I stood there, studying the narrow hollow in the stone. My hand rested on the blade, a tightness settling in my chest. I let out a slow breath. The fit was too precise to ignore, and curiosity outweighed caution.

  I drew the blade and slid it into the stone. It settled without resistance, as though it had always belonged there.

  The hilt tapped softly against the door.

  My grip tightened. I began to turn it.

  A voice stirred within me.

  “No…”

  The light in the training room dimmed, and my vision wavered. I shivered as an impossible cold closed in and the world began to fall away.

  “What…” My voice came back to me thin and distant.

  Stone vanished, replaced by an ancient wooden door, its dark grain unmistakable. I recognised it from the dream. I tried to turn aside, to step back, but my body did not listen.

  I was awake, trapped inside the memory.

  My hand closed around the metal handle of the door and pulled. The mechanism groaned as it turned, and I stepped through the threshold, leaving the biting cold behind. Warmth washed over me at once. The sudden change sent a sharp burn through my fingers and face as sensation of warmth rushed into them.

  I moved deeper inside without resistance, scanning the space for signs of life. Candles and oil lamps lit the room, their smoke hanging thick in the air. This was no house. It was a tavern. I took in the stools lining the long counter, the glasses resting along its surface.

  The interior was kept reasonably tidy, a jarring contrast to the slaughter outside. The space was wide and open, with a staircase leading to a second level. In better times, the tavern had likely offered rooms to travellers seeking shelter. Now it felt like a ghost lingering in a graveyard.

  A door creaked open behind the counter and a pale, middle-aged man stepped out, his apron dark with old stains. His face twisted into a snarl that froze when he saw me. His eyes flicked upstairs, then back to me, panic flashing across his features.

  He rushed forward and tried to usher me back toward the door.

  “Get out, before…” he whispered, his voice tight with fear.

  “Before what?” came a voice from above. It was rich and unfamiliar, the accent strange, the tone calm and commanding.

  He flinched and looked up, his lips trembling. He tried to speak, but no sound came.

  I followed his gaze, searching for the source.

  The barkeep turned and fled back through the door he had come from.

  “Oh, I see,” the voice said. Its smooth cadence cut through the howl of the storm outside. “I take it there is an entire nest of rats waiting out there?” The amusement was unmistakable.

  I nodded before answering. “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir?” the voice echoed, curious rather than offended.

  I cleared my throat and moved farther into the tavern.

  “May I ask,” I heard myself say, “are you the Immortal?”

  A stretch of laughter followed. I couldn’t tell if it carried mirth or something closer to pain.

  When the sound faded and only the wind remained, the voice spoke again. “You know, I cannot sense a single trace of fear from you.”

  I said nothing.

  The voice released a quiet sigh, and a figure stepped out from the shadows above. He looked as though he had walked straight from the stories. Tall and pale, with long white hair that fell like frost, he descended the stairs in silence, each step measured and deliberate.

  A midnight scabbard lay across his back, cradling the dark blade as infamous as its bearer. Some claimed it devoured the souls of those it struck down. Others said it had been drawn from the pits themselves. The Immortal moved closer, studying me as one might study a curiosity. I met his gaze, old tales stirring in my mind.

  They were not exaggerations.

  His eyes were clear as ice.

  He smirked. “Yes. I am what they say... Tell me, then. Are you not afraid?”

  “Should I be?” I asked.

  The Immortal’s grin widened, teeth flawless and white. In a blur, his hand closed around my jaw and forced my chin up. His gaze flicked to the numbers branded into my shoulder, then plunged into my eyes, searching.

  He released me with a soft, humourless chuckle.

  “I take it your commanding officer intends to capture me,” he said.

  I nodded. “I’m not sure why.”

  “Of course you aren’t,” he replied, turning his attention toward the ceiling. “Those who chase power rarely explain themselves to their tools.”

  His eyes returned to mine. “Still, it is time to end this little performance. Tell me, slave. What is your name?”

  “Ones, sir.”

  “Ones?”

  I nodded.

  He glanced toward the noise outside. Through the windows, I caught the shifting shadows of men and shields. The perimeter had been sealed.

  The Immortal’s expression darkened as he studied his own fingers, flexing them slowly, as though measuring something unseen. “I can sense it,” he said softly. “A deep tingling across my flesh.”

  “It is the anti-magic barrier,” I said.

  He shrugged and gave me a crooked, amused smile. “That will make things interesting.”

  The door burst open and three legionnaires surged inside, shields raised and spears clutched tight.

  The Immortal laughed, his gaze dismissing their weapons as if they were nothing more than toys.

  I staggered back as pilums hissed past. He barely moved, stepping aside with a raised brow as the weapons missed by inches. To him, the warriors were no more than an irritation.

  The legionnaires hurled their remaining spears, drew their gladii, and charged.

