The Last cohort

WORDS AS SHARP AS SWORDS

The interior of the council hall was a cavern of shadows and smoke. The air was thick with the scent of old wood, cured hides, and the damp earth beneath the packed floor. A central fire pit threw flickering light upon faces carved from suspicion and pride. Cynfor sat once more in his great chair, flanked by his most grizzled warriors. Morganna stood at his shoulder like a drawn blade, her grey eyes missing nothing. Caden had been taken to the healers, leaving the Romans and the Druid alone in the heart of the lion's den.

Marcus stood before them, Septimus a solid, silent presence at his side. Bran leaned on his staff slightly apart, an outsider even here, his wolf Faolan a dark shape lurking by the door.

"Speak, Roman," Cynfor commanded, his voice echoing in the hall. "You have your audience. Fill our ears with this tale of shadows and the end of days."

Marcus began. He spoke not with the flowery language of an orator, but with the direct, unvarnished report of a soldier. He described the fort, the men lost to things that were not men, the patrol that encountered the Corrupted. He detailed the madness that took the sentry, the unnatural fear that clung to the standard. He told them of the Centurion's desperate orders, and of their flight into the mist.

Then he spoke of Bran. Of the Gorestalkers. And finally, of the thing in the stones. The Shadow in the Mist. He described the psychic assault, the crushing despair, the voice in his head, and the shattering of the eagle. He held up his bandaged hands as proof of the cost.

When he finished, the silence was profound. The crackle of the fire seemed deafening.

Morganna was the first to break it. Her voice was cool, analytical, picking his story apart seam by seam. "A convenient tale. Your standard is destroyed, so you cannot be accused of lying under its symbol. Your legion is gone, so we cannot verify your rank or mission. You arrive with a known exile, a man cast out for delving into magics that stain the soul. And you expect us to believe that the only path to our salvation is an alliance with you?"

"It is not about belief, Princess," Marcus repeated, meeting her gaze steadily. "It is about evidence. Your brother's wound was not made by a Saxon seax or a Roman gladius. The creatures that attacked him were the same as those that hunt us. The enemy does not discriminate."

A old warrior with a braided white beard and a missing eye spoke next. "So you say. But why should we trust the word of a boy who has barely begun to shave, leading a ghost legion?"

Septimus took a half step forward, his voice a low growl. "You will speak of the Tesserarius with respect. He has more courage in his little finger than you have in your whole body, you old goat. I have fought from Hispania to this piss soaked rock, and I have never seen nor felt anything like what we faced. I watched that… that thing… corrupt metal with a touch. I felt it try to steal my will. Dismiss it at your peril."

The hall erupted into shouted arguments. Some men saw the logic, the grim necessity. Others called it a trap, a final, cunning Roman trick.

It was Bran who silenced them. He did not shout. He simply spoke, his voice cutting through the din like a knife.

"You are all fools," he said, his tone dripping with contempt. "You sit here squabbling over the authenticity of a story while the real world is crumbling around you. You think this is about trust? This is about survival." He pointed a long finger at Cynfor. "You, Chieftain. Three days ago, your westernmost shepherd's hut went silent. You found the family inside, their bodies whole, their faces frozen in terror, their souls gone. You blamed a sudden chill."

Cynfor's eyes widened slightly. It was a detail known only to a few.

Bran turned to the one eyed warrior. "You, Gryff. Your best hound went mad two nights past, howling at the moon until its throat was raw, then turning on its own pups. You put it down yourself."

The warrior, Gryff, paled.

"The land is sickening," Bran declared, sweeping his gaze across the entire council. "The birds are fleeing the highlands. The fish in the rivers are swimming erratically. The very trees feel the rot spreading. These are not omens for you to debate. They are symptoms of a disease. The Fomorii are a blight, and they are spreading. The Romans are not the cause. They are merely the first to feel the fever."

He stepped forward, his green eyes blazing in the firelight. "Marcus Aquila offers you a pact. I offer you a diagnosis and a cure. My magic, however tainted you believe it to be, is one of the few things that can fight this blight. His soldiers, however few, know how to stand in a shield wall and not break. Your warriors know how to fight in these hills. Combine us, and we are a medicine. Stay separate, and we are all just dying flesh."

Morganna stared at Bran, then at Marcus. The sheer, brutal logic of it was undeniable. It was not about friendship or honor. It was about assembling a toolkit for annihilation. Her father's kingdom was the anvil. The Romans were a piece of hardened steel. The Druid was the fire and the hammer. The thought was repellent to her soul, which yearned for pure, Celtic freedom. But her mind, sharp and strategic, saw the terrifying necessity.

Cynfor looked ancient in the firelight. The weight of this decision was immense. To ally with Rome was to betray the memory of every ancestor who had died fighting them. To refuse was to potentially lead his entire people to a death far worse than conquest.

He looked at his daughter. He saw the conflict in her eyes, and the dawning, grim acceptance. He looked at the young Roman officer, who stood with a quiet authority that belied his years. He looked at the exiled Druid, who held knowledge they desperately needed.

"Your words are as sharp as swords," Cynfor said finally, his voice heavy. "They have cut through our pride and left only the bare bone of truth." He took a deep breath. "We will send scouts to verify your claims. To the west, to the highlands. If they find what you say they will find… then we will talk of this pact."

It was not a victory, but it was a stay of execution. It was a chance.

"But know this," Morganna added, her eyes locking with Marcus's. "If this is a trick, Roman, you will not die by sword or rope. You will be given to the Druids. And they have ways of making a man regret his very birth."

The threat hung in the air, cold and sharp. The words had been spoken. The battle of the council hall was over. The real war was now one step closer.