The forest swallowed them as they fled Arco, but the world refused to forget.

  By dawn, the king’s death had spread. By noon, soldiers marched. By nightfall, the hunt began.

  Romulus walked ahead, fury burning. Remus walked beside him, quiet, thoughtful, the mark pulsing faintly. Aegis circled them, ever watchful.

  They were no longer boys.

  They were fugitives. Symbols. A spark.

  People began to join them.

  A hunter. A healer. Exiles. Former soldiers.

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  Romulus trained them. Remus organized them. Aegis protected them.

  They became a force.

  Not rebels.

  A movement.

  The kingdom struck first.

  The twins struck back.

  Romulus fought like a storm. Remus fought like a shadow. Aegis tore through the gaps.

  The kingdom retreated.

  The legend grew.

  A thousand soldiers marched north.

  The twins had barely two hundred.

  Remus chose the battlefield.

  The river flooded. The enemy line broke. Romulus charged. Aegis scattered soldiers. Remus guided their fighters like a conductor.

  The kingdom’s greatest general fell.

  The twins did not.

  One night, they reached a ridge overlooking a vast valley.

  Romulus saw strength. Remus saw destiny.

  “This is where our people will live,” Remus said.

  Aegis howled.

  The city was born.

  But the final war was coming.

  And Remus’s fate was already written.