The hour before dawn weighed heavy upon Aquilonia. In the barracks, Milo had only just returned, dust and suspicion clinging to his cloak after the encounter with Eva Varelia and her too-slick servant. The scroll, sealed under the authority of a man already on the road to Rome, gnawed at him like a thorn beneath armor. He had resolved to place it before Legatus Jamal Marques at first light.

But the light came sooner than expected—not from the sun, but from fire.

From the northern edge of the city, smoke rose black against the paling sky, the acrid scent of burning timber carried swiftly on the wind. A messenger burst through the barracks gates, wild-eyed, shouting that a villa in the outskirts had been put to the torch. Raiders, he cried, though none could say how many.

Milo was already striding to the yard before the alarm bell was struck. His men scrambled into formation, some still tightening straps and pulling on greaves. The centurion’s scarred hand lifted, commanding order where panic threatened.

“Shields and blades, all of you. Double time. The gods have given us no rest.”

He led them through the streets, the glow of flames growing brighter, the shouts of citizens stirring in the wake of the smoke. When at last they reached the villa, the sight halted even seasoned soldiers. The household had been butchered without mercy, bodies heaped like offerings before the charred walls. Women, children—none had been spared.

Milo’s jaw set, his expression stone, but his eyes caught what others missed. Carved crude into the villa wall was a sigil: a skull with feline features, scorched black around the edges. He had seen it once before—long ago on the frontier, whispered in campfires by veterans who spoke of Derketo’s raiders. A cult, a tribe, half-worshippers, half-warriors, crueler than Gauls or Germans. That mark was their calling card.

His optio muttered, voice thick with dread. “Sir… why strike so close to the city walls?”

“To bait us,” Milo answered flatly. He stepped over the blood-slick threshold, eyes narrowing at the scattered loot left behind in their haste. But not all was Roman. His hand lifted a blade from the ash, its curve more eastern than Italian. Strange, foreign steel in a Roman villa. And thirty more like it, the messenger had said.

Milo glanced back at the rising plume of smoke, knowing it could be seen from the hills.
“They wanted us to come running. They want to see how we bleed.”

He turned to his men, his voice hard but steady.
“Send word to the Legatus. No rash pursuit. Not yet. This is no mere raid—this is a test.”

But even as he gave the order, his thoughts flicked back to the temple of Venus, to the priestess with her smooth words and the stolen seal pressed into his hands. The villa, the weapons, the mark of Derketo—it all stank of something greater. Aquilonia was not simply beset by thieves or raiders. There were darker hands at work, and Milo meant to uncover them.

As the flames licked higher into the dawn, he vowed silently: neither Eva’s silken plots nor Derketo’s savages would go unanswered.