A trio sat around a round table, cosily tucked in a valley between massive piles of books. One was a woman, dressed in plate armour. A man sat next to her, wearing a wolf-head hat. Another male companion sat opposite the two, dressed similarly to the Aquilifier, excluding the exotic headwear.

Cyrus eyed his second-in-command's companion. The wolfman stared right back, unflinching under his gaze.

Sighing, the centurion lost the staring contest in favour of progressing the meeting. However, one final attempt was made. Cyrus pleaded once more, "You seriously cannot justify bringing the mere standard bearer to a critical meeting such as this...not even as your aide."

Shaylah remained unswayed, her face impassive. After a brief silence, she replied "If you had really thought that, you would've used the military hierarchy to command me to do it. You just can't stand looking at someone you had nearly killed for saving your life."

Seething, the Roman remained silent.

Seeing that her point has been made, the officer cleared her throat and queried in a business-like manner, "What is it that you wished to speak of?"

The shift in tone made the centurion look up, who responded in kind, "We need a cover for the massive numbers of armed soldiers."

His words kindled a fire within their eyes. The group stared into each other's eyes, a wolfish grin emerging on their lips. In sync, they chanted, "Mercenaries."

The centurion grinned wolfishly at the united response, "So what we need is-"

His words fell silent as Shaylah waved her hand, butting in, "What we need, is a mercenary contract. Produce some inferior and slightly varied armour and train the troops in a variety of weapons."

Cyrus deadpanned, "In what world do skilled contractors, whose sole role is fighting, wear shabby armour and lack organisation?"

Shaylah sighed and jabbed a finger into the stone table. She leaned forward as about to share a secret, fake-whispering, "This one."

Mimicking her stance but with a touch more ferociousness, the