Senator Gaius Lepidus stormed across the muddy ground, ignoring the scowls of levies and mercenaries alike as he barreled toward Crassus’s tent. Senator Marcus Pollio hurried behind him, hissing cautions that Lepidus brushed off with a furious gesture. The air in this dreary encampment stank of stale smoke and desperation, doing nothing to calm the rage coiling tight in Lepidus’s chest.

  At the entrance, two guards moved to block him, spears crossing. “You’re not—”

  “Out of my way!” Lepidus snarled, batting aside the haft of one spear. The guard reeled back, and the second took a step, but Pollio’s glare froze him in place. Neither man offered further resistance as Lepidus barged in.

  Inside, the tent was lit by a low lantern. Crassus stood at a rough-hewn table strewn with maps and half-folded dispatches. Beside him, clad in a dark cloak, was Comes Lucius Varius—the officer who advised and aided Crassus. Both were deep in hushed conversation until Lepidus exploded into their midst.

  Crassus’s head jerked up, eyes narrowing at the intrusion. Comes Varius, posture taut with tension, took a half-step forward, then stopped as Lepidus’s shout filled the tent.

  “You swore your plan would destroy Romulus!” Lepidus spat, voice echoing off the canvas walls. “You promised me a triumph—and all we’ve done is suffer a humiliating rout!”

  Crassus’s jaw clenched. “You forget yourself, Lepidus,” he warned, voice crackling with anger. “I am Emperor of the West. You will address me with proper respect.”

  “Emperor?” Lepidus let out a sharp bark of laughter. “An emperor who can’t even kill a child? They say your cunning ambush cost us half our mercenaries—and the ones left want more gold. Where is this grand victory you swore would be ours?”

  From behind Crassus, Comes Varius glanced anxiously between them. Crassus, however, rounded on Lepidus, teeth bared in fury. “You think you can speak to me so? I could arrest you for treason, seize every last one of your estates.”

  “You do that,” Lepidus shot back, “and see how many solidi you get then! I’ve been pouring money into this comedy for months. Now a chunk of our best mercenaries are dead, and you want more funds? I’ll not pay another coin until I see actual results.”

  Crassus slammed a hand on the table, causing a scattering of rolled maps to bounce. “I told you—victory cannot always be bought in one stroke! Our men died in service to Rome. One setback does not make me any less the rightful ruler.”

  “Rightful?” Lepidus sneered, stepping forward. “You think a single defeat changes nothing? Look around—these mercenaries who survived demand higher wages. You can’t pretend your authority is absolute, not when you need my gold to keep this ragtag force together!”

  Comes Varius cleared his throat softly, but the men ignored him, voices climbing toward a dangerous crescendo. Pollio intervened first, laying a firm hand on Lepidus’s arm to hold him back.

  “Enough!” Pollio snapped. Usually the more vehement one, now his was the voice of caution. “We stand on the same side here—unless we’re about to tear each other apart? Because that’s precisely what the boy-emperor hopes for.”

  Lepidus gritted his teeth but said nothing more, seething. Crassus folded his arms over his chest, glancing from Pollio to Lepidus. “I demand respect,” he said coldly. “As your emperor, I have the right to command. And if you withhold funds—”

  “Caesar,” Pollio said, cutting in with deliberate calm, “threats won’t fix our losses or fill our war chest. We must know your next step. How do we recover from that botched ambush? Our men are restless, the leavy and militia half starved and our mercenaries vow to leave if they aren’t paid properly. Time is not on our side.”

  Crassus fixed Pollio with a baleful stare. “You say I must have a plan, that threats alone won’t fill our coffers. As though I’m too blind to see how we’ve stumbled. You think I don’t know the cost of these failures?” He slammed a fist on the table, rattling the half-empty cups and scrolls. “First, the boy’s little night strike destroyed half our supplies—I lost precious rations before the campaign truly began. Then his cursed raids on our foraging parties left us short again, forced me to push men to the brink. And now…” He gestured sharply, as if flinging the memory away, “this last fiasco, that damned ambush turned on its head.”

  Lepidus’s lip curled. “It’s about time you admitted as much.”

  Crassus turned on him, eyes hot with fury. “I never claimed no mistakes. But an emperor cannot be undone by a few setbacks. I promised you an easy ride into Ravenna—and yes, that was before we realized Romulus’s men would harass our every move. What can I do but adapt?” He took a seething breath, then turned back to Pollio, as though Lepidus’s outburst was no longer worth acknowledging. “You want to know what I’ll do? I’ll tell you.”

