The cell was bare. Spartan, Mercer thought as he shifted on the thin pile of straw that served as his bed. The walls of his prison were cold, unyielding wood, damp from the harsh Russian weather outside. A single small window, too high to reach, let in a trickle of pale light during the day, but as the sun sank, the cell grew darker, colder, and more suffocating.
For days, his routine had been painfully monotonous. Meals, if they could be called that, were nothing more than cold bread and water, slid through a narrow slot in the door. A bucket in the corner served as his only means of sanitation. The walls seemed to close in on him, the weight of his confinement gnawing at his already frayed nerves.
As Mercer settled into his cell, the low hum of the Roman camp’s nightly activities provided a constant, almost lulling rhythm. But that night, something felt different. His instincts—honed through years of survival and combat—picked up on subtle details that didn't align. A guard outside his cell shifted uneasily, glancing around nervously. It wasn’t fear, exactly, but a heightened sense of alertness. And then Mercer heard it: the quiet scrape of boots across the wooden floor—deliberate, slow, as if someone were trying to move without being noticed.
He tensed, his ears straining for any further sound. Another faint noise followed, the clink of metal, too soft to be the usual Roman patrol. Mercer narrowed his eyes, watching the sliver of space beneath the door, but saw no movement. Still, something was off. The footsteps didn’t match the usual cadence of the Roman soldiers, who always moved with that precise, militaristic rhythm. These were lighter, more cautious.
As he listened, Mercer could hear what sounded like a muffled conversation, but it was in a language he couldn’t identify—not Latin, but something else entirely. Just as quickly as the voices came, they faded into the night.
His mind raced. The Romans, for all their order and structure, weren’t immune to infiltration. Had someone breached the camp? It didn’t make sense—who would dare? And for what purpose?
For a few more moments, the strange noises persisted—footsteps, a barely audible whisper, the faint clang of metal like someone tampering with equipment. Mercer couldn’t see anything from his position, but his instincts screamed that something was happening out there, something that had nothing to do with the regular Roman operations.
Eventually, the noises disappeared, swallowed by the ambient sounds of the camp, leaving Mercer in the dark once more. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever had just happened was important. Someone was out there, moving in the shadows. But who? And for what?
His body ached from the cold and lack of movement. His life had narrowed to this single room, where the air was thick with the smell of damp earth, sweat, and feces. Mercer leaned back against the wall, his thoughts drifting—back to the mission, back to the team. His eyes closed, but the images still came. Lifeline’s death in his arms, hearing the comms and Razor’s report that Phantom was gone. He wondered about the rest of his team. Did they manage to escape? Had he failed them all? Were they dead?
These thoughts gnawed at him every day.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if the pressure would block out the memories, but it never did. Lifeline had been so full of hope, Phantom always the quiet professional. He knew beyond a doubt that the two were gone.
Mercer let out a breath, his chest tight with the weight of it all. He should have known, should have seen the failure coming. But they’d been outmatched, overwhelmed by forces they hadn’t understood. These Romans—they were more than just soldiers. They were something else, something Mercer still hadn’t fully grasped. Here he was, locked in a Roman prison cell, a pawn in a game he didn’t understand.
As usual, he could hear the Romans. Their voices, harsh and clipped, filtered through the wooden walls in brief bursts. They spoke in Latin—words he could not fully understand but whose tone carried an undeniable sense of command and discipline. They moved with precision, their footsteps always in time, as if even the act of walking was part of their training.
When he’d first arrived in the cell, the guards had looked at him with indifference. He wasn’t treated with cruelty, but neither was he treated with any care. His meals were pushed through the slot with mechanical regularity, and the guards didn’t speak to him unless it was necessary. Even then, it was only in short commands, their tone leaving no room for questions.
Occasionally, Mercer caught glimpses of them—tall, armored figures with traditional Roman insignia but strange, glowing runes etched into their shields and weapons. Magic, or something close to it. They moved with the discipline of a military force that had been shaped by centuries of war. Efficient. Unyielding.
