The grey morning came and rains fell, but none moved for shelter. Thousands flocked to the physician's pavilion. Many hours had passed since the Imperator was admitted during twilight. No word had come of his condition. Only the somber rains and rushing servants, and frantic arcanus with their minor healing gifts.

A ring of legionnaires from the First Cohort, five-deep, surrounded the tent, pikes held high. Fatigue was plain on their faces, and cold, statuesque forms. Every man of rank in each legion huddled outside, talking in hushed voices. Skippii sat atop his shield with his companions, head in his lap, dulled by grief. He had carried his master from the forest and there handed him to the cavalry, who had ridden him back to camp. But had it been enough to spare his life? Blood crusted under his fingernails, and Skippii made no effort to clean them.

"We'll make them pay," Kaesii grumbled. "We should track that beast, whatever it was. We should hunt it."

"The First could not hurt it," Cur said. "Only Skip. What good are we?"

"I shan't be dishonoured by fear," Kaesii said.

"No," Drusilla said. "Neither shall I. We must hunt it."

"We have orders," Skippii whispered–barely a breath. "We must liberate Thyraos. That was his final command."

"Final command," Orsin said. "He's not dead yet."

None possessed the heart to agree.

"He is strong," Arius said finally. "At least he was not borne away."

"Thaks to Skip," Orsin said.

"And the enemy shall remember his coming," Tenoris added. "And fear the flames. You averted disaster today, my friend. Be proud."

But Skippii felt nothing in his hollow heart. Only grief, and a remembrance of the Imperator's still face.

Finally, a trumpet gave a short, low hum and a man raised his voice over the rains. "The Imperator requests the admittance of a few. Those whose names are read, come forth. Those who are not, make way with haste. Time is precious."

His words struck Skippii like fist to the gut. Time is precious. He is dying.

"Skippii Altay." His name was announced amongst many. Surprised, he rose and strode forward into the inner circle. Amongst them were seniors of the legion clad in arms and armour. And advisors, arcani, a slave, and a woman, whose grief seemed darkest of all. She looked at Skippii, and the flame of hatred burned in her eyes. But as quickly as it had alighted, the rains quenched it, and sorrow dampened the coals. She bowed her head, and might have collapsed, had a servant not held her by the shoulders.

As the sun rose to midday, it offered no warmth or respite from rains. One by one, the chosen few were admitted, until finally, it came for Skippii's turn. Entering the pavilion alone, he was shocked by the sight. Many dozens of wounded lay atop cots, and more sat at their feet. No amount of incense could erase the smell of blood, and sweat, and fear. A murmur of discontent rose from the First Cohort's casualties, punctuated by sudden raking coughs, or tortured groans.

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The Imperator lay upon a plain cot at its entrance. White linen piles were stained with blood. His armour was piled with the linens, but his sword was absent. Physicians stood behind his head, but were no longer operating on his wounds. A thick blanket was laid over him, festooned with flowers and lorells, and medallions. Gifts from the grieving. A second cot was set beside his. In it, a woman lay as still and weak as he, clasping his hand under her breast, muttering a prayer on bloodless lips.

Skippii stepped slowly to his side, as though his sudden coming could disturb the fragile cobweb which yet held the Imperator's life. Resting his hand gently on his master's, Skippii imparted a fraction of his power. The hand warmed, and the arcanus who lay beside him raised her voice a fraction and quickened her prayer out. The Imperator's eyes opened and found his.

"My young legionnaire," he breathed quietly. Skippii bent down to hear him. "You have my thanks."

"Of course," he said, sorrow welling in his chest. It bulged in his throat, straining his voice. "Will you live?"

"No more in this form."

Tears filled his eyes. He gritted his teeth and blinked them away. "I swear revenge. I will burn that monster…"

"Do what you must," Titus whispered. "I see in you wisdom… And passion. Do not lose it. Do not forget to live."

"I will do your will." Skippii squeezed his hand gently, and Titus squeezed back with one weak ring-clad finger. "Rest knowing I shall. Go to the gods knowing that I shall execute your will. I can't fail. I am too strong now, and I will get stronger. I will defeat our enemies. I will free Philoxenia. I will march on Urkunlands."

A thin smile bloomed on Titus' lips. "My will disappears with every breath. Follow your own now."

As Skippii watched, the smile wilted, and his Imperator's grip slackened. He did not notice the pavilion's flap being pulled back, nor the man approach and stand before him until he spoke.

"I bid you leave, Heres Altay." Lucious Cinitus spoke somberly. "There are matters which I must attend."

Skippii meant to step back, but his hand remained in his Imperator's. His breath remained held. His heart beat heavily.

"Heres," Cinitus prompted. Beside him prowled two cautious scribes. A piece of chalk was placed between Titus Virellix's frail fingers, and a stone tablet held to his hand. One scribe helped his muscles make the movements–simple signatures for the legion's records. It struck Skippii as perverse, to demand such duties of him on his valiant deathbed. But Titus' face was opaque and far beyond concern. Before the sun set, he would pass into the afterlife.

"Who will rule the Ninth now?" Skippii's mouth was clay, but the words tumbled out. "You?"

"An appointed steward," Cinitus said.

Quickly, Skippii's mind arose from grief. "Why were we not warned? Clearly, the First Cohort were on guard last night. Did they expect an attack?"

As he watched the senator's face, something lurked behind the smoothness of his complexion. Something concealed, as by a thin sheet of velvet. He scowled, assessing Skippii, then with utmost control, his lips parted, and words were spoken cleanly.

"Or oracle suspected invasion. Ill visions. The sort that are common in war, and most often misguided."

"Why wasn't I warned?" Skippii said.

"We supposed that the First Cohort were enough. If we were to alert the entire legion each time an arcanus gave a dark portence, there would never be a night's rest. Weakness is revealed by the man who startles at the wings of a bee."

Skippii snorted incredulously. "That was no bee."

"It is an idiom," Cinitus sneered. "A learned phrase. Think upon its meaning."

"I know its meaning, and I meant mine. You underestimated the enemy."

"No. He did." Cinitus motioned at the Imperator. "I shan't."

Lucious retrieved the Imperator's sword and held it awkwardly beside his own. "The high priestess Kylinissa will be accompanying you on your errand. Make sure to notify her of your departure."

"Kylinissa?" he said. "Why? She is in the coven now."

"It was the Imperator's decree. She already knows. He informed her last night, after you retired. Another acolyte of Kylin will fill her place on the coven, but her duties lie with you now. To guide you, and to speak the will of the pantheon."

"But her magia… won't it diminish once she leaves the coven?"

"Twelve-fold," Cinitus said. "And more. But that is her duty. And you have your own orders, Heres Altay. Perform them in his honour."

Skippii's eyes fell upon the Imperator's one final time. "I shall," he said, then added quietly. "And my own."

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