  Varius stood tensely at Crassus’s shoulder, wary as ever. Crassus exhaled, a hiss through gritted teeth. “If we can’t break through Romulus on our own, we’ll seek… assistance.”

  Pollio lifted a brow. “The half–German upstart? Holed up in Pavia, not moving a single step toward us since he took that city. Are we sure he’ll even answer?”

  Crassus gave a bitter laugh. “Answer? We had an agreement paid with your very gold, that he was to strike at Romulus from the north, keep the boy pinned so I could move in from the east. But the filthy barbarian decided to sit in Pavia, consolidating power while I bleed.” His voice dropped to a growl. “He does nothing but watch me fail while sitting on a pile of good roman gold.”

  Lepidus’s eyes narrowed with grudging interest. “So you’ll beg him for help?”

  Crassus flushed, the words clearly stinging. “What an emperor has to do,” he muttered, “he does. Even if it means groveling in front of that savage. I can’t dislodge Romulus from his strongholds without more manpower—not with my supply lines choked and the mercenaries restless.”

  Pollio exchanged a glance with Lepidus, a faint crease of concern on his brow. “Odoacer’s not known for charity and he will demand more gold. You’d be giving him leverage and you will look weak in his eyes with this defeated army of yours.”

  Crassus lifted his chin, forcing steadiness into his voice. “And if I do nothing, we lose everything. Better to swallow my pride than watch the boy emperor keep building momentum. I’ll link up with Odoacer, propose a combined assault and pay for keeping him loyal.”

  Crassus trailed off, jaw set in grim determination. At that precise moment, a messenger shoved aside the tent flap, muddy and out of breath. He knelt swiftly, extending a sealed parchment toward Crassus. The emperor snatched it, glaring daggers at the man for intruding—but as his eyes skimmed the contents, his face changed from anger to something close to horror.

  “What is it now?” Lepidus demanded, impatience flaring.

  Crassus’s grip tightened on the parchment. “Zeno,” he muttered, voice taut. “He deposed Basiliscus and regained his throne—weeks ago, apparently. And now…” He exhaled, scanning the message’s closing lines. “Now he’s gathering an army to ‘return Rome’s favor.’ The favor Romulus extended when he helped Zeno reclaim Constantinople.”

  Pollio’s eyes widened. “Zeno… is sending troops to aid Romulus?” He exchanged a frantic look with Lepidus. “Gods above, if the East truly intervenes on the boy’s behalf…”

  Lepidus found himself momentarily speechless, color draining from his cheeks. He’d known Basiliscus was losing ground—some rumor about Zeno coming back—but they had never expected a full-blown Eastern force marching west. “If Zeno’s armies cross into Italy,” Lepidus murmured, “we’re finished. All of us.”

  Crassus gave a mirthless laugh, paper crinkling in his fist. “You see? One more reason I have no choice but to go crawling to Odoacer. This is no longer about some field advantage or starved mercenaries—it’s about crushing Romulus before the East arrives to strengthen his hand.”

  Pollio’s mouth worked silently for a heartbeat as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I… I had heard that Romulus aided Zeno’s cause, but a full imperial army from Constantinople? If that’s true…” His face contorted in dread. “The Eastern legions are well supplied, far better disciplined than these ragged mercenary bands we’ve scraped together.”

  “Exactly,” Crassus growled. He slammed the parchment onto the table, then raked a hand through his hair. “I promised you quick victories, yes, but we have no luxury of time anymore. If we fail to crush that whelp soon, Zeno’s men will land, and we’ll be the ones on the run—or strung up as rebels.” He glowered at Lepidus, then Pollio, as if daring them to object. “We must link with Odoacer and storm Ravenna. End Romulus’s life, seize the capital, and brace ourselves for whatever diplomatic nightmare Zeno tries next. Better to stand behind Ravenna’s walls ourselves, recognized as the new regime, than let the East champion the boy.”

  Lepidus swallowed hard. The very notion of begging Odoacer for help moments ago had seemed insulting enough—but now it loomed as their only hope. “And after we… kill the child?”