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  The room seemed to dim as the Immortal drew his sword. My mind reeled. The blade was all too familiar. Dark metal, ancient, drinking in the light around it. He moved once. A single, brutal arc. Shields split. Steel sheared. The soldiers fell, clutching empty space where their arms had been only seconds before.

  The stench of blood filled the air as I retreated, my eyes locked on the blade.

  What remained of the shields and gladii cracked and popped, sparks leaping free as the fragments turned to ash, then smoke. The essence of the broken weapons rose and flowed into the Immortal’s blade before vanishing.

  The three men cried out as they clutched their wounds, only to be silenced by a second, precise strike. Heads hit the floor with dull thuds, blood spreading across the stone.

  The silver-haired monster paid me no mind. His attention had already shifted to the noise beyond the door.

  A heavy clatter rang out from outside, followed by a sharp command.

  Something flashed through the doorway. An iron collar etched with a glowing rune snapped around the Immortal’s neck and tore him off his feet. Vaulter had made his move.

  Icy eyes flickered with surprise as the chain went taut. He fought it, rising inch by inch until he stood upright, fixing a cold glare on those who dared try to bind him.

  Then he was gone.

  I spun toward the window in time to see the white-haired monster land before a wall of shields.

  “File in. Hastas ready!”

  The legionnaires locked their shields and advanced as one. Behind them, the slave warriors held position, bows drawn, eyes fixed ahead.

  “Auxiliaries, loose!”

  Arrows streaked over the shield wall and slammed into the frozen ground. I dove behind the counter as shafts punched through the window, glass bursting around me.

  When I dared to look again, the Immortal had not moved.

  He tore the arrows free one by one and tossed them aside. Each pull left a wet smear of blood before the shafts clattered to the floor.

  His gaze swept the formation and settled on the warrior-magus.

  “Pilums forward!” Vaulter shouted. “Spike the bastard!”

  The legionnaires levelled their weapons and edged closer. The Immortal did not move as jagged points drove deep into his flesh. Even bound, his calculating eyes never left the magus.

  The spears were wrenched free, spraying fresh blood across the snow.

  The Immortal smiled, as if confirming a thought.

  “He’s not healing!” Vaulter shouted. “Spear him again!”

  The Immortal glanced down at his wounds, confusion flickering across his face as another wave of pilums plunged into him. A snarl twisted his features as he strained against the chain at his throat.

  The soldier holding it was yanked forward and cut down in a flash of black steel.

  “Grab the chain!” Belcus shouted as panic rippled through the ranks.

  “More shackles!” Vaulter called.

  Another length of iron flew, then another. The first snapped around the Immortal’s left wrist, the second his right. Runes flared along all three chains, their glow brightening as the force hauled him down to one knee.

  He spat a thick glob of blood into the snow.

  It spread around his knees as his breathing turned heavy and uneven beneath the weight of the restraints. Two more bindings snapped shut around his elbows, their runes burning brighter as the pressure increased.

  Vaulter stepped in behind the kneeling monster and drew his hammer from his belt. His gaze fixed on the Immortal’s hand as he spun the weapon once.

  Crunch.

  The black sword fell from his grasp and hit the ground.

  Vaulter did not hesitate. He moved to the other side.

  Crunch.

  The sound of iron meeting bone made my skin crawl as I watched from the window. Vaulter stepped forward and pressed the bloodied hammer against the Immortal’s lips.

  “If we did not need you to speak,” he said coldly, “I would crush your face here and now.”

  The captive monster lifted his head and grinned without humour. Blood stained his teeth, sharpening the horror of his smile.

  I stepped outside, careful, slow.

  “Monster,” Vaulter demanded, “speak. What have you done here?”

  The Immortal’s face twisted into a vicious parody of innocence.

  “Me?” he said. “Nothing much. Just hunting.”

  Vaulter chewed his lip, his gaze drifting over the many corpses frozen beneath the snowdrifts. The hammer fell on the Immortal’s collarbone with a sharp crack. The Immortal’s eyes never left the magus.

  His voice held no humour. “Pathetic. You are children playing at soldiers in something you do not understand.”

  Belcus stood over the captive, his brow furrowed as he turned on him. “What do you mean? Speak quickly.”

  “Do not listen to him, Belcus,” Vaulter said. “His silver tongue cannot be trusted.”

  “Then why spare my lips? Don’t you need me to talk?”

  The Immortal’s pupils flicked sideways and his wicked sneer widened. “Found you.”

  I followed his gaze and saw the barkeep from before, standing rigid in the cold, frozen by terror.

  The iron bands around the bleeding Immortal rattled as legionnaires on the other ends dug their boots into the snow and strained against him, faces tight with effort. Yet the captive seemed oblivious to the weight crushing his neck.

