The silence in the clearing was no longer oppressive. It was the quiet of a deep wound finally cleansed. Sunlight, previously unable to penetrate the glade’s chill, now dappled the forest floor through the budding canopy. Marcus knelt, not in prayer, but in finality. He scooped up the shattered fragments of the corrupted eagle and the splintered standard, placing them into a leather pouch. It was not a relic to be revered, but a lesson to be remembered.
Wulfstan wiped the sweat and grime from his face, his breathing still heavy. He looked at the notched blade of his great axe, then at Marcus. “A good fight,” the Saxon grunted, a spark of respect in his eyes that had not been there before. “You speak well, Roman. For a people.” He did not say my people, but the implication hung in the air,