  Crassus’s gaze was cold as steel. “We’d have a chance—maybe—to negotiate with the East. Present ourselves as Rome’s rightful rulers. Offer tribute or titles as needed. But if we let that brat hold the city when Zeno arrives, we become the traitors, the usurpers. We’ll be hounded into oblivion.”

  Pollio’s eyes flicked between Lepidus and Crassus. “So, we do it. We gather what remains of our mercenaries, re-provision them with what gold we can spare, and swallow our pride to beg the barbarian in Pavia. Strike at Ravenna quickly, kill the emperor, and then… pray Zeno sees cause to accept us.”

  Crassus breathed out, shoulders sagging as though the weight of the plan threatened to crush him. “Indeed. We ride for Pavia. Our only alternative is certain ruin.”

  For once, Lepidus gave no mocking remark or complaint about funds. He and Pollio merely stood, silent and pale, letting the realization sink in. Zeno’s threat overshadowed every petty argument about coin. They had come too far on this path of conspiracy to turn back now.

  “All right,” Lepidus murmured at last, voice low. “We’ll gather the gold—some gold—and you do whatever you must to make Odoacer march with us.”

  Pollio nodded in solemn agreement, gaze haunted. “We end this boy before the Eastern empire can save him.”

  Crassus pressed his lips into a thin line, pushing aside the scattered maps and the dreaded message from Constantinople. “Then it’s settled,” he said quietly. “Pray the gods favor us, because if they don’t… we are damned.”

  In the tent’s dim lantern light, no one dared speak again. The specter of an Eastern invasion hovered, a reminder that Rome’s fractured West stood on a crumbling ledge. And so Crassus, Lepidus, and Pollio prepared to do whatever it takes to convince Odacer to help them kill the last Roman emperor they so despised, all in desperate hope that they would not run out of time.

  Romulus rode at the center of a solemn procession as they wound their way back toward Ravenna. Flanking him were rows of wounded soldiers carried in wagons or litters, and behind them, wagons laden with the bodies of those who had fallen in the ambush and its aftermath. A thin morning mist clung to the road, muffling the clatter of hooves and wagon wheels. Where once Romulus had felt a rush of triumph in the immediate wake of their victory, now the sobering reality settled over him like a heavy cloak.

  He had spent much of the journey moving up and down the line of wagons, halting frequently to check on his soldiers. Despite Magnus’s protective hovering, Romulus insisted on seeing for himself the extent of their wounds. At first, he could hardly bear the sight—gory bandages, feverish eyes, limbs in crude splints or hastily stitched cuts. But each time he felt the urge to recoil, he steeled himself. They had fought and bled for him; the least he could do was not look away.

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  His shock only grew when he observed the hurried medical care. Field medics used vinegar or wine to rinse instruments if they had the time—or sometimes not at all, reusing scalpels or bone saws caked with dried blood. Some surgeons muttered half-remembered Greek remedies, others simply did what minimal training had taught them: amputation for dire wounds, quick bandaging for the rest. Romulus saw men set upon rough tables with no sedation but a gulp of watered wine, saw lacerations stitched with unsterilized needles and dirty thread.

  It churned his stomach. How had he never considered the conditions of his troops’ care? In the swirl of reforms—schools, forging crossbows, reorganizing the army—he had overlooked the most fundamental need. Rage mingled with guilt, stoked higher each time he heard a soldier cry out in pain under a surgeon’s clumsy saw.

  An hour into their journey, Romulus dismounted by one of the wagons carrying wounded. The medics were treating a soldier with a gash in his thigh, the torn flesh swarming with flies. “Boil the instruments,” Romulus ordered, voice sharp. “Wash your hands in boiled water, too. Not just once—between each patient. We cannot let infection kill more men than the battle itself.”

  A few staff gaped at him, startled. “But Caesar,” one older medic began hesitantly, “we only have a small pot, and—”

  “Then build more fires,” Romulus snapped, gesturing to the wooded roadside. “Fetch water from the next stream we cross. Set it to boiling. Clean everything before it touches another wound.” Under normal circumstances, the boy emperor’s tone might have sounded naive or harsh, but there was a gravitas behind it now—a furious compassion that few dared challenge. “If you need more supplies, speak to Tribune Sylvanus or whoever leads the rearguard. But do it!”

