The drums began at dawn.

  A deep, rolling thunder that echoed through the fortress of Melitene—not from the sky, but from the heart of the Legio XII Fulminata.

  Lucius stood in formation, his body still aching from the last day’s brutal training, but there was no time for rest. No time to think. Only to march, to obey, to endure.

  Today was no training exercise.

  Today, they marched to war.

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  The Orders from Rome

  Centurion Septimus paced before the assembled recruits, his voice as sharp as a gladius.

  “The Twelfth moves east.” His gaze swept over them, unreadable. “Parthian scouts have crossed the Euphrates. Governor Marcus Rutilius Lupus has ordered us to advance.”

  Lucius felt his pulse quicken. The Euphrates. That was no border skirmish. That was Parthian territory.

  The first true test of the Twelfth.

  The centurion continued. “You are no longer mere recruits. You are soldiers of Rome. You will march. You will fight. And you will not break.”** His eyes darkened. “Those who do will be left to rot in the sand.”

  Silence followed. No one spoke.

  Because they all knew it was true.

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  The Legion Moves

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  The eagle standard of the Twelfth gleamed in the morning light, held high as the legion formed up.

  Lucius adjusted the weight of his scutum, the large curved shield strapped to his left arm. His gladius rested at his hip, his pilum slung over his back. Every piece of equipment felt heavy—a burden meant for stronger men.

  But he bore it.

  Because he had no choice.

  The Twelfth moved in tight, disciplined ranks. The veterans led the columns, while the newer soldiers—like Lucius—were placed deeper in the formation. A shield wall of iron and flesh, marching forward with the precision of a war machine.

  The ground trembled beneath the weight of thousands of boots. Dust rose into the air, swirling in the golden light of dawn.

  Lucius stole a glance at Marcus, who marched beside him. His friend’s face was unreadable, but his fingers drummed anxiously against the rim of his shield.

  Lucius exhaled and forced his own hands to steady.

  Fear was the enemy. Doubt was the enemy.

  The legions did not fear. They conquered.

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  First Blood

  They had been marching for hours when the first arrow fell from the sky.

  A distant whistle—then a scream.

  Lucius’s head snapped up just in time to see a soldier collapse, an arrow buried in his throat.

  “SHIELDS UP!”

  The command came like a thunderclap. Hundreds of shields snapped into position, locking together in an unbreakable wall.

  Lucius crouched behind his scutum as more arrows rained down—a deadly hailstorm slicing through the morning air. Screams erupted, men fell, blood stained the dust.

  But the formation held.

  And then, from the distant ridgeline—they saw them.

  A Parthian raiding force.

  Cavalry. Fast. Deadly. Their horses galloped with unnatural speed, bows drawn, loosing arrows even as they rode.

  Lucius’s breath came fast.

  This was it.

  His first battle.

  His hands tightened around the pilum strapped to his back. His heart pounded like a war drum.

  The centurions’ voice roared over the chaos.

  “ADVANCE!”

  The legion moved as one.

  One unstoppable force of Rome.

  One tide of iron, marching toward blood and death.

  And Lucius Aemilius Regillus—no longer just a recruit—was marching with it.

  And as the Parthians charged, weapons gleaming in the morning sun, Lucius stepped forward—

  And prepared to carve his name into history.

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