The door creaked open, and Mercer’s eyes snapped to the figure standing in the threshold. It was the priest again—the Russian Orthodox priest who acted as the Romans’ translator. Mercer caught snippets of Roman conversations in Latin. Words like “psion” and “Adventus” had floated through the air. He remembered his first interrogation, where the word Adventus had slipped from the Roman officers' mouths. It had clung to him since then, stirring a feeling of dread, though he couldn’t place its full meaning. The priest had been there too, his expression calm, as if he understood more than he should. When Mercer had asked about Adventus, the priest had admitted he didn’t know what it meant. But he did offer something, explaining what psions were—at least from his understanding. They were people believed to have magical powers and abilities, those who could manipulate forces beyond the natural. There was something in the way he shared this, a quiet intensity that made Mercer uneasy. Even now, the two words lingered in his thoughts, a mystery yet to be fully unraveled.
“Up,” the priest said softly. “They want to speak with you.”
Mercer rose, his body stiff from days of confinement. Mercer’s mind briefly returned to the strange sounds he’d heard the night before. Someone was moving through the shadows, but whether they were friend or foe, he didn’t know. For now, his focus had to be on the ceremony before him as he noticed a different energy in the camp. Something felt ceremonial. As they dragged him through the camp, he saw torches lined in a precise, almost ritualistic pattern leading to an open area. There, at the center, was a stone altar, and around it stood a group of Roman officers and mages, their armor gleaming in the flickering firelight. Among them was the mage who had captured him, his expression stoic and distant, but his presence commanded attention.
“What’s happening?” Mercer asked the priest, who was walking alongside him.
The priest’s gaze remained forward, but his voice was low as he explained. “They are preparing for the Ritus Fetialis—an ancient Roman ceremony. It is performed before a major conflict or negotiation.”
Mercer’s brow furrowed. “Why involve a mage?”
“The Romans believe that the mage’s connection to magic will sanctify their cause,” the priest replied. “It is not just about invoking divine favor. They are binding the magic to their will, claiming the legitimacy of their actions—be it war, conquest, or… securing you.”
The priest’s voice was low and reverent as he explained the ceremony, but Mercer could see a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Was the priest conflicted? Did he truly believe in the sanctity of this ritual, or was he merely following orders? Mercer couldn’t tell, but the hesitation in his words was enough to suggest that even the priest wasn’t fully comfortable with the magic on display.
Mercer turned his gaze and his eyes tracked the ritual unfolding before him. The mage stepped forward, raising a ceremonial dagger in the air. As the crowd of soldiers and officers watched in silence, the mage dipped the blade into a basin filled with some dark liquid—blood, most likely. He began chanting in Latin, his voice rhythmic and commanding, and Mercer could feel a subtle shift in the air around them, as if the very atmosphere was being pulled into the ritual.
The priest glanced at Mercer. “This is their way of justifying the conflict they’re about to enter. They believe that by performing this ritual, they are invoking the gods’ will, aligning themselves with powers beyond this world.”
Mercer clenched his jaw as he watched the ritual continue. The mage drew symbols in the air, shimmering with magic, while the Roman officers stood at attention, their expressions cold and resolute. They weren’t just soldiers—they were believers, participants in something far older and deeper than Mercer had realized.
As the ritual came to a close, the mage’s final chant echoed across the camp, the air heavy with the weight of their conviction. The blood-soaked blade was raised high before being plunged into the earth, sealing the ceremony with a symbolic offering to the gods.
The priest turned to Mercer, his eyes reflecting both reverence and unease. “They believe that this will make them invincible, that the gods and the forces of magic now stand with them. It is a dangerous belief, Captain.”
Mercer nodded grimly. “More dangerous than I thought.”
Without any more words after the exchange mercer followed his roman captors, bracing himself for another round of questions. But today, Mercer had his own question. One that had been haunting him.
They led him into the dimly lit tent, where the Roman officers waited. As usual, the questions came in Latin. Who was he? What did he know about the rifts? Was there any way he would consider joining their legion?
Mercer barely registered the words. When there was a pause, he spoke, his voice low but firm. “How many of my team are dead?”
The priest blinked, surprised at the change in subject. He translated, his voice subdued. The Roman officer’s response came quickly, and the priest turned back to Mercer. “Four.”
The number struck Mercer like a physical blow. He had known about Lifeline and Phantom, but the uncertainty about the others had gnawed at him, keeping him up during the long, dark nights in his cell. He swallowed hard, the next question almost sticking in his throat.
“Who?”
The priest hesitated, but after a moment, he translated the Roman officer’s words. They described Lifeline, Phantom, Circuit, and Shadow.