  He turned to the next wagon, where a crossbowman with an arrow lodged in his shoulder clenched his jaw in agony. The arrow’s barbed head had not even been removed properly. “We can numb it with cold water at least,” Romulus said quietly to the nearest medic. “And we have honey or wine to clean the wound, yes?” The man nodded shakily, unaccustomed to an emperor so involved. “Use them.”

  And so, along the slow march, Romulus ordered the same protocols repeated: boiling instruments, rinsing hands, discarding soiled bandages that had merely been reused before. It was no perfect solution—many men were beyond help, and the supply of water and fuel was limited—but it was more than had ever been attempted in these camps. The medics, some incredulous, began to comply. Word spread that the emperor demanded higher standards of care.

  Nor did Romulus confine his mercy to his own people. The captured enemy, especially the peasant levies, had marched with his column under guard. Some were grievously injured too, and many had thrown themselves at his feet for clemency. At first, a few of Romulus’s officers protested the notion of wasting resources on “the enemy,” but Romulus was adamant. “These are conscripted farmers,” he said. “No different than our own if the coin had fallen another way. Help them, or at the very least, do not let them die in filth. That is not the Rome we are trying to rebuild.”

  By the time the column approached Ravenna’s gates, the mood had turned somber. Onlookers gathered by the roadside, murmuring in equal parts awe and sorrow at the sight of so many wounded. Behind them came wagons bearing bodies, tarps draped over them as best the soldiers could manage. The city that had once greeted Romulus with cautious optimism now beheld him returning not in triumph but in heavy mourning.

  The gates opened, and inside the walls, tribunes and officials scurried forth to meet him. Romulus dismounted again, quickly ordering that the wounded be taken to every available hospital room, temple annex, or makeshift infirmary. “And the same instructions as on the road,” he warned the city medics, voice clipped with exhaustion. “Boil your implements, keep your hands clean, use fresh bandages. I’ll not have them dying from neglected wounds in the heart of our capital.”

  Some nodded, others looked bewildered—this was a level of medical fastidiousness unusual in their experience. But the emperor’s voice held no space for debate. Tired beyond measure, Romulus let Magnus and a handful of officers lead him to the palace. The clangor of the city, the hush of townsfolk bowing or peering at him, all blurred together. Only the raw memory of men groaning in pain and the stench of old blood clung to his senses.

  Once inside, Romulus paused in the corridor where courtiers hovered. He was reminded all at once of how grand the palace seemed and how trivial its finery felt after so many hours among the wounded. Fury coiled again in his stomach. How could I have overlooked their care? he berated himself inwardly. He left the healing of his troops to outdated custom and chance.

  He turned to one of his secretaries, voice raw. “Summon the chief medicus of Ravenna. I want a full accounting of every surgical tool, every herb, every possible remedy. Next time we march, or if we must defend the city again, I won’t see such suffering repeated.”

  The secretary bowed hastily, scrambling away. Another official approached with a sheaf of documents about supply lines, presumably eager to congratulate him on the victory. Romulus waved the man aside, too heartsick to entertain any talk of celebratory parades.

  He trudged onward, deeper into the palace halls, his limbs heavy with guilt and weariness. The past days’ euphoria—standing by the aquila, galloping in triumph across the battlefield—felt distant now, eclipsed by the memory of those wagons, those men’s pain. Even the knowledge that he had saved lives by ordering better treatment brought little comfort. It should have been done from the start, he thought bitterly.

  In the quiet gloom of his private chamber, Romulus sank onto a bench, hands trembling. He was an emperor, but so young, so unprepared for the reality of war’s aftermath. The floors of marble and the perfumed air felt almost obscene when he recalled the moans of the injured. Yet, for their sake, he would press on. He had to. He was the emperor, whether or not he ever asked for the title.

  A soft knock drew Romulus from his weary contemplation. He lifted his head, half expecting a secretary or messenger with yet another report. Instead, when the door eased open, Orestes stood in the threshold, his lean frame cast in harsh lines by the flickering lamplight. For a moment, father and son simply stared across the chamber at each other, neither speaking.

  “Father…” Romulus breathed.

  Orestes—once so confident and imposing—looked aged beyond his years. Heavy shadows clung under his eyes, and new lines scored the corners of his mouth. The last weeks of conflict and loss had carved every ounce of youth from him. His hand tightened on the door’s edge as though he needed its support simply to stand.

