Upon hearing the word "witch" in Latin, a shiver ran through her body—not of fear, but of contained fury. That word, laden with contempt and vileness, was an insult she had never tolerated, much less now. Her eyes, once dark and deep like wells of calm, became two unfathomable abysses of rage. The atmosphere, previously tranquil, began to cool rapidly, and the air around her grew denser, almost palpable, as if winter itself had decided to wrap itself around her. The serenity of her presence, so calm until that moment, vanished like a broken dream, replaced by a tension that could be cut with an icy blade.
A frigid wind began to blow inexplicably, lifting dry leaves from the ground and making the ruins of the temple whisper, as if the earth itself were responding to her fury. The young woman took a step forward, and in that moment, the air became charged with an unbearable pressure. The birds, once calm, now flew in circles around her, restless, as if they understood what was unfolding.
Her body was tense, like a coiled spring, and her sword, hidden beneath her cloak, seemed to vibrate faintly, as if ready to be drawn in the blink of an eye. The atmosphere was no longer just cold; it was oppressive, charged with an indescribable energy. The soldiers, faced with the sudden change, froze, unable to comprehend what was happening.
The young woman raised her gaze, now sharp as ice, and in a low but commanding voice, laden with authority, she spoke words in an ancient language that none of them understood but that carried the latent threat of someone who knows true power.
Vulfaric, known as "the Serpent" among his comrades, watched the scene from the sidelines with a cold, calculating gaze. A man in his early thirties, with an almost gaunt build but an imposing stature, stood before the young woman like a shadow of menace. His face was marked by scars from past battles, each telling a story of survival, and his steel-gray eyes reflected the harshness of his life. The chainmail armor covering his body was worn, his leather gloves frayed from constant use, but he still retained the agility that had allowed him to survive among the most dangerous of his kind. In his right hand, his bastard sword gleamed with the threat of violence.
Seeing his comrades hesitate, the warrior did not falter. He drew his sword swiftly, a motion so fluid it seemed almost unconscious. The blade shone in the air, reflecting the light of the setting sun, but his stance was not one of immediate attack; he was waiting for his opponent to make the first move. The arrogance in his gaze and the confidence in his posture spoke of his trust in his combat skills.
The young woman, for her part, smiled haughtily, her lips curling with amusement as she continued speaking in ancient Latin. Her words flowed with the grace of someone who not only speaks a language but lives it, mastering it with disconcerting ease. The melody of her voice, laden with an ancient tone, almost seemed to invoke the very earth around them.
A young nobleman present, escaping the routine obligations of his lineage, listened to the words the young woman spoke. Though the Latin of the common folk was familiar to him, what she spoke was different, an older, purer form.
With some surprise and a mix of curiosity, he approached the group of soldiers and murmured, trying to translate what he could understand. "She says... stand down or die, you are neither worthy nor noble enough to address me... or something like that." The nobleman, realizing the situation, stood watching, somewhat intrigued by what might happen. He was certain Vulfaric wouldn't kill her—not yet—but he didn't want the honor of someone who, by her bearing and attire, must have come from a high-born family, perhaps even ancient Roman nobility, to be tarnished.
In the distance, more and more soldiers approached, drawn by the commotion and rising tension. Vulfaric, however, seemed undaunted. His gaze fixed on the young woman with the contained fury of a man who had lived to destroy but had also learned to measure the consequences of his actions. As his comrades watched, he remained still, weighing every word the young woman spoke, waiting for the exact moment to act, but also feeling the growing pressure of the gathering crowd.
The nobleman, on the other hand, made a subtle gesture, signaling his friends to watch but not interfere. He was determined to see what Vulfaric would do, convinced that there was more to this young woman than met the eye.
The woman untied her cloak with a fluidity that seemed to defy gravity, revealing a Roman-style cuirass, a masterpiece that fit her figure perfectly, accentuating her generous bust. On her chest, the face of a gorgon carved in relief seemed to watch everything with a petrifying gaze, while on either side of her torso, two rearing horses adorned the armor, symbolizing strength and nobility. The cuirass was not just physical protection but also a symbol of her lineage and the rich history she carried.
Next, she calmly unbuckled the strap holding her sword's scabbard on her back. The sword was so long that she couldn't easily draw it, and she had to push it forcefully to free the imposing blade. When the blade emerged, it was like a pearl of silver or ice, with reflections shifting between blue and white, emitting a frosty vapor, like the most terrifying winter nights. It was a sword that not only cut but also carried the cold of a distant world, an icy omen that seeped into the bones.
She stood silent, holding the sword with a serious expression, the blade gleaming under the faint glow of the sun.
It was then that the young nobleman, sensing the tension in the air, stepped forward. In a trembling but authoritative voice, he translated what he had just heard: "If you cross this line, you will die." His voice was strong, but his eyes reflected the uncertainty of the situation.
With a haughty smile, the nobleman, seeking to maintain control of the situation, added mockingly, "What's the matter, Serpent? Afraid of a little girl of 12?"
