders," Cur said cynically. The old veteran drew his eyes upon him. There was a sternness in his leathery face, a barrier which he would not cross. Skippii's expression softened as he submitted to the old man's gaze, and they shared a certain knowing. While his other companions tried to console him, only Cur would be ruthlessly honest. Skippii nodded minutely and the veteran's eyes narrowed, then he lifted his chin with a breath and beheld the stars, mouthed a silent prayer, then retired into their tent.

"How are your wounds?" Orsin asked. "I presume somebody will have sent for the physician by now."

"That's okay," Skippii said. "I would rather Arius dress my wounds. He works quicker."

It was a lie, but Skippii wanted to savour every moment of the night amongst his fellows. A short while later, the Gris came, and they silently received their meagre rations. Skippii swallowed his bread and gruel mechanically, wearing a thin smile so his companions would not worry about him. More enriching than the food was the energy which he gradually drew from the earth. Beneath him, the soil warmed as fire's essence sunk beneath his skin. As with the waters of a hot spring, his muscles relaxed. The pain ebbed and his heart lifted, but a fog remained ever present.

Arius stripped a rag and submerged it in salted water, then wrapped the worst of his wounds. Most severe of all was the laceration across his chest where Aetheria's sword had bit him. Though the essence of life returned to him, as with a long rest, his wounds showed no signs of quick healing. The qualities of his Blazing Armour could repel a blade's edge, or blunt an arrow strike, but a well-sharpened blade–placed correctly–would still kill him. The evocation alone could not replace his shield and armour… yet.

Alone in the wilderness, he would have to strengthen his magia far beyond its current bounds. But he had much to do before then.

Once Arius finished, Skippii thanked him and rose from the fire.

"Legio. Shouldn't you rest?" Cliae said.

"Not yet," Skippii said, wandering from their fire.

"Let me accompany you, brother," Tenoris said. "Where are we heading this night?"

"Not far." Passing beyond the aura of their firelight, he visited the camps of each companeight nearby. He thanked the men of his tonnage for their compassion and bravery. Not one amongst them made him repeat his words. They asked of his health, blessed the Gods for aiding their intervention, or else joked about what punishment Praegesta Summitus had in store for them. Nervousness overshadowed their moods, but it was not without celebration. The men of Tonnage VI had protected their own, and stood up for what the legion represented. Whatever consequences came their way, they would face them, honour intact.

Skippii intended to make it much easier for them.

"Bona-vera," he greeted the final companeight, pitched furthest from his tent. "Thank you, everyone. I am eternally grateful, and in debt to each of you."

"Walkin' about already?" one legionnaire said merrily. A little older than Skippii, he wore a thick moustache in the style of Summitans.

"Your name, brother," Skippii said.

"Caprichos," he extended a hand to shake. Skippii asked around the whole fire, shaking each man's hand, repeating their names to himself, trying to commit them to memory.

"Give us a blessing," a legionnaire named Junnius said.

"What do you mean? I'm no priest."

Junnius huffed, scratching a scar which cut through his thin black beard. "You're closer to the Gods than them. We all here saw you burn through those rats by the riverside. Erymenes is on your shoulder."

"Or Summitus," Caprichos said.

"I don't know the politics of it," Junnius continued. "Never cared for 'em. Why the Coven hate you?" He shook his head. "It's an awful waste when we've gotta face tha' heretic behind the walls."

"Precisely," a younger legionnaire said. "Why would they kill the strongest man in the Second Cohort? Maybe the whole legion."

"Is it true you fought them?" Caprichos asked.

Reluctantly, Skippii nodded. "I didn't want to, but I thought I'd go out fighting. That's what they wanted. Execution by combat."

"Sadists," the youthful legionnaire breathed.

"Pricks," Junnius added. "So they'd risk the whole siege on an argument."

Skippii bit his tongue. Though he agreed wholeheartedly with the legionnaires, it would not benefit the legion for him to sow discontent. Whatever injustices had happened to him no longer bore any relevance. All that was important was that he fix the rift that had formed within Legion IX. The lives of too many good men were at stake; his quarrel was insignificant.

"It's over now," he said with a thin smile. "Thanks to you. Again, I am in your debt."

"So a blessing?" Junnius added.

He hesitated. He had only seen a few blessings in his time, and paid little attention to them. But neither did he want to refuse the legionnaires. Drawing his kuri, Skippii pointed the blade downwards and clasped Junnius' hand. Each lay their hands on top of the other's knuckles and locked eyes–a warrior's embrace.

"May fires chase your foes into the deepest pits," he said. "May you burn from within, a fire which lights the soul. May you remain warm against the cold of fear. Protected in the dark. Whatever power that is mine, I share it with you freely."

Each man around the fire demanded that they too be blessed. Skippii clasped hands and improvised a dramatic, yet honest benediction for each, finishing with the same phrase each time: "Whatever power is mine, I share it with you freely." As he spoke, he felt the fires beneath his feet flicker awake, swelling in his palms. The legionnaires marvelled at the touch of his magia, but did not pull recoil. They trusted him. They knew him. Skippii's heart was full. There was no greater, more liberating feeling in the world.

Departing for his campfire with Tenoris by his side, a dark figure awaited him at the threshold of their fire's glow. A sinister face beheld him beneath a tightly strapped helmet, hand rested on the pommel of his superior's sword. The Octio held out a finger for them to stop and waved Tenoris on. "A word in private, Skippii Altay, Disrupter."

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