  They stood there, caught in a shared, painful silence. Then Romulus’s control cracked. He lurched to his feet, tears blurring his vision, and stumbled forward. Orestes opened his arms, meeting him halfway. Romulus let out a choked sob, burying his face against his father’s shoulder. The emperor who had held firm on the battlefield now trembled like a child.

  “Father…” Romulus whispered against the rough fabric of Orestes’s cloak.

  “Romulus,” Orestes murmured in return, voice broken. He hugged his son fiercely, one hand rising to cradle the back of Romulus’s head as though to shield him from the world. They stood locked like that for a long stretch of heartbeats, listening only to the soft muffled sound of Romulus’s sobs.

  At last, Orestes guided him to the bench near the wall. They sat, shoulders nearly touching in the dim lamplight. Romulus wiped his eyes, still fighting back erratic shudders of grief and relief. It struck him that, for all the times he had wanted his father to be near, now that Orestes was here, the circumstances were so grim it scarcely felt like a reunion.

  Orestes caught his breath, eyes shining with his own unshed tears. “I’m sorry,” he began, voice hoarse. “I should’ve been here, should’ve shielded you from… from all of this. But everything—Medionalum, Pavia—” He broke off, drawing a ragged breath. “I didn’t even succeed in rallying the f?derati I hoped for. So few came with me, and now…”

  He closed his eyes, pressing a trembling hand to his brow. “Your uncle, Paulus,” he forced out. “I tried to stop him from— He volunteered for the rearguard at Pavia. Our plan was to strike Odoacer’s forces in the flank if they tried crossing the Po. But Odoacer, damn him, moved faster. By the time we’d mustered enough men, his cavalry was already past the river. We couldn’t hold Pavia more than a few days. We had no supplies, no chance to retreat, so we all scattered through the countryside.” His voice cracked. “Paulus insisted on covering the withdrawal—he wanted to buy time for others to escape. Odoacer’s horsemen pinned him inside Pavia with a handful of loyal soldiers.”

  Romulus’s throat felt tight. He reached out and clasped his father’s hand. “Father…”

  Orestes gave a short, agonized laugh, tears finally slipping free. “He was executed,” he said, each syllable brittle. “Two days later, they say. Odoacer offered no mercy. My brother… your uncle. He died thinking he’d help us salvage something, but…” He trailed off, staring at his own lap as though the words themselves were too heavy to speak further.

  Romulus’s heart ached, a fresh well of grief opening. He had known that Pavia fell and that Odoacer was ruthless, but hearing the fate of Uncle Paulus shredded him anew. “I— I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice trembling.

  Orestes nodded mutely, eyes red-rimmed. “I loved him, Romulus. Despite everything—the politics, the wars—he was my younger brother. I thought I could protect him, just as I wanted to protect you. But I failed.” He took a shaking breath, gaze drifting over his son’s face. “By the time word reached me, it was too late.”

  For a moment, the only sound in the chamber was their breathing. Romulus felt tears prickling again, not for himself but for the raw anguish etched into his father’s features. The man who had once commanded armies with unwavering confidence now looked hollow, as though each loss drained part of his spirit.

  “And I—” Orestes swallowed. “I failed to keep you from the battles. I dreamed you might rule from Ravenna’s safety, at least until you grew older. That I, or someone, would shoulder the burden of the sword in your place. Instead, you’ve seen so much death already.” His eyes flicked to Romulus’s bandaged hand, a minor cut from the ambush, and he seemed to age a year in that single glance. “I can’t change it. If only I had… If only I had been here sooner…”

  Romulus sniffed, wiping his eyes roughly. “We both— we both did all we could, in different ways,” he managed. “None of us foresaw how quickly Odoacer would seize Pavia. None of us expected Crassus to turn against me.”

  Orestes’s eyes went cold at the mention of Crassus, an unmistakable flash of rage tightening his features. He straightened, releasing Romulus’s hand as though the thought of that betrayal demanded his undivided attention.

  “Crassus,” he repeated, voice raw with bitterness. “I trusted him. We all did. He was meant to be your guide in Ravenna, someone who’d keep me informed and ensure the Senate’s cooperation. Instead…” His breath hissed through clenched teeth. “He’s crowned himself emperor in Rome, bringing landowners and churchmen to his side. They flocked to him the instant he dangled an end to the reforms.”

