The Last cohort

THE COUNCIL OF CHIEFTAINS

The war council erupted into chaos. The Demetae were a powerful tribe, neighbors and sometimes rivals to the Silures. An attack from them was not just a military problem; it was a political catastrophe that could unravel the fragile alliance before it was fully woven.

“We must crush them!” a Brigante chieftain roared, slamming his fist on the table. “Show all of Britannia what happens to those who side with the darkness!”

“And in doing so, prove the Fomorii’s point!” Marcus’s voice cut through the din, sharp and clear. All eyes turned to him. “If we s*******r the Demetae, we become the monsters the other tribes fear. We prove that this new alliance is just the old empires with a prettier name. We will be fighting every tribe from here to the northern wastes.”

Morganna’s gaze was fixed on the terrified scout. “Their eyes were glazed. They felt no pain. This is not a choice they are making. This is an infection.” She turned to Archdruid Gwynn. “Can your magic tell if this is a possession? A mass delusion?”

Gwynn’s face was grave. “From this distance, it is impossible to say. The Fomorii corruption takes many forms. This… puppetry of the living… is a new and troubling evolution.”

“Then we need a scout of our own,” Marcus said. “Not an army. A small group to get close, to observe, to find the source of this corruption. If we can break the hold on the Demetae, we gain a powerful ally instead of creating a bitter enemy.”

The plan was audacious and dangerous. Infiltrate the territory of a hostile, possibly mind controlled tribe to find a Fomorii agent none of them could detect.

“I will go,” Marcus stated.

“As will I,” Morganna said. “If this is a sickness of the spirit, the Sword of Britannia may be the only cure.”

A heavy silence fell. Sending the queen on such a mission was madness. But her logic was sound.

It was then that a weak, but determined voice spoke from the corner. “You will need me.”

Bran stood, leaning heavily on his staff. His face was still pale, but his eyes held a desperate, focused light. “You cannot detect this. I can. The blood magic… it resonates with their corruption. I can smell it on the wind. I can track it to its source.”

Gwynn’s face hardened. “Absolutely not. I forbade you from leaving these walls. You are a danger, Exile.”

“He is right,” Morganna said, her voice quiet but firm. She looked at Bran, not as a queen to a subject, but as one warrior to another. “Your… condition… makes you the only one who can find this poison. But can you control it? Can you use it as a tool, and not let it use you?”

Bran met her gaze, and for the first time since the barrow, he looked utterly sincere. “I do not know. But I know that if I stay here, caged, the hunger will fester until it breaks loose. Let me use this curse for something good. Let me try.”

The interactivity in the room was a palpable force. The fate of the alliance hung on this decision.

Marcus looked at Valerius and Cynfor. The old Centurion gave a curt, reluctant nod. The Silure chieftain sighed, his shoulders slumping in acceptance.

“The boy and the queen cannot go alone,” Hrothgar grunted, hefting his axe. The wound on his leg was bound tightly, but he stood firm. “Where the scent of battle is, the sea wolf will follow. And I have a score to settle with the void.”

Morganna made her decision. “We go. The four of us. Now. While the council prepares the defenses here.”

They left Caer Leon under the cover of a grey, drizzling dusk, a stark contrast to the fiery purpose within its walls. Bran led them, his head raised, nostrils flaring as he sifted through the air, reading a trail only he could perceive. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a grim, concentrated effort.

“It is not a single, powerful source,” he murmured as they moved through the damp woods. “It is… a mist. A subtle poison woven into the very air around their villages. It clouds the mind, amplifies suspicion and rage, and directs it outward. Towards us.”

They reached the edge of Demetae territory by moonrise. The first village they came upon was silent, but not peaceful. Figures moved in the shadows between the roundhouses, their movements jerky and unnatural. No laughter, no conversation, just the low, constant mutter of paranoid thoughts given voice.

“The Silures want our land…” “The Romans bring their iron laws…” “The Saxons are beasts…”

“They are trapped in their own fears,” Morganna whispered, a profound sadness in her voice.

“There,” Bran said, pointing to a low hill overlooking the village. A lone figure stood there, shrouded in a cloak, arms raised. Around him, the air shimmered with a faint, sickly green hue—the same color as the corrupted shard and Bran’s blood magic.

“The puppeteer,” Marcus said.

“He is a Disciple,” Bran confirmed, his hand trembling. “But weaker than the one in the barrow. A journeyman. He is the focus, channeling the corruption from a greater source further away.”

“Can you break his connection?” Marcus asked.

Bran closed his eyes, his face a mask of concentration. “I can… disrupt it. But it will be like ringing a bell. Every Fomorii for miles will feel it. And it will… call to the hunger in me.”

“Do it,” Morganna ordered. “We will be ready for the consequences.”

Bran knelt. He did not draw blood. Instead, he pressed his palms flat against the earth, digging his fingers into the soil. He began to chant, a low, guttural counter rhythm to the Disciple’s silent working. He was not using the blood magic directly; he was using his knowledge of it to unweave the pattern.

On the hill, the Disciple staggered, his chant breaking. The green haze around the village flickered.

The effect on the villagers was immediate and horrifying. The muffled paranoia snapped into raw, unfiltered panic. A man turned on his neighbor, screaming about stolen livestock. A woman wailed, clutching her children, convinced the shadows were coming to life.

“The poison is broken, but the damage is done!” Hrothgar growled. “They will tear each other apart!”

“No,” Morganna said, her voice filled with a sudden, blazing certainty. She strode forward, out of the tree line and into the center of the village common. She did not raise her sword in threat. She raised it high, and let its pure, golden light flood the village.

It was not an attack. It was a revelation.

The light washed over the villagers. It did not erase their fear or their anger. But it cleared the fog. It showed them their own hands, their neighbors’ faces, the reality of their homes. The screaming faltered, replaced by confused, dazed murmurs.

The Disciple on the hill, enraged, turned his focus from the village to her. A bolt of corrosive green energy shot from his hands, aimed directly at Morganna’s heart.

Hrothgar was already moving. He threw himself in front of her, his axe held crosswise. The energy struck the Dane axe’s head with a sizzling c***k. The metal did not break, but it blackened and smoked, and Hrothgar was thrown to the ground, his arms numbed to the shoulder.

It was the opening Marcus needed. While the Disciple was focused on Morganna and Hrothgar, Marcus broke from the trees and sprinted up the hill. He didn’t shout. He didn’t announce his challenge. He moved with the silent, lethal efficiency of a Roman soldier on a night raid.

The Disciple sensed him at the last second, turning, his eyes wide. Marcus’s gladius took him in the throat before he could utter a syllable or weave another spell. The body crumpled, the green haze vanishing entirely.

The village was saved. The immediate threat was over.

But as Marcus looked down at the dead Disciple, then at Bran, who was slowly rising, his face gaunt with effort, he knew this was only the beginning. The Fomorii were no longer just throwing monsters at them. They were attacking their very identity, turning Britannia against itself. The Council of Chieftains in Caer Leon was not just a military alliance. It was the only vaccine against a plague of the mind, and the enemy had just revealed its newest, most insidious weapon.