During the daylight hours at Aelius and his companions' encampment, everyone was occupied with some form of rest or activity. Cassius and Drusus sat facing each other, engrossed in a game of Nine Men's Morris, the lines scratched into the dirt between them. Drusus used small pieces of wood as his counters, while Cassius used pebbles. Drusus slid a wooden piece, capturing one of Cassius’s stones and winning the game.

  "How do you always do that?" Cassius exclaimed in frustration, throwing his hands up.

  Drusus laughed heartily. "Natural talent, brother. Pure intellect. Haven't you learned your lesson yet? That's three times in a row I've beaten you."

  "Alright, alright, less talk, more playing," Cassius grumbled. "Again."

  Drusus grinned. "Where are my winnings? My coins? I'm not playing again until you settle the score."

  Cassius waved him off. "I'll give them to you when we're finished."

  "No, no, not this time..." Drusus insisted.

  Nearby, Fenrir tended to a cooking pot suspended over the fire, filled with the fresh rabbits he had caught earlier that day. He leaned over, wafting the steam towards his face, savoring the rich aroma. Carefully, he dipped a wooden spoon into the bubbling stew and tasted the broth, wincing slightly as the heat touched his lips. "Ooooh," he murmured appreciatively, "Delicious."

  Meanwhile, Gavril sat quietly, methodically sharpening the edge of his double-headed axe with a whetstone.

  Aelius was perched on the edge of a nearby rise, sitting cross-legged in a meditative posture, his eyes closed, seemingly lost in thought.

  Suddenly, Gavril looked up, spotting a lone rider approaching rapidly in the distance. He rose to his feet. "Someone's coming!"

  Cassius and Drusus abandoned their game, and Fenrir left his pot, joining Gavril to see who was approaching.

  "It's Titus," Cassius said, recognizing the rider.

  Titus galloped up to the camp, dismounting hastily before his horse had even fully stopped. "Captain! Captain Aelius!" he called out urgently.

  The others looked surprised by his frantic arrival. "Easy, Titus," Gavril said, stepping forward as Aelius opened his eyes and watched from the rise. "He's coming. What's happened?"

  Titus, catching his breath, blurted out, "You won't believe it! I reached the city last evening… just in time to see Ricardi and his followers leaving! And then, the following night… our Father…"

  Aelius interrupted him, his voice sharp and direct from his position above them. "Is he dead?"

  Titus paused, momentarily thrown, then continued, "No! He survived! He defeated them himself! A group of assassins, followers of Ricardi, participated in Father's ritual and tried to assassinate him!" Then, realization dawned on Titus's face. "Wait…" he looked up at Aelius again, bewildered. "How did you know? Why did you ask if he was dead? I hadn't even finished explaining!"

  Aelius calmly descended from the rise, approaching the group. "Of course," he said quietly, almost to himself. "It wouldn't be easy to eliminate him."

  Gavril stared at his brother. "What in hell is Titus talking about, Aelius? Are you involved in this?"

  Aelius met his gaze steadily. "When Ricardi visited me in prison," he explained calmly, "I traded him Kaelen… for my freedom."

  Gavril's eyes widened in shock. "Kaelen? The young man who worked for Regulus?"

  "Yes," Aelius confirmed, his expression calm, almost detached. "He told us once that he selected the young men for Father's rituals. I heard from a prisoner in the city jail that Kaelen had started working for Theron. That's why Ricardi wanted him. But…" Aelius paused, his brow furrowing slightly in thought, but his overall demeanor remained composed, "I didn't expect him to attempt the assassination so quickly."

  The others stared at Aelius, stunned by the revelation that this had all been part of his calculation.

  Aelius turned back to Titus. "Do you know where Ricardi went?"

  Titus shook his head. "The rumors I heard suggest he headed for the Fog Swamp. He's supposedly gathering followers there, from all over."

  Gavril's eyes lit up. "Aelius, this is our chance! We should join Ricardi! Help him gather his forces, right?"

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  Aelius shook his head firmly. "I disagree, brother. For two reasons. First, when we needed Ricardi's help, he was arrogant and ignored us. Second," his expression became grim, "I know Marcus. He will not let this stand. He will hunt Ricardi down himself. And believe me, brother, the last person we want to face in our current situation is Marcus."

  ***

  As sunset approached the edges of the Fog Swamp, the dense trees stood shrouded in a thin, clinging mist. Ricardi's followers guarded the entrance points. Suddenly, a volley of arrows whistled out from the surrounding forest, striking down several guards, piercing bodies and heads. One of Ricardi's men sounded a warning bell, the sharp clang echoing through the trees, signaling a retreat deeper into the swamp. Dozens of Marcus's soldiers burst from cover, pursuing them relentlessly.

  Marcus's men cut down Ricardi's retreating followers with ease, pressing deeper into the woods, caught up in the chase.

