"Rome?" Romulus asked, his voice laced with a confusion that cut through the air. His footsteps faltered, and he fixed a piercing gaze upon Magister Vitus. "What of Rome?"

  Vitus did not offer an immediate reply. His features hardened, settling into a mask of tension unlike any Romulus had ever witnessed. With a hurried movement born of pure authority, Vitus seized the messenger by the shoulder and pulled him several paces away, as if desperate to sever the flow of information before it reached the young Emperor's ears. His voice was low, a jagged whisper as he pressed the soldier.

  "Where are they?" Vitus asked, his tone taut with suppressed urgency.

  "They are already in the meeting room," the messenger replied, his breath still shallow and ragged from the long journey.

  Seeing himself utterly ignored in the midst of a situation so clearly dire, a spark of fury ignited within Romulus. He felt like an exile within the very walls of his own palace grounds. With a sudden, deliberate motion, Romulus swept a silver wine decanter from a nearby table, sending it crashing onto the hard-packed earth of the courtyard.

  The ring of metal striking the ground echoed sharply across the courtyard, a dissonant clamor that forced every tongue to silence and every head to turn. Crimson wine pooled in the dust like fresh blood, but Romulus paid it no heed. He stood rigid, his chest heaving with indignation, staring at Vitus with a sharp edge of resentment he no longer cared to hide.

  "What of Rome?" Romulus demanded once more, his voice ringing with the weight of a sovereign seeking the truth.

  Vitus drew a long, heavy breath, realizing that time had finally run out. He turned back to the messenger and spoke curtly to dismiss him. "We shall be there shortly."

  With a sharp gesture, Vitus signaled the messenger to depart. Once the soldier had vanished from sight, Vitus stepped toward Romulus. He traded a brief, lingering look with Spurius, a silent exchange heavy with doubt as to whether Romulus was truly ready to bear the weight of what was coming. Vitus then bent down to retrieve the fallen decanter, placing it back upon the table with a hand that trembled ever so slightly.

  "Caesar, you must come with us," Vitus said, his voice dropping into a register of absolute solemnity. "Immediately. I will explain everything on the way."

  And so, Romulus walked with Vitus at his side and Spurius following behind. To Vitus, the news that had struck so suddenly from Rome felt as though a great shadow from the Eternal City had just collapsed upon Ravenna, bringing with it good news or perhaps ill news that would become a darkness ready to swallow them all.

  As they walked along the long corridor, Vitus finally spoke, his tone heavy with regret. "Forgive us, Caesar. We have hidden this reality from you."

  Romulus stopped in his tracks, turning with a sharp, demanding gaze. "Hidden what, Vitus?"

  Vitus exhaled a long breath, his eyes fixed forward as if reliving a horror once witnessed. "When the battle in the Adriatic Sea took place, our Ignis Dei that burned Nepos's ships... it was something never before seen by human eyes. That fire is not extinguished by water; it turns human flesh to dust, even within the cold depths of the sea."

  As Vitus uttered those words, Romulus was instantly haunted by visions in his mind. There, he saw the severed head of Odoacer laughing at him, as if mocking the darkness that now shrouded his hands.

  "Which burns human skin like sheets of paper," Vitus continued in a hoarse voice.

  In Romulus's vision, the image shifted. He saw the figure of his father, Orestes, standing amidst the flames, his skin curling and charring.

  "And shatters bone like breadcrumbs," Vitus added.

  Romulus saw something new: the vision of his mother accusing him of being a vile murderer. Romulus halted in his tracks, his breathing becoming heavy. Spurius, noticing this, immediately drew closer.

  "Caesar, are you well?" Spurius asked with an air of deep concern.

  Romulus did not respond. He froze in place. Vitus called out to him. "Caesar?"

  Romulus snapped back to his senses and resumed the walk stiffly. Vitus continued his explanation.

  "This weapon exceeds anything we have ever seen. And Nepos sees this as a beacon of hope for his ambitions. He has paid several bishops and sent those he calls living witnesses to Rome, before the Pope, to judge you before God. They will seek to excommunicate you."

  Hearing this, Romulus finally unleashed his emotions. He was furious because he was the Emperor, yet they had kept this from him. He shouted with a voice that thundered through the halls.

  "And you allowed this to remain hidden from me? From your Emperor?!"

