He was cold.
A fierce gust of wind, strong enough to best a man with numb fingers and a back raw from twenty fresh lashes, ripped the torch from his hand. His fingers ached as they closed around the hilt of his gladius, cold and steady against his palm.
A roar shattered the silence. Deep and powerful. A warning of a beast unseen. The sound seemed to come from the forest itself, reverberating through the trees as they seemed to warp and bend overhead. A shiver of dread shot down his spine, and all went quiet. With each passing second of silence his heart pumped faster.
The Wyrd Interlude:
A Roman legionnaire on the edge of despair flees into the unknown, seeking freedom from bloodshed and the empire’s crushing weight. Yet choice is a double-edged blade. The path tangles, and freedom often comes wrapped in shadows. This—is wyrd fiction.
Silence enveloped him.
The forest closed in, and dense fog choked the air. Each step was a struggle. His back locked in protest.
He staggered, dragged down by the weight of his desertion.
Fuck them, he thought. The voices of generals, senators, even the gods seemed to whisper through the trees—Coward.
Had he betrayed them or lifted the veil?
The ground beneath him felt unstable, like a dream he couldn’t awake from. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t run.
Could there be redemption for a deserter, or was he already dead?
He pushed forward, ignoring the pain, each breath shallow—as memories of the legion and its promises of glory rushed back.
The entire foreign land was bleak, and he had never understood their purpose for being there.
Where is the honor that was promised?
“Another barbarian land,” he had often lamented. “Another place with no purpose or honor.”
Others had shared his disillusionment, but they all stayed, clinging to whatever promises they were sold. “At least we’re not them,” they would say. “At least we have Rome.”
But he had always wondered—Who are ‘they’ really?
In the end, it didn’t matter. The glory was always a lie.
“Survive long enough, and maybe you’ll see home again,” friends told him more than once. The words grew more hollow with each repetition, like wind eroding a stone.
“Survive the madness,” he would say.
He stumbled deeper into the mist, its grip thickening. So far from home, the trees whispered. Turn back…
The mist clung to him like spider webs. He forced forward, as if battling a current to shore.
The surrounding trees shifted, their branches creaking in unsettling rhythms, and something moved in the mist ahead.
He froze.
His hand tightened around the gladius at his side, the weight of it comforting, yet inescapably cold. It had been his companion through every fight, every death he had witnessed—and delivered.
But where has it led me?
His thoughts drifted to the camp. The familiar, miserable sounds of men arguing over spoils, the crackle of campfires where soldiers laughed at the misfortune of others.
I belong there, don’t I?
The air hung heavy with the scent of decay and the mournful cry of a distant bird broke the silence. And then the roar came again, and the beast revealed itself. A morphing shadow the size of a bear, with glowing red eyes slithering on all fours.
The Roman was still. The edge of his blade glinted in the dim light, his eyes never leaving the two crimson orbs that burned fiercely on the shifting shadow’s head.
“What is your purpose here?” The shadow’s voice was low and gravelly.
“I’m a traveler,” the Roman said.
“Why do you travel here?” the shadow’s voice seemed to come from everywhere.
“I’m lost.”
As the shadow exhaled, a cold passed over the Roman, as if death itself had exhaled. The fog swirled around him. It too was alive. The shadow loomed closer, spreading through the fog like ink bleeding into water.
“What do you want from me?”
“Only that you continue as you are.”
His thoughts returned to his wife and children. Their faces and smiles and warmth washed over his wounds and calmed his heart, if only for a moment.
“I want to escape this madness,” he said. “I want to find them. Flee. Start over.”
“You might find them… Or perhaps your own men will hunt you. Perhaps you die in the wild. Death is everywhere, you know.”
“Death does not frighten me.”
“Then the unknown might. It’s not kind.”
The howling of dogs echoed through the trees, and a grin took shape in the shadow.
“I can send you back.”
“To camp?” the Roman asked a little too eager
The shadow grinned as dogs howled nearby. “As if you never left.”
“What is the price?” the Roman’s voice whispered.
The shadow did not answer.
“This feels like a trick of one of the lesser gods,” the Roman said, keeping his eyes sharp.
“You’re too talented to sit aside with blade in sheath.” The shadow inhaled and the forest pulled towards him. “You serve me well out there.”
“Whatever you think I am. I am not for you.” The Roman resisted.
“You’ve always been mine, legionnaire.”
“Then I will face the unknown.”
The shadow crept. “Perhaps it works out for you.”
“I will get to them, and—”
“—the possibilities are endless,” the shadow interrupted. “But you’ve already decided, haven’t you? I see the truth in you.”
Dogs were nearly on them.
The Roman closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the moment. He thought of his family again. Home. The life of a free man.
“I’ve been a slave to Rome, a slave to its gods, and a slave to this blade. No more. If the unknown kills me, at least it will be on my terms. Now, step aside.”
The shadow loomed closer, its form becoming more tangible, more real. “Then find what you seek,” it whispered.
Everything went black.
When he opened his eyes again, the world was different. The fog was gone. Replaced by the salty air of the sea. His body ached. His lash wounds were fresh and unmended.
“Hey! Wake up!” A friend’s face appeared over him.
The Roman looked up and around. He was lying on his belly. “What happened?” he asked, struggling to sit up.
“You stayed awake for most of it.” His friend helped him sit up. “Couldn’t have made it the entire time, huh?” His friend laughed. “Could have won me some coin.”
“So, I’m still here?”
“Of course.” His friend said as he took a swig from his drink. “Where else would you be?”
“I don’t know. Not here. Maybe dead.”
“Not yet!” The friend slapped his arm. “You have a talent for not dying.”
The Roman blinked at the camp’s familiar chaos—shouts, firelight, and the empire’s crushing weight. He was back.
It was all the same.
A horn sounded, calling men to arms. They were under attack.
Guided by muscle memory, the Roman got to his feet. Still shirtless and bleeding. His fingers closed on the hilt of the gladius. Its familiar weight comforted him, but the world felt unstable.
The Wyrd Curtain:
The unknown beckons, promising freedom but testing our resolve. Often, we yearn for escape, only to find ourselves pulled back to what we know. The wyrd path twists and turns, and shadows linger whether we confront them or not. Perhaps the greatest challenge is learning to walk the tangled path and find meaning in the chaos of it all.