The banners of Romanus fluttered blood-red in the chill wind as the first of the legions crested the pass leading into the valley below Bellenne.
By the hour's count, they had already marched nearly twenty kilometers since the last rest—pausing only to secure waypoints and issue new orders to the signal companies galloping between divisions.
Each legion moved with mechanical precision, carving through the countryside like a glacier of iron and will.
And no one had yet stood to stop them.
They had expected resistance.
An ambush in the passes.
A cavalry strike along the forest line.
Even some desperate local militia trying to bar the road.
But there was none.
Only abandoned watchposts and frightened, retreating villagers—those not fleeing east to the Visigoth borderlands were either hiding or huddled in crumbling barns, watching the banners of Romanus with wary, exhausted eyes.
"Where is Amaury's army?"
Sabellus asked quietly from atop his mount beside Julius.
