The silence in Caer Leon did not last. It was shattered by the deep, resonant blast of a war horn from the northern watchtower, a sound that had not been heard since the days of tribal wars. It was not a call to assembly. It was a scream of warning.
They spilled out of the great hall into a courtyard choked with sudden, organized chaos. The Britannic Cohort was no longer a concept; it was a living, breathing engine of war, and its gears were meshing with a terrifying, beautiful precision. Roman centurions bellowed Latin commands that were instantly translated into Celtic and guttural Saxon by runners. Silure scouts, their faces grim, relayed messages to officers. The sound was a cacophony that somehow formed a symphony of readiness.
Marcus found his place without thought, his body moving