The soldiers' laughter, initially defiant, faded as the cold began to seep into their thick cloaks. The vapor from their breaths became visible, as if the dawn of January had caught them in midsummer. The atmosphere grew dense, and everyone, without exception, trembled, caught between fear and fascination at the woman's presence.
The cold Vulfaric felt was far more intense than any frost he had ever known. Each step he took toward the woman felt like climbing a snow-covered mountain; the air grew sharper, and breathing became increasingly difficult, as if his very breath were being torn from his lungs. The fear of the witch, which in his mind had been merely an excuse to abuse and plunder, began to feel tangible, palpable. Her magic was real, and as he approached, it grew more intense, like an invisible pressure crushing his chest. The fear transformed into something more primal, something only animals feel when facing a superior predator.
For a moment, Vulfaric considered running. It was an instinctive reaction, but he immediately remembered that fleeing would make him an outcast among his comrades, a coward who would leave behind the chance for easy loot. He swallowed, his throat dry as dust, and advanced, though the weight of each step sank him deeper into despair.
When he was close enough, the woman, with a movement so fast he couldn't follow, raised her sword. Vulfaric didn't see the cut or the moment the blade of silver or ice pierced his body. He only felt an inhuman cold, as if the icy northern wind had penetrated his very bones. A clean, precise cut, with no trace of blood, as if the wound had been instantly cauterized by the ice emanating from the sword. His legs, severed from his body with a gesture as delicate as it was fatal, fell heavily to the ground. Vulfaric, bewildered, saw the stumps where his legs had been and let out a scream of pain that echoed through the air, begging for mercy.
The silence that followed was deadly, as if the world itself had stopped to watch. The other men-at-arms, paralyzed by horror, looked at Vulfaric, then at the woman, and finally at their own hands, as if they had never held a weapon before. Some began to reach for their hilts, ready to act, but something stopped them: the atmosphere had grown tense, and the chill of the scene was so palpable that they didn't even dare move a finger.
Suddenly, the sound of a war horn resonated in the air, a deep, echoing blast that seemed to rise from the bowels of the earth itself. The peace that had governed the village until that moment vanished in an instant. The entire atmosphere shifted, as if a change of seasons had occurred in a single breath. The woman, her gaze fixed on the sky, uttered a word in Latin: "Father."
That word, a whisper carried by the wind, seemed to resonate like an ancestral call, as if a far greater power stood behind her presence. The soldiers, trembling, stood still, and the reality of what they had just witnessed struck them with force, like a bolt of lightning from the storm brewing above them. The power play they thought they controlled was now slipping through their fingers.
The sound of trumpets reverberated in the air, clear and penetrating, like a warning that something great was approaching. The sentries on the village walls shouted in fear, their voices broken and trembling. The echoes of their cries intertwined with the clamor of the trumpet, alerting all the villagers, who had not yet begun their day. The calm of the morning vanished in an instant, and the people began to run back and forth, looking toward the horizon with eyes full of uncertainty and fear.
From the road leading to the village, a young peasant woman strained to watch the heavy march of the warriors approaching. Her mule, tired, pulled a cart full of fresh produce, but she, though exhausted, barely managed to push it, her body trembling from the effort. The cool morning breeze began to turn cold, and the heavy air seemed to vibrate with an inexplicable force.
The young peasant woman, her gaze fixed on the horizon, could see the soldiers advancing. Their heavy iron armor gleamed under the morning sun, and the sound of their footsteps echoed like distant thunder. As they drew closer, her heart began to beat faster, a sense of oppression filling her chest. The warriors were clad in thick armor, and over their shoulders, they wore cloaks made from the skins of wolves, lions, and other wild beasts, which moved with their march as if the animals were alive.
At the center of the formation, the officers stood out with their even finer attire, their backs covered in fierce animal pelts and their heads adorned with golden helmets, from which hung ornaments shaped like eagles. The banners of the host fluttered, bearing the symbol of an imperial eagle. As they marched, they chanted solemn songs, laden with power, that resonated like an ancestral echo.
"Rome the eternal... Rome unconquered... Rome august," they sang, their voices echoing in the air. Each word seemed imbued with a history of past conquests, forgotten glories, and a power that stopped at nothing and no one. The young peasant woman, watching the scene, thought these must be Romans from Byzantium, but something didn't quite fit. The details of their appearance and behavior didn't align with the image she had of the Byzantines.
As the soldiers advanced, fear took hold of her. Though her mind echoed the idea that they were Romans, she felt that this army was not simply an imperial host; it was something different, something far older, as if the legends of Rome, the Rome of old, had come to life before her eyes. The village, where she had lived her entire life, seemed to be invaded by a shadow of the past, something far greater and more powerful than anything she had ever known.
The air grew heavier, and her heart filled with a mix of fear and awe. As she watched the warriors march toward the village, the young peasant woman couldn't help but think that this army, with its fierce warriors and unstoppable march, was not just a group of soldiers: it was a manifestation of ancient Rome, the Rome that no longer existed, the Rome that lived only in the tales of the old.