  “That is quite a mess you have made,” he said calmly to the barkeep.

  The man’s head shook, his whole-body trembling. It was not the cold. I saw it then. Thin red lines began to creep across his skin, branching like cracks in glass. He screamed as the marks spread.

  I flinched, recognition striking hard as the scars matched my own.

  Belcus and Vaulter stepped back at the sound, weapons raised, as the Roman shield wall tightened. It closed not only around the restrained monster, but around the barkeep and his unnatural cries.

  The Immortal lifted his head, as though sensing a shift in the air.

  “So,” he said softly, “you have lowered the barrier. Led the rats straight into your trap.”

  Hot blood dripped from his wounds, hissing as it struck the snow and curled into steam. I watched, breath tight in my chest, as his injuries began to knit closed before my eyes. Bone slid back into place with a sound that turned my stomach.

  His gaze never left the barkeep.

  Across the square, the man’s eyes narrowed, then sank back into their sockets, glowing green. A joyless grin twisted his face as the red scars finished claiming his body.

  Somewhere in the chaos, the black blade slid back into the Immortal’s grasp.

  In the same instant, it flashed. Chains snapped apart and the Immortal vanished.

  A crack rolled through the square. Frozen corpses scattered through the streets began to stir as ice split from their bodies and shattered against the stone. Red scars flared across dead flesh. Bones tore free of frozen joints.

  Hundreds of eyes ignited green and fixed on the legionnaires with ravenous hunger.

  “Ghouls!” Belcus shouted as he retreated with Vaulter, vanishing behind the Roman tortoise formation.

  The auxiliaries turned to face the rising dead and were swallowed almost at once. Teeth tore, claws ripped, and screams filled the air.

  I drew my sword and braced as the dead surged in. Shapes rushed through the snow, boots and claws tearing at the ground. Others dropped from above, slamming into shields and dragging legionnaires down in a tangle of limbs.

  The stench hit first. Rot and blood filled my lungs, thick and sour. My stomach clenched as I turned, searching for the shield wall. It was gone. No steel at my sides. No shouted orders. Just open snow and closing shapes.

  A ghoul broke from the mass and lunged. I brought my blade up on instinct, steel ringing as it struck a frozen arm. Another slammed into my side and the world tilted. Ice tore at my back as I skidded across the ground.

  Weight crushed down on my arm. Teeth scraped and bit into my armour, grinding hard enough to rattle bone. Pain flared white and hot. I shoved my blade upward, felt it punch into the eye socket, and twisted. The body went slack with a wet burst.

  Its jaw stayed locked. I wrenched the sword free and smashed its teeth again and again until its grip finally broke.

  “Hold! Hold!” Belcus shouted. Shields slammed together as the formation dragged itself back toward the tavern, gaps already opening where men had fallen. Pilums stabbed forward and sank deep, but the dead did not slow. Hands kept clawing. Teeth kept tearing.

  I forced myself upright as another ghoul charged, half its torso missing, ribs jutting through frozen flesh. I sucked in a breath and slipped past its grasp, cut its legs out from under it, and drove my heel down hard until the skull caved.

  Then a scream split the night.

  The sound rolled across the rooftops, sharp and wrong, and the square fell still. Every ghoul froze where it stood. Heads snapped upward in perfect unison. Green light flared in their eyes.

  I followed their stare.

  A hooded figure stood on the roof, a blade of crystallised blood clenched in his hand. Opposite him stood the Immortal. Wind tore at their cloaks as they faced each other, motionless. Words passed between them, lost to the gale.

  Then midnight met crimson.

  Ghouls swarmed the building, clawing at stone and timber as they dragged themselves upward. Each one that crested the roof was met by a casual backhand from the black blade and came apart mid-motion, limbs spinning away before the bodies even hit the tiles.

  The speed of it made my stomach drop. Until now, everything the Immortal had done had felt lazy. Dismissive. Now the air around him seemed to tighten as he moved, blows landing faster, cleaner. Arms tore free. Bodies came apart. All while the hooded figure pressed in close.

  The blood blade lashed out again and again, slicing past his throat, his ribs, his spine. Always close. Never touching. The Immortal twisted away from each strike by the narrowest margin, expression sharp now, focused. Whatever that weapon was, he did not want it near him.

  The rooftop vanished beneath a rain of severed limbs. No one spoke. No one moved. Every Roman watched, frozen.

  Then metal rang out, not against steel, but against something old and wrong. The black blade slammed into the hooded figure’s chest.

  The sound that followed was not a scream, not quite. It tore through the air and into my skull, burning through my ears as green light flared across the falling snow.

  All around us, the ghouls collapsed at once, bodies dropping limp to the ground like marionettes with their strings cut.

  A murderous laugh echoed from above.

  The Immortal stood alone of the roof, holding the cloaked figure’s severed head.