The words lingered in the air, heavy with finality. Mercer’s chest tightened. He had known about the first two, but Circuit and Shadow... He closed his eyes, the weight of their deaths crashing down on him all at once. He had seen them fighting, alive one moment—and now they were gone. Just like that.
His breath hitched, and for a long moment, the room was silent. The Roman officer gave a final command in Latin and left the tent, leaving Mercer chained to the chair, his mind swirling with grief.
The priest lingered, his eyes softening with sympathy as he stepped closer to Mercer. “I’m... sorry,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “I know the pain of losing those you care for. No words can ease that burden.”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
The simple acknowledgment was enough to crack through the wall Mercer had been building around his emotions. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes but blinked them away, determined not to let the Romans see his weakness. The priest’s hand hovered just above Mercer’s shoulder, a gesture of comfort that didn’t quite land.
“You’re not alone in this, Captain Mercer,” the priest added softly. “Even in the darkest of places... hope remains. Hold on to that.”
The priest’s brow furrowed as they walked, his earlier composed demeanor slipping for just a moment. He began to speak but paused, as if reconsidering. ‘My mother used to tell me stories about enclaves, archmages and other creatures, 'he said finally, but his voice was hesitant. Mercer caught a flicker of something—doubt, maybe—in the priest’s eyes, though it was quickly hidden behind his usual calm mask. ‘Stories about forces beyond our understanding...’ He stopped abruptly, as if realizing he had said too much, and glanced at Mercer, his face tightening with regret. ‘I shouldn’t speak of such things. His words trailed off, and he shook his head, leaving Mercer to wonder what he knew and how deep the priest’s conflict ran."
Mercer was intrigued but did not say anything, he endured days of interrogations and cryptic questions like before, but this time felt different. The guards led him to a different tent, larger and more heavily guarded. As he stepped inside, he saw a circular table in the center of the room. On it rested a dark crystal, small but pulsing faintly with a deep, otherworldly glow.
A Roman officer stood behind the table, his eyes scanning Mercer with calculated interest. To his left was a mage, the same one who had captured Mercer on the battlefield. The mage’s face was stern, his gaze fixed on the crystal. Beside him, the priest lingered, silent and watchful.
The officer spoke in Latin, his voice sharp, and the priest translated. “They want to test something, Captain Mercer. They want to see if you possess the potential they believe you do.”
“Potential for what?” Mercer asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.
The priest hesitated, then spoke. “Psionic power. They believe you may have... untapped abilities.”
As the crystal pulsed with energy, Mercer’s heart pounded in his chest. Psionics? Was that what they believed he was capable of? He had heard the briefing about psions back at the base, people who could manipulate the world with their mind with raw magical energies, but he had never once considered that he could be one of them.
Before he could respond, the mage stepped forward, holding a small, sharp dagger. Without a word, the mage grabbed Mercer’s arm, drawing a quick cut across his palm. The pain was sharp, but it was the sight of the blood that unsettled Mercer the most. The mage took Mercer’s bleeding hand and held it over the crystal.
"Let a drop of your blood fall onto it," the priest said quietly.
Mercer’s mind raced, but he had little choice. A single drop of blood fell from his hand onto the crystal’s surface. Instantly, the dark stone began to hum with energy, the faint glow intensifying. The crystal vibrated on the table, and the room seemed to grow colder. The blood on the crystal shimmered, then disappeared, absorbed into its core. Watching the crystal glow in response to his blood, he couldn’t shake the cold feeling that the Romans might be right—and that frightened him more than he cared to admit.”
The Romans watched intently, their eyes locked on the crystal as it pulsed with an eerie light. The mage’s expression darkened with intrigue. He muttered something to the officer, who gave a sharp nod.
“What’s happening?” Mercer asked, pulling his hand back.
The priest’s gaze flickered to the glowing crystal, then back to Mercer. “The crystal is a means to measure your psionic potential. It reacts to blood... and if there is latent power within you, it will show.”
“And?” Mercer pressed.
The priest’s expression remained neutral, but there was something unreadable in his eyes. “It reacted... strongly.”
Mercer stared at the crystal, now returning to the glow it had before the test. What did that mean? Were they right about him? He clenched his fists, feeling the sting of the cut, but his mind was elsewhere. The Romans had been testing him this whole time, but this—this was something else. They weren’t just testing his loyalty or resolve. They were testing his very nature.