  Marcus observed the unfolding situation from a distance, his brow furrowed. He turned to one of his aides. "Why are they pushing so deep?"

  "Sir," the aide replied, "I believe they were carried away by the heat of the pursuit."

  Marcus scoffed. "And you call these elite soldiers? Give the order: recall those men immediately. All other units hold their positions."

  "Yes, sir," the aide responded promptly.

  The soldiers who had charged forward continued their pursuit deeper into the Fog Swamp. The trees grew taller, denser, and the fog thickened with every step. Ricardi's followers reached the true swamp – a vast expanse shrouded in thick, impenetrable fog. The marshy ground barely covered their feet, but the mist obscured all sight and muffled all sound. They vanished into the white haze.

  Marcus's pursuing soldiers plunged in after them, quickly losing sight and sound of their quarry, and each other.

  One soldier ran through the shallow water, the splashing of his footsteps echoing eerily. He felt he was still chasing someone, but visibility was near zero. Glancing left and right, he saw none of his comrades, heard nothing but the unsettling quiet of the fog. Suddenly, three figures materialized from the mist – Ricardi's men. One stabbed him in the neck, another in the gut, a third in the back. He fell, joining the others who had entered the swamp, falling victim to the well-laid ambush, one after another.

  Marcus, his expression grim, asked, "Report."

  One of his captains stepped forward. "Sir, we've lost forty men inside the swamp."

  "Damn it," Marcus swore under his breath. "Listen, Captain. I want detachments advancing cautiously from all directions. Have them take up positions behind the treeline at the swamp's edge."

  "As you command, sir."

  Small groups of Marcus's soldiers moved forward, adopting defensive formations, steps measured, shields raised. As they reached the edge of the swamp, stopping just within the cover of the last trees, silent arrows began raining down on them from deep within the fog, coming from multiple directions.

  "Take cover!" the unit commanders yelled.

  The soldiers quickly sought shelter behind the thick tree trunks. Some were hit. They returned fire sporadically, shooting arrows blindly into the mist.

  Marcus, positioned amongst the trees, observed the situation closely. "The swamp doesn't just obscure sight," he murmured, "it swallows sound." He straightened. "Enough stretching this out. Begin the plan."

  Captains relayed the General's command, their voices ringing out: "Rope units, advance!"

  Soldiers carrying coils of thick rope on their shoulders moved forward, distributing them to the units positioned at the swamp's edge.

  At the trees closest to the misty expanse, the rope handlers secured thick knots around medium-sized tree trunks. Then, tying the other end firmly around their waists, the soldiers advanced in groups into the swamp, moving out from all directions. The ropes grew taut behind them.

  Beside each anchored rope, two men remained. One was responsible for carefully paying out the rope, loosening the knots as the soldiers advanced. The other, the 'counter', knelt beside the tree, carving tally marks onto the trunk with a knife, tracking the number of knots released. He shouted out the count periodically, relaying the information to the captains who patrolled on horseback behind the lines, straining to hear the numbers through the fog and the sounds of battle.

  On the southern edge, one counter carved marks onto a tree trunk – lines, then cross-hatches. "Eight knots!" he yelled. Suddenly, four of the ropes went slack. The rope handler beside him muttered, "I think… they're down." The counter marked four 'X's on the trunk. "Four men down at eight knots!" he reported loudly.

  A nearby captain galloped closer. "What did you say? Four down at eight knots? They're close!" He wheeled his horse. "Archers!"

  A squad of archers assembled before the captain. "Aim towards the line of those fallen ropes!" he commanded. "Ready… Loose!"

  A volley of arrows flew into the fog. Muffled cries indicated they had found their mark, striking down the ambushers who had killed the four soldiers.

  Night fell, but the battle continued. Reports from the counters echoed sporadically around the perimeter: "Twelve knots!" "Fifteen knots!" "Twenty knots!" "Seventeen knots!" Ropes went slack. Others were cut.

  On the eastern side, a counter diligently carved: "Thirty-four knots… thirty-five… thirty-six…" He glanced at the diminishing coil of rope anchored to the tree. "We need more rope!" he yelled. Men rushed forward with fresh coils, quickly splicing and extending the lines. "Thirty-eight knots!" the counter shouted.

  A captain rode up to verify the count as the counter yelled again, "Forty knots!"

  "Give them more rope!" the captain ordered, then spurred his horse towards the General's position.

  Marcus, positioned nearby, listening intently to the fragmented reports, saw the captain approach.

  "Sir!" the captain reported urgently. "We've found the breach! Eastern sector! One unit has advanced forty knots deep into the swamp!"

  Marcus's eyes flashed, impatience hardening his features. "Then what are you waiting for?!" he snapped at the captain. "Send reserve forces through that breach! Have them advance in long columns, push deep. Then, we hit them from behind. Their backs will be exposed. They won't know what's happening. Maintain pressure from the front."

  "Yes, sir!" the captain confirmed, wheeling his horse to deliver the orders.