Julius stored the two relics with deliberate care.

The Chalice of Concordia he wrapped in oiled cloth and secured within the blackwood vault alongside the Codex.

The Seal of the Mediator he simply locked within his personal chest, beneath three layers of iron clasps reinforced with thick rope to secure it.

He'd use the Chalice later—perhaps upon returning to Romanus.

The Seal… perhaps not at all, unless truly needed.

He was not a man who valued the tool of compromise.

But war was changing.

So must he.

For now, both relics would remain unseen.

Safe.

He retired to his cot at last, letting exhaustion swallow him, sleep coming not as rest but as strategy—a brief pause before the next march.

~

The following morning, the legions moved as one.

Julius returned to the rhythm that soothed him.

Columns of crimson and steel cut through the northern reaches of Germania like veins through earth.

His Praetorians rode at his flanks, scouts filtering ahead in long, silent lines.

Each day, he reviewed the reports from his commanders as they came in via messenger pigeons.

All the while keeping track of the situation via his heads up display map thanks to his system.

Elheat pressed north from the coasts, razing rebel pockets with fire and hammer.

His momentum had stalled but his discipline remained intact, and the distraction they were causing was certainly having effect, even more than just the raided goods and gold being shipped back to Romanus.

Caetrax and Sabellus pushed inland, methodical, their forces fanning out to secure supply chains and local garrisons as they took the legions ever westward facing off agains the Francians time and again.

Every town taken now flew Romanus banners—not as conqueror's marks, but as administrative necessities.

Romanus was not here to burn Francia but instead to Rule it.

Romanus was here to absorb it.

Village by village.

Road by road.

And yet, as the campaign pressed deeper, Julius felt the pulse of the land shift.

His legions could see it too.

The countryside was no longer empty.

Locals appeared more frequently—at the edge of forests, atop distant hills, even standing brazenly near the roads.

Not armed.

Not hostile.

Not yet.

But watching those who had fled their homes at the start of the war now acted like spies gathering and disseminating information upon learning that Romanus did not come with an attitude of raiders but rather of conquerors.

Had his legions stained the lands of Francia red with the blood of their citizens in an effort to purge the lands and make them ready for colonization, the Francian public would never act like this and instead have joined the army in a do or die resistance.

Thanks to his lighter handed approach the local had formed a partisan resistance movement that was impeding his legions advances to conquer the lands.

"Let them,"

Julius mocked as he read the reports about increased partisan resistance.

Before he'd left Julius had left word to his commanders that should Francian resistance movements appear they were allowed to perform their duties to locate these spies and sabatours with a ruthless approach, and seeing the report in hand he could already tell his legions were about to crack down on the Francians with a new oppressive law.

Any village found harboring a spy or sabatour would be burned to the ground and all fromt the village would be slain for allowing these underhanded villans to exist.

In essense Julius had started up a War on Terror with Terror of his own.

Villages would be unwilling in a little bit to house agents of Francia for fear of the incoming legions.

But on the sixth day, as the column began its climb through the Blackmere Hills, the pattern broke.

~

They stopped him.

A delegation of locals—not warriors, not priests.

Elders.

Gray-haired men and women, accompanied by young standard-bearers carrying carved wooden poles instead of banners.

Julius watched from his horse as they approached.

No fear.

No hesitation.

Only ceremony.

Sabellus stepped forward, hand on his sword, but Julius held up a hand.

"Let them come."

At twenty paces, the lead elder—his cloak woven from white stag pelts—raised both arms.

He spoke not in the common tongue, but in the old dialect of the high Germanian tribes.

Julius understood mostly thanks to the system granting him understanding of all this world languages.

He dismounted, removing his helm.

"I hear you."

The elder bowed, as low as his aged back allowed.

"You are Julius."

"I am."

"You command Rome."

"I command Romanus."

"A distinction?"

the elder asked, faint curiosity threading his voice.

Julius allowed a thin smile.

"We strive to become greater than what came before."

The elder nodded once, then gestured toward the ridge.

"The Great Chieftain bids you enter his hold."

A murmur ran through the legion ranks.

Julius's eyes narrowed.

"Your chieftain invites me?"

"Not as conqueror,"

the elder said.

"As guest."

Sabellus stiffened.

"Trap."

"Perhaps,"

Julius allowed.

But no—he could feel it.

This wasn't ambush.

It was something else.

"Why?"

The elder met his gaze unflinchingly.

"Because Germania must choose what it will be, before you choose it for us."

Julius stood silent for a long moment.

He could refuse.

But Germania was on paper at least an ally, and one that owed him a great debt at the moment.

An invitation like this was not a sign of surrender before the fight had even begun..

It was something more dangerous.

Agency.

If he rejected this parley, he risked hardening the tribes.

They would view him as looking down on then, slapping away the hand they had outstretched, possibly closing their supply routes and borders against Romanus, cutting off their access to the legions fighting in Francia, leaving only the Sea as an availible route for resupply.

Worst case, this could even draw the Germanians into agreement of resisting Romanus, by blocking reinforcements while attacking his legions from the rear, while Francia could reclaim their lands, before marching armies in alliance with Germania to bring a great host to bear on Romanus.

Another battlefield.

Another war.

One he could not win with swords lest he throw away the lives of his people, or sacrifice the security of his distant lands to call up more forces currently guarding the conquered regions.

Finally, he spoke.

"I will come."

He turned to Sabellus.

"Inform Caetrax. Consolidate the camp. You hold position until I return."

Sabellus looked ready to protest, but the command was iron.

"Praetorians only."

Then, without another word, Julius followed the elders up the ridge.

The forest closed around them.

And the world shifted again.

~

The hold of the Great Chieftain was unlike anything Julius expected.

No fortress.

No stone walls.

It was a massive timber circle, a ringfort interwoven with living trees—ancient oaks twisted into archways and battlements.

Smoke curled from hidden vents.

Dozens of structures radiated from a central hearth, where a bonfire burned day and night.

But it wasn't primitive.

It was deliberate.

Sacred.

A society that had chosen nature not from lack of advancement, but from defiance.

At the center, beneath the ancient oak, the Great Chieftain sat—not on a throne, but upon a woven mat of grass and deer hide.

He was old.

Older than Julius expected.

His beard was silver, his eyes like polished amber.

And when Julius entered the ring, every elder, warrior, and child in the hold knelt.

Except him.

The Chieftain rose.

And spoke.

"I dreamed of you."

Julius said nothing.

"I dreamed of the silver-haired king, whose shadow stretched longer than his life."

Julius stepped closer.

"I don't believe in prophecy."

"Neither do I,"

the Chieftain said.

And smiled.

"But here you stand."

Julius studied him, pulse steady.

"So?"

"So,"

the Chieftain said softly,

"the dream ends here."

He gestured to the hearth.

"Sit."

Julius did.

Not as equal.

But as listener.

The Chieftain leaned forward.

"Tell me, Emperor."

"What will you do with us?"

Julius's answer was quiet.

"We are allies..."

But before he could continue the elder cut him off with a wave of his hand.

Nodding subtely Julius contiued on.

"When the time comes, Romanus will ask for Germania's submission, how it comes about is up to its people. Germania could be incorperated as a province of the empire, or should the idea of submission rile up the people, a war would be fought... many... many would die, and most likely the war torn lands would still be added but with Germania's peoples being reduced to third-class citizens or worse yet slaves."