The salute echoed, a stark, metallic thunderclap in the damp dawn air. It was not the clean, unified sound of a legion, but a ragged, desperate percussion of survival. Romans in scarred armor, Celts in torn tunics, Saxons leaning on notched spears, all hammering fists against breastplates and shields. The sound was a confession. It admitted they had seen things beyond reason, had stood back to back against the dark, and had, against all odds, lived to see the light.
Marcus Aquila felt the sound in his bones. He stood, his shoulder a blaze of pain, and returned the salute. It was the last order he would ever give as a soldier of Rome. The gesture felt both fitting and final, like closing a great book.
As the sound faded, the silence returned, but this one was different. It was not the dea