  Romulus let out a quiet exhale, the sting of betrayal still fresh. “They hated the new tax reform more than I realized—enough to drop all loyalty to me for a promise of exemptions. I never guessed the Senate would unite so swiftly once they saw a chance at halting our audit.”

  Orestes nodded grimly. “Your reforms stirred up their nest. Crassus offered them escape from the tax burdens you were imposing—he barely had to persuade them at all. The very men who once swore fealty turned their cloaks the moment they saw gold and freedom from accountability.”

  He paused, pressing the heel of his hand against his brow as though warding off a headache. “Bishops, too, from what I hear, claiming you were undermining Church influence by focusing on worldly concerns—taxes, industry, the army. Crassus told them you were pushing Rome into a future with no regard for the Church. They saw a chance to limit your power in favor of someone more… malleable.”

  Romulus’s stomach churned at the thought. “And Odoacer? He sits in Pavia, barely lifting a finger to help Crassus, no matter how urgently he pleads.”

  A humorless laugh escaped Orestes. “Because Odoacer is no fool. He’ll let Crassus and you weaken each other. If Crassus somehow defeats you, Odoacer can betray him at leisure. If you hold, he’ll court you instead. Meanwhile, he waits, consolidating his strength with the gold Crassus foolishly paid him.”

  Romulus closed his eyes briefly. “So Crassus believes if he can take Ravenna quickly, he can pass off his coup as legitimate before Odoacer changes his mind—and before Zeno’s reinforcements arrive.”

  Orestes’s grip tightened on Romulus’s shoulder. “He does. And with the Senate and a handful of bishops backing him, he thinks he has enough legitimacy to claim the throne. That’s why we must prepare Ravenna, gather our loyal forces. Crassus grows desperate; he won’t delay much longer.”

  Romulus forced a slow, measured breath, remembering Crassus, the man who had guided him through courtly intrigues. “He was one of your closest advisors,” he said softly, trying to hold back the bitterness in his voice. “He promised to protect me when you were gone. Now he uses the Senate’s hatred of taxes to fuel a rebellion. It’s all so quick.”

  Orestes’s eyes hardened further. “He was always ambitious. I believed I could manage that ambition for Rome’s sake, but it consumed him. Once your reforms threatened the Senate’s wealth, his path to power was practically laid out for him.”

  A silence settled over them, broken only by the distant echo of footsteps in the palace corridor. Father and son exchanged a weary look, each remembering in that moment how much had been lost—and how much they still stood to lose.

  At last, Romulus inhaled slowly, mustering a soft smile that trembled at the edges. “I’m… I’m truly glad you’ve come back,” he said, voice subdued but laden with relief. “For a while, I was afraid you might never return.”

  Orestes’s gaze flicked to the floor, and for an instant, he looked more vulnerable than Romulus had ever seen him. Then, with deliberate care, he reached out, resting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I should never have left you alone in this. And yet, even from afar, I watched you become the emperor you needed to be. The emperor I always hoped for.”

  Romulus swallowed the knot in his throat. He wanted to say a thousand things—about battles and burdens, betrayal and fear—but settled instead on a simple truth. “I still need you, Father. No matter what Crassus or Odoacer plans, I can’t stand against them alone.”

  Orestes’s eyes glistened. Gently, he squeezed Romulus’s shoulder. “You aren’t alone,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Not anymore. I will stay by your side, no matter what comes. Together, we will prevail… and we will show the traitors what true loyalty looks like.”

  Romulus blinked hard against the renewed sting of tears. His father was here, and they would face the storm together. Whatever fury Crassus brought to Ravenna’s gates—whatever schemes Odoacer devised—father and son would meet it side by side.

  Slowly, they both rose, Orestes’s hand dropping from Romulus’s shoulder only when they stood. The flickering lamplight caught the glint of determination in their eyes. Romulus lifted his chin, sensing the renewed resolve coursing between them.

  “We’ll prepare the city,” he said softly. “We’ll rally every loyal soldier. We’ll show Crassus that Rome doesn’t bow to the greed of a few profiteers.”

  Orestes gave a curt nod. “And when his makeshift army presses our walls, we’ll remind him that this empire isn’t an easy prize. Let him see how wrong he was to underestimate a boy—and to underestimate us.”

  They shared a brief smile—tired, yet profoundly united in purpose. They would stand back-to-back against the darkness looming beyond Ravenna’s walls.