CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Romulus stood at the helm of his new ship, hands on his hips, huge, rolling waves sending the ship rising and falling, smashing into the foam, as he watched the coastline of the Empire’s capitol come into view. Behind him sailed his fleet, thousands of Empire ships, all returning home from their defeat. Romulus peered into the horizon, as the mist began to lift, and spotted the host of soldiers waiting to greet him on shore, as he suspected he would. His stomach tightened, as he prepared for the confrontation to come.
Ragon, clearly, had received word of his return, and assembled all his men. The number two general beneath Romulus, Ragon had surely heard, by now, of Andronicus’ death, of Romulus’ assassination of the former council, and of Romulus’ seizing position as Supreme Commander. If Romulus had been victorious, Ragon would be awaiting him with parades and accolades—he would have no choice.
But because Romulus was returning in disgrace, Ragon was waiting to greet him in a very different way. Ragon, Romulus knew, was waiting to imprison him, to make it clear to all the armies that Romulus was stripped of power, and that Ragon was the new Supreme Commander. Romulus knew how we thought, because Romulus would do the same thing in his shoes.
But Romulus did not plan on ceding power so easily. His men, he knew, would be watching their exchange closely to see which commander would come out victorious. Romulus had not fought his entire life to capitulate, and no matter how many soldiers he faced, it was time to rule with an iron fist. He squeezed the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white, preparing.
Romulus’ ship soon touched shore, and as it did, he waited patiently, as his men lowered the long plank from their ship down to the beach. They lined it, standing at attention, and he walked between them, taking all the time in the world. His men followed behind him, and he made a show of appearing calm and confident for all the world to see.
Tens of thousands of Empire soldiers, lined up in neat formations, awaited him below, all behind Ragon. Romulus knew that his men could not win the battle; there were too many of them, the entire main body of the Empire army, awaiting. He would have to win another way.
Romulus strutted proudly onto the shore, heading right for Ragon, unafraid.
Ragon stood there, tall, muscular, his broad face covered in scars, and scowled back, flanked by his soldiers. Romulus walked right up to him and stopped, and in the thick silence, the two of them faced off, each determined.
“Romulus, of the first battalion of the Eastern Province of the Empire,” Ragon boomed, loud enough to be heard by his men, “You are hereby set to be imprisoned and executed for crimes against the Empire.”
All of the men, on both sides, stood there, unmoving, the air thick with tension. Ragon, wasting no time, turned and nodded to his men, and several of his soldiers took a step forward to arrest Romulus.
At the same time, without needing to be told, several of Romulus’ men stepped forward to protect him.
The soldiers froze on both sides, facing off, hands on their hilts, and awaiting commands.
“Any resistance is futile,” Ragon said. “You have tens of thousands of men—but I have
Romulus stared back, silent, expressionless, carefully thinking through his next move.
“If I surrender,” Romulus said, “you will promise my men safe passage?”
Ragon nodded.
“You have my word.”
“Then I will surrender on one condition,” Romulus said. “If you yourself are the one to arrest me. Give me, at least, that honor.”
Ragon nodded, seeming relieved.
“Fair enough.”
Ragon took the iron shackles from his guard, and stepped forward towards Romulus.
“Turn around and place your hands behind your back,” he commanded.
Romulus turned slowly, his heart pounding, as Ragon approached. Romulus listened carefully, focusing on the fine sound of the shackles, the sound that came as he raised it and brought it down towards his wrist. He was waiting, waiting, for just the right moment.
Romulus felt the cold metal of the shackles touch his wrist, and the time was right. He spun around in an instant, and in the process, elbowed Ragon across the face, shattering his cheek bone. In the same motion, he snatched the shackles from his hand, stood over him, and swung them down with all his might, breaking Ragon’s nose.
The two armies still faced off, each unsure how to react, it all happening so quickly. Romulus took advantage of the hesitation: he wasted no time as he reached down, grabbed Ragon by the back of the head, drew his dagger, and held it tightly to Ragon’s throat.
Ragon, gushing blood, could barely breathe as Romulus dug the blade against his throat.
“Tell them that you cede to me as Supreme Commander,” Romulus growled.
“Never,” Ragon murmured.
Romulus pushed the blade harder against his throat, until blood started to trickle. Ragon gurgled, but said nothing.
Romulus shifted the point of the blade to Ragon’s eye, and as soon as he began to apply pressure, Ragon screamed out.
“I CEDE TO ROMULUS!” he screamed.
Romulus nodded, satisfied.
“Very good,” he said.
Romulus, in one quick motion, sliced Ragon’s throat, and Ragon slumped to the ground, dead.
Romulus stood there, staring back at the thousands of Empire soldiers. They all faced him, unsure, and Romulus knew this was the moment of truth. With their leader dead, would they defer to him?
As Romulus stood there in the silence, waiting, watching, it feeling like an eternity, finally, the rows and rows of Empire soldiers all dropped to a knee, the air filled with the sound of tens of thousands of suits of armor clanking, as they all lowered their heads and bowed to him.
Romulus drew his sword and raised it high above his head, breathing in deep, taking in the moment, the entire strength of the Empire bowing to him, now, finally, under his command.
“ROMULUS!” they all chanted as one.
“ROMULUS!”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Thor charged on his horse, galloping down the main road that led from King’s Court, heading south, oddly enough, in the direction of his home town. Krohn ran at his horse’s heels, as he had been for hours, the two of them embarking together on this quest.
It was time to rebuild the Legion, time for a new Selection, and as he rode, Thor felt a surreal quality to his mission: instead of being on the receiving end, instead of being the one to stand in his village and wait hopefully for the Silver to appear, now it was he, Thor, who was doing the choosing. The roles had reversed. It was such an honor, he could scarcely believe it.
Thor also felt a tremendous responsibility on his shoulders: rebuilding the Legion was a sacred task in his eyes. He had to fill the shoes of the dead boys who had given their lives defending the Ring; he had to choose the next generation of the very best warriors. It was not something he took lightly, and he knew that he must make his choices very carefully.
Throughout his entire childhood, Thor had spent days peering over the horizon, dreaming of the great warriors that might one day pass through this town, his humble little village, of being picked and chosen. And now here he was, the one who was traveling the countryside, riding through all the towns. It was an honor beyond what he could ever imagine. It did not even feel real to him.