Without another word, the Romans left, leaving the crystal behind. The priest lingered and stood silently beside Mercer, his eyes far away, lost in a memory. “My mother wasn’t from here,’ the priest said suddenly, his voice quiet. He glanced at Mercer, as if debating how much to reveal. ‘She came to this world a long time ago, during the Soviet era. She told me about places beyond, about enclaves ruled by beings who wielded magic like the Romans do now. I thought they were just stories. Until now.’ His voice softened, and for a brief moment, the sternness in his expression melted away. ‘I didn’t believe her, not until the rifts opened. Now, I wonder... how much of what she said was true.” He fell silent again, and Mercer could sense there was more to the story, but the priest didn’t continue. ‘Maybe another time,’ he murmured, more to himself than to Mercer. He gestured for Mercer to follow the guards back to his cell.
As he walked, Mercer’s mind spun Archmages, enclaves, psionics, magic? What had just happened in that tent? And why were the Romans so intent on finding out if he had potential for something he did not consider himself to have and what more was the priest hiding?.
The next following interrogation sessions ended as it always did, with the guards standing silently, waiting to escort him back. But this last time, something was different again.
Instead of leading him to his cell, the guards steered him away from the tent and into the open air. Mercer felt the cold bite of the night as they marched him through the camp, his breath visible in the crisp air. A low hum that had begun as a faint sound earlier grew louder with each step, vibrating through the ground and into his bones. His eyes were drawn upward, where the Roman flying ship hovered above, its massive form casting long shadows across the moonlit camp. Faint blue runes glowed softly along its wooden frame, further illuminating the area in an eerie light.
Mercer craned his neck, catching a glimpse of the purple rift swirling high above the cloudless night sky, a tear in the sky that pulsed with an otherworldly energy. The sight of it sent an unsettling feeling deep into his stomach. Just before he could ask about it—since the rift had not been there before—the priest interrupted him.
“They’re taking us through it,” the priest said quietly beside him. His voice was calm but somber, as though the weight of what was about to happen was pressing down on him. “To somewhere... else.”
“Where?” Mercer asked, his voice hoarse from days of silence.
The priest glanced at him but didn’t answer immediately, his expression grave. “I am not sure. But it’s not Earth.”
The words settled over Mercer like a cold shroud. Not Earth. He’d suspected as much, but hearing it out loud made it all too real. As they approached the ship, Mercer’s gaze drifted back to the rift, the churning purple energy swirling violently against the night sky. Was this it? The end of the line? Would he ever see Earth again?
The guards led them up the ramp onto the ship. Mercer was immediately taken below deck, away from the cold night air and the sight of the rift above. The air below deck was stifling, thick with the smell of sweat and damp wood, and the distant hum of the ship vibrated through the walls like a heartbeat, reminding him of how far he was from everything he knew. The narrow corridor was dimly lit, the walls lined with prisoners—some civilians, some soldiers, their faces pale and gaunt. A sense of dread filled the air, thick and suffocating.
The sound of heavy boots echoed as they were shackled to the walls, the priest seated nearby, watching quietly. His gaze flickered toward Mercer, but neither of them spoke. There was something unsettling in the priest’s quiet understanding, a depth to his gaze that made Mercer wonder whether the man knew more than he was letting on. Empathy or calculation? Mercer couldn’t tell, and it unnerved him. The hum of the ship grew louder as the engines activated, a deep rumble that vibrated through the wooden floors.
Mercer’s heart pounded as the ship began to ascend. The vibrations from the engines grew louder, rattling the frame of the vessel. A low hum reverberated through the air, blending with a deeper, almost otherworldly resonance, as though the atmosphere itself protested their departure from the world below. Each breath became heavier. He could feel his chest tightening as they neared the rift. The air, thick with a dense, oppressive energy, seemed to press in from all sides.
His hands clenched the wooden bench beneath him, knuckles whitening with the sensation of weightlessness that overtook him. For a fleeting moment, it felt as if the ship—and everyone aboard—was suspended between worlds, caught in some unearthly void. Then came the pull, sharp and disorienting, dragging them into the heart of the rift.
Suddenly, it hit him—an onslaught of sensations crashing down. Colors flashed at the edges of his vision, vivid hues Mercer had never seen before, pulsing with their own energy. The air crackled with a strange electric charge, sharp as ozone. Alien sounds—a mix of discordant whispers and eerie hums—scraped at his mind. Overwhelmed, his senses strained against the unfamiliar, chaotic force they were plunging into. This was not merely crossing into another world; it felt like a violent immersion into something much darker, more chaotic.