  He glared at them one by one, then strode quickly toward Vitus. Romulus had not yet reached the age of twenty, but his height already nearly matched that of the Magister. He seized Vitus's collar firmly until they were face to face.

  "Who am I to you?" Romulus hissed at Vitus.

  Vitus could do nothing; he could only surrender to the fury. From behind, Spurius tried to call out to calm him.

  "Caesar, we did this to protect you."

  Romulus spun around and pointed at Spurius in a rage. "And you! You knew everything all this time?"

  "Yes, Caesar," Spurius answered softly. "We only wished to protect you."

  "Protect me? Protect me from what? From your own selfishness?" Romulus hissed, his eyes blazing. "I am no longer a child! I beheaded Odoacer by myself!"

  He spun back, his boots thundering against the floor as he lunged forward until his face was mere inches from the crest of Vitus's armor. He jabbed his forefinger repeatedly into Vitus's chest, each strike of his finger against the metal sounding like the tolling of a death bell.

  "While all of you were cowering behind those high walls, praying to God who would not listen to you," Romulus hissed, his voice fractured between raw fury and utter contempt. "I crawled through the sewers and took the head of the very man who made you all piss your pants!"

  He released Vitus's collar with a violent shove, causing the great general to stagger back. Romulus then flung his arms wide, gesturing toward the soldier barracks outside and the cold palace corridors with a wild, sarcastic motion.

  "You call yourselves protectors? You call yourselves soldiers?!" Romulus roared directly into Vitus's face, the veins in his neck straining. "You are nothing but cowards hiding the truth behind the shroud of false protection!"

  He shouted again, his voice echoing through the corridor. "Then I can say you have all committed treason against..."

  Before Romulus could finish his sentence, Spurius immediately cut in with a tone both deep and urgent. "Father Johannes, Caesar. He has gone to Rome of his own accord to defend you. You will be alright."

  The mention of Johannes's name struck Romulus like a sudden dousing of cold water. The sound of that name, the only man who had ever looked at him without greed or fear, softened his heart instantly. The violent fire in his eyes flickered and died, replaced by a hollow, aching silence. It brought him back to himself, pulling his mind out of the bloody visions and back into the reality of the hallway.

  The tension began to ease slightly as Romulus fell silent for a long moment, his chest still heaving but his hands no longer trembling with rage. Without another word, he resumed his walk, shoving aside Vitus, who happened to be standing in his path. Vitus and Spurius shared a heavy, lingering look before following closely behind their Emperor.

  They finally arrived at the great wooden doors of the meeting room. As the doors were heavily pushed open, the two messengers were already waiting inside. They immediately rose from their seats and offered their deepest salutes to Romulus.

  Romulus stood silent at the threshold, his eyes sweeping over the two men before him who appeared in a wretched state. Their bodies were caked in dried mud and thick dust, a testament to a brutal journey. Romulus returned their greeting with a small, stiff nod before moving toward the primary chair and taking his seat. Vitus and Spurius took their places, while the imperial guards formed a protective perimeter around the room.

  The two men then offered their salutes to Magister Vitus. Once Vitus was seated, Spurius remained standing near Romulus, his eyes fixed sharply on the condition of the two soldiers.

  "You look as though you have not slept for days," Spurius noted in a low voice.

  "It is true, Dominus," one of them replied in a hoarse voice.

  Vitus did not wish to waste any more time. He leaned his body toward the table and asked with urgent intensity, "What of Father Johannes? Did he succeed?"

  The two men stole a glance at each other, their expressions heavy with bitterness.

  "Actually, Magister," one of them answered while looking down. "We bring ill news from Rome."

  "Continue," Vitus commanded, his voice sounding like a low growl.

  "Father Johannes... he was stabbed mid-journey."

  A deathly silence suddenly engulfed the room. Romulus, Vitus, and Spurius seemed to gasp at the news.

  "What do you mean?!" Vitus demanded, his face flushing with a rising fury.

  "We do not know if Father Johannes still lives," the soldier replied with trembling lips.

  Romulus sat rigid, his eyes fixed on the wooden table before him as he watched Vitus erupt in an explosion of anger. Vitus slammed his palm against the table so hard that the sound echoed throughout the entire room.

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  "I sent a hundred of you to protect him! A hundred of the best! And yet you allowed him to be stabbed?!" Vitus roared.

