Sovereign Ascendant

The storm came at dawn.

Not a storm of wind and rain, but of steel, blood, and fury.

Gaius led the charge through the shattered gates of Aegis Fortress, gladius gripped tight, his armor slick with blood that was not his own. The air was thick with the stench of burning flesh, with the screams of dying men, the clash of swords, the dull thuds of bodies breaking against the stone.

He had lost count of how many he had killed. It did not matter.

An orc captain, seven feet tall and clad in heavy war-plate, barreled toward him, axe raised high. Gaius stepped forward, dodging the downward strike by a fraction of an inch. He felt the air shatter as the axe buried itself into the ground, stone cratering beneath the force.

The orc roared, eyes burning with Qi, swinging again—faster than something that size had any right to move.

Gaius met him head-on.

Their blades clashed, sparks flying in every direction. The impact shook his arm, but his grip was steady. He shifted his stance, twisting around the next blow, his gladius carving a deep line across the orc's ribs.

The beast staggered but did not fall.

"Good," Gaius murmured. "Die with some dignity."

The orc lunged again. Gaius sidestepped, blade flashing.

The head rolled before the body hit the ground.

Aulus was beside him, face grim, armor dented. "The gate is ours," he said, voice ragged. "What now?"

Gaius exhaled. "We hold."

Cassius staggered past, laughing despite the blood dripping from his mouth. "Hold? No, no. We kill every last one of these bastards."

The battle raged for hours. The sun climbed, then fell. The bodies piled higher.

By the time the last Bellum warrior fell, Aegis belonged to the Imperium once more.

Gaius stood at the top of the fortress, staring down at the ruin of war. His fingers ached from gripping his sword too tightly. His breath came slow, steady. He had survived.

The first time, it had felt like a miracle.

Now?

Now it just felt like the inevitable.

—

Months later. Another war. Another battlefield.

The siege had lasted seventeen days.

Gaius sat atop his warhorse, watching as the last remnants of the rebel force collapsed before the final charge. The city below burned, Imperial banners replacing the enemy's broken insignia.

They had won. Again.

Aulus rode up beside him, pulling off his helmet. "It's over," he said, voice carrying more exhaustion than victory.

"Is it?" Gaius muttered.

Cassius grinned, wiping blood from his jaw. "You're both too damn serious. We survived. That means we drink."

It was the only way to forget.

—

The wine flowed like water.

The city governor had surrendered rather than be executed, offering his palace and his finest stock to the victorious Imperials. Music played, soft and distant, beneath the hum of conversation, the low laughter of soldiers and nobles alike.

Gaius sat at the head of a marble table, half-drunk and wholly exhausted. The air was thick with the scent of spiced meat, perfumed skin, and lingering smoke.

A woman sat beside him, running a hand along his forearm. Noble-born, by the looks of her, though that hardly mattered. War had a way of stripping away station and rank, reducing everything to its most basic form.

Aulus leaned over, voice slurred. "Tell me, Gaius—do you even feel anything after all of this?"

Gaius took a slow sip from his cup. "Should I?"

Aulus chuckled, but there was no real humor in it.

Cassius, sprawled across a couch with a woman on each arm, waved his drink toward them. "He's always like this," he said. "Too much blood in his veins, not enough wine."

The noblewoman beside Gaius leaned in, breath warm against his neck. "You fought well today," she murmured.

Gaius didn't answer. He was thinking of the men who had died. Of the bodies that still smoldered in the ruins of the city. Of the next war that would come, the next battle, the next meaningless slaughter.

But tonight?

Tonight, he drank.

Tonight, he forgot.

And when the wine was gone, when the music faded, when the warmth of another body pressed against his own in the dark—for a few hours, he was not a soldier.

He was simply a man.

—

Morning came too soon.

The world smelled of ash and regret. The city still burned in places, though the fighting was long over.

Gaius stood atop the palace balcony, clad in nothing but loose silks, staring out at the ruins. His head ached, but his mind was clear.

Aulus joined him, moving slower than usual. "You could at least pretend to be hungover like the rest of us."

"I don't have the luxury of pretending," Gaius said.

Aulus followed his gaze. Below, Imperial banners hung from every wall, a symbol of order and conquest. Yet the city felt hollow.

"You know what I realized?" Aulus muttered. "We win every battle, but we never stop fighting."

Gaius exhaled. "That's the point."

Aulus turned to him. "Is it?"

Gaius didn't answer. Because deep down, he knew the truth.

The Imperium thrived on war.

And as long as men like him existed, the war would never end.