Mercer squeezed his eyes shut, willing the vertigo to pass. His stomach lurched as the ground seemed to vanish beneath him. But even with his eyes closed, he felt the change. The air around him thickened with a new, oppressive magic, something far more ancient than he had ever encountered. It circled him, brushing against his awareness like a predator stalking its prey.
The temperature dropped sharply, and his skin prickled with a cold that felt as though it was freezing him from the inside out. Every inch of his body felt stretched thin, then compressed—like his very atoms were being torn apart and reassembled in an endless cycle. The ship groaned under the immense pressure, the wooden frame creaking as if it might splinter at any moment.
His head throbbed. The alien sensations—colors, sounds, temperature—blended into a feverish haze. No matter how hard he tried to center himself, the rift fought back, its chaos clawing at his sanity. Louder now, the whispers invaded his mind, incomprehensible voices swirling around him, everywhere and nowhere all at once. His body shuddered, rejecting the space they were being forced into.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, it stopped.
The rush of sensations vanished, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Gasping for breath, Mercer’s body trembled, overwhelmed by the aftershock of their passage through the rift. He opened his eyes, daring to face what lay beyond. But what greeted him was not the comfort of familiarity. Outside, the world was unnaturally still, as if suspended in a moment between realities. The air, heavy and thick, glowed faintly with the ethereal light of the rift. Time seemed to hang, frozen, trapping them in this disorienting liminal space.
The pressure in the air lifted slightly, though a gnawing sense of unease lingered. Mercer’s breath quickened. Was this the end of everything he had known? This was not Earth. It wasn’t even a world he recognized. And whatever lay ahead, it carried an aura of foreboding that surpassed any battlefield or enemy he had ever faced.
“Where are we?” Mercer whispered, though the silence swallowed his words.
The fear that he would never see Earth again took hold, its weight settling like a stone in his chest. The memories of familiar sights, the people he knew—it all felt like a distant dream now, as though the very essence of Earth was slipping away from him with every passing second. What if this was it? What if he truly was lost to the world he had fought to protect? The thought gnawed at him, sinking deep, until for the first time, he faced the terror of never returning home.
The silence stretched for an agonizing moment. Then the priest’s voice broke it.
“There are forces at play here,” the priest began, his voice low and cryptic. His gaze lingered on the swirling purple light from the rift, the reflection casting dark shadows over his face. "Forces older than even the Romans understand.” He paused, glancing at Mercer, weighing how much to reveal. "My mother warned me of them once—stories of shadows that move unseen, shaping events in ways most people never comprehend. She spoke of enclaves ruled by archmages and ancient beings that lurked beyond the rifts."
Mercer’s breath hitched. "What are you talking about?"
The priest hesitated, his fingers tracing an invisible pattern against his robes. "Like I told you my mother… wasn’t from Earth. Not originally." He stopped, as if unsure whether to continue, before finally meeting Mercer’s gaze. "She was an outsider, one who found herself stranded here during a time of chaos. Soviet Russia was not kind, but it allowed her to hide, blending in, becoming part of the human world. She told me stories—of enclaves far from here, of powers that could bend reality, of factions locked in battles far older than any nation on Earth."
Mercer stared, his mind racing to connect the pieces. "An outsider?"
“She never fully explained how she got here,” the priest continued, his voice quieter now. “But she spoke of forces beyond our understanding. Creatures and beings who see the rifts as tools, opportunities to manipulate the rise and fall of civilizations. The Romans think they are in control, but they are nothing more than pawns.”
The words weighed heavily between them. Mercer swallowed, his throat dry. "And these forces… what do they want?"
The priest’s expression darkened. “I don’t know everything, but there’s a name. The Unseen Circle. They move in shadows, watching, waiting. They see the Romans as a threat. They orchestrate events, pulling strings from the background. My mother hinted at their involvement, warned me that they might even be watching us now.”
The revelation struck Mercer harder than he expected. The Romans were dangerous enough on their own, but this… this was something else. "So, what do we do?"
The priest’s gaze flickered toward the rift once more. “We survive, Captain. We keep our heads low. And maybe—just maybe—hope that the Unseen Circle sees us as allies to help rather than obstacles.”