  Spurius stepped closer, a look of clear frustration upon his face. "Who stabbed him? How could this happen?"

  One of the messengers began to explain haltingly. "When we arrived at the Milvian Bridge, we were blocked by hundreds of rioting masses. They barred our path and screamed vile accusations at us all. Tribune Drusus could have ordered us to clear them by force, but Father Johannes held us back. He did not want any friction or bloodshed with the people."

  He took a long breath before continuing. "He descended from his carriage himself to speak with the crowd and ordered us to stay behind him. It was then that a woman from the crowd approached and stabbed him, causing Father Johannes to fall. We immediately took his body and brought him to Saint Peter's to seek refuge. It was then that Tribune Drusus ordered us to bring this message directly to you, Magister."

  The soldier straightened his back, delivering the final words from the Tribune. "Tell Vitus... we are going in. We will do whatever we can to win the trial. Tell him to prepare the legions, but do not move yet. Wait for word from us."

  He paused, his voice growing heavier. "But if in ten days after the Synod ends there is no news from us... or if we do not return, then consider us failed. When that happens, tell Vitus to come to Rome. Destroy this nest of rebels."

  After the message was delivered, the room suddenly felt hollow. Vitus, the great general who was usually unshakable, slowly sank back into his chair. His shoulders slumped and his face went pale, as if he could not believe what he had just heard.

  Then Romulus asked, "How many days ago did this happen?"

  "Four days ago, Caesar," one of them replied.

  Romulus nodded slowly. "You may go. Take your rest."

  The two men offered a final salute with what little strength they had left, then filed out of the room. Once the doors closed, Vitus rose from his seat. He stood facing Romulus with his head bowed, a gesture rare for the Magister Militum.

  "Forgive me, Caesar. This is all my failing. I should never have allowed him to depart without a greater escort," Vitus said, his voice thick with remorse.

  Romulus did not acknowledge the apology. Instead, he turned and fixed a gaze upon Vitus that was hard to decipher. "Magister, what truly happens if I am excommunicated?"

  Vitus seemed to hesitate, his lips pressed thin as if the explanation were too bitter to voice. Seeing Vitus's reluctance, Spurius finally stepped forward. The light of the flickering torches cast long, jagged shadows across his face as he spoke.

  "Excommunication is not a mere slap on the hand from a priest, Caesar," Spurius said, his voice dropping into a cold, hard register. "It is the death of your crown before your body even reaches the grave. If the Pope casts you out, you are no longer a lawful sovereign, but a carcass. Your soldiers' oaths will rot like old meat. Any man who shares your bread or follows your banner will be called a heretic, and any blade that finds your throat will be hailed as an instrument of God. You will be a ghost in your own palace, with no law to protect you and no heaven to receive you."

  A silence followed that explanation, heavier than any before it. Romulus weighed every word, realizing that the throne he sat upon now rested over a deep abyss.

  "Then what shall we do?" Romulus asked.

  Vitus straightened his back, attempting to reclaim the remnants of his military bearing. "You heard Drusus's message, Caesar. We must prepare our legions. If... if..."

  Vitus let the sentence hang. He could not bring himself to speak of the worst possibilities. It was a burden too great to utter.

  Romulus looked at the two men before him, then turned his gaze toward the window, where the soldier camps began to glow dimly in the twilight.

  "Very well," Romulus said with a newfound resolve. "Prepare the legions."

  "As you command, Caesar," Spurius replied with a stiff bow.

  Vitus stepped forward, his expression still clouded by the news. "I will also dispatch the swiftest riders to Rome. We must know the current news from the Synod as it unfolds."

  Romulus paused, his hand gripping the edge of the table as he turned his sharp gaze back to the two men. "And one more thing. From this moment on, nothing is to be hidden from me again."

  Vitus, the great general whose pride had been battered by the day's revelations, slowly bowed his head. It was more than a gesture of protocol; it was a silent admission of surrender to the boy's rising will. "It shall be as you say, my Caesar."

  The following dawn arrived not with the warmth of the sun, but with a cold, pale light that crept over the horizon like a shroud. In the heart of the newly established military camp just outside the city walls of Ravenna, four thousand men had gathered to begin a massive mobilization.

  The formation was far from perfect. Veteran legionaries stood like stone, their scarred armor and the soot of past battles standing out among the swarms of green recruits filling the gaps. Most had been enlisted only in the last few weeks, pulled from fields and streets by the promise of gold from Odoacer's spoils, now flowing from the imperial coffers. These youths were uneasy, frequently adjusting new shields that felt heavy and unfamiliar in their trembling hands. Some whispered to one another with pale faces, wondering where they were being sent, while others stared blankly at the ground.

  The camp hummed with the frantic energy of forced drills under the strict eyes of the officers. In the corners of the field, groups of recruits were driven to strike wooden posts with repetitive stabs, their blades clattering as harsh commands cut through the morning mist. They practiced forming shield walls that still looked shaky, struggling to align footsteps that often tripped over one another. No explanation was given regarding their destination; they were crudely trained just to hold a weapon and keep their place in the line.

  The scent of oiled leather, sweat, and damp earth hung in the air as gear was packed into logistics wagons. The camp was thick with suppressed tension; the rhythmic sharpening of blades and the restless stomping of horses served as the backdrop for an army forced to grow in a single night. The veterans kept barking at the recruits to stand taller and tighten their armor straps, preparing them for a long march, though none among the ranks knew where the road would end.

  In the west, within the camp that now sheltered the remnants of Odoacer's former forces, dust rose high into the twilight sky. Romulus rode slowly, surrounded by a line of mounted guards who formed a human shield around him. Beside him, Spurius rode with ever-watchful eyes, monitoring every movement of the barbarian soldiers who were busy preparing war logistics under the command of Magister Vitus.

  Romulus’s presence acted as a beacon, drawing every bit of attention in the camp. Hundreds of pairs of eyes, eyes that had once looked upon Odoacer as their leader, now stared sharply at the youth sitting atop the horse. Romulus could feel those gazes, but instead of feeling threatened, he felt something else stirring in his chest.

  After weeks of training under Spurius's guidance, a sense of arrogance had begun to grow within Romulus. In his mind, he was no longer a weak child; he was the one who had struck down Odoacer single-handedly. A naive, youthful challenge emerged, a desire to prove his manhood in front of those he deemed inferior.

  "I want to feel what it is like to fight them directly," Romulus said suddenly to Spurius.

  Spurius turned with a shocked expression. "What? No, Caesar. You must not do that."

  "Come now, Spurius," Romulus snorted, "Have you forgotten? I am the one who killed their king."

  "That was a different situation, Caesar," Spurius replied firmly.

  "And I have been trained by the best soldiers in this Empire," Romulus continued, his tone rising.

  Spurius shook his head slightly. "You have not finished your training properly."

  Romulus turned his horse slightly, glaring at Spurius. "So, you doubt me, Spurius?"

  "Caesar, I will do everything necessary to prevent you."

  "Just try," Romulus challenged. Without waiting for a reply, he spurred his horse deeper into the center of the camp.

  The area was strictly guarded by Roman outposts and archer towers watching from above. Feeling safe within the reach of his own troops' protection, Romulus’s eyes scoured the crowd, searching for a figure who seemed a worthy match for a one-on-one duel.

  Then, he found him. A youth who appeared to be around his age was sitting on a log, sharpening an old shield. Romulus approached, his horse stopping right in front of the young man.

  "What is your name?" Romulus asked.

  The youth did not answer. He only stood up slowly and stared at Romulus with a flat, empty gaze that nonetheless held a sense of pride. Romulus signaled to one of his guards.

  "Bring him," Romulus commanded. He then dismounted from his horse with a movement full of arrogance.

  Spurius immediately dismounted as well, his face tense. He gave a secret hand signal to the archers in the towers to be on full alert, then stood in a ready position near Romulus.

  "At least do not do this here, Caesar. Their people will see you," Spurius said, making a final attempt to intervene.

  "That is exactly my point, Spurius. I want them to see."

  They moved toward an open clearing in the center of the camp. News of the duel spread quickly; the barbarian soldiers began to arrive, huddling together with a mixture of curiosity and anger. Seeing the crowd grow denser, the Roman soldiers acted immediately. They formed a perimeter with their large shields, surrounding Romulus and the barbarian youth, holding back the masses who had begun to cheer.

  Romulus was already wearing his armor, looking gallant under the twilight light. In contrast, his opponent wore only simple laborer's clothes without any protection. Romulus took two wooden swords and two wooden training shields from his guard. He gripped one set for himself, then threw the other wooden sword and shield toward the barbarian youth.

  The wooden weapons fell to the ground, right at the youth's feet. With a calm motion, the barbarian youth leaned down and picked up the sword and shield from the dirt. The crowd began to cheer wildly, creating a haunting noise within the circle of shields. There, Romulus settled into a fighting stance, staring intently at his opponent.

  The duel began with a deafening roar from the crowd. Romulus lunged forward with a reckless arrogance, swinging his wooden sword in wide, heavy arcs that were full of power but fatally open. In his eyes, this barbarian youth was nothing more than a living punching bag to be toppled quickly. However, his opponent moved with a maddening stillness; he simply shifted his weight, letting Romulus's blade slash through empty air.

  Every time Romulus attempted a thrust, the youth evaded with surgical efficiency, as if reading Romulus's intent before the strike even began. Occasionally, he delivered small counter-taps that rattled against Romulus's armor, a subtle mockery of the Emperor's failing defense.

  Spurius, watching from his saddle, ground his teeth until his jaw ached. "Hold... be patient, you fool," he hissed to himself, his fingers white-knuckled around the reins.

  The crowd grew wilder as they saw their Emperor beginning to falter. The barbarian youth suddenly shifted his rhythm. In one swift, spinning motion, he slammed his shield into Romulus's chest. The impact was so violent that Romulus was thrown backward, landing hard on the dirt. The barbarians erupted in cheers. In the towers, the archers began to draw their bowstrings, their fingers tense as they waited for a command to fire should the situation spiral out of control.

  Romulus scrambled back to his feet, his face flushed with shame and fury. He attacked again, but he was being toyed with. The youth deliberately let Romulus draw close, then with a sharp, snapping blow, he struck Romulus's hand until the wooden shield was wrenched away and sent flying. Instead of pressing the advantage, the youth paused. With a look of utter contempt, he cast his own shield to the ground, challenging Romulus to fight without protection.

  Spurius was stunned. He had never seen such prowess in a boy that age. Curiosity began to override his anxiety. He spurred his horse toward the edge of the spectators, leaning down toward the shouting men.

  "Who is he? What is the boy's name?!" Spurius demanded. Those around him only shook their heads, unaware.

  "You!" Spurius pointed at another man in the crowd. "Who is he? His name!"

  The man shouted a reply, but the bone-shaking roar of the crowd drowned him out.

  "Who?!" Spurius asked again, frustrated. The noise reached a fever pitch as, inside the circle, an exhausted Romulus began to lose his focus. His guard dropped.

  Spurius finally leaned his body as low as he could from his horse, bringing his ear close to the man. At that exact moment, a raw, heavy fist landed squarely on Romulus's face. In Spurius's ear, the answer finally broke through.

  "He is Fritigern!" the man yelled. "Some say he is of the blood of Fritigern the Goth!"

  Hearing that name, Spurius snapped upright, his eyes wide with shock. He looked to the center of the field and saw Romulus sprawled in the dirt, blood leaking from his mouth. The masses erupted in joy, celebrating the fall of the Emperor. The youth named Fritigern backed away slowly, staring coldly at the result of his work.

  Without wasting a second, Spurius charged his horse into the center, breaking through the line of soldiers. He yanked the reins so hard that his horse reared up, hooves flailing between Romulus and Fritigern. From atop his steed, Spurius glared at Fritigern, and the youth met his gaze with an intimidating stare, showing no fear of death.

  "Pick him up!" Spurius barked with absolute authority.

  The guards rushed forward, lifting the nearly unconscious Romulus and hoisting him onto Spurius's horse. Spurius steadied the boy's limp body while shouting a final command to his men before galloping away. "Seize that youth! Bring him alive!"

  The Roman soldiers immediately closed in on Fritigern to restrain him. However, seeing their hero about to be taken, the crowd turned into a mob. They resisted with brutal force; some managed to snatch swords from the soldiers' belts, wounding several guards. Riots broke out in an instant.

  Seeing the chaos, the hundreds of archers in the towers did not hesitate. They unleashed a rain of arrows into the rioting crowd. Shafts tore through those who resisted, killing several on the spot. This rain of death finally broke the mob's spirit. Amidst the chaos and rising dust, Fritigern was tackled, shackled, and dragged toward the palace precincts under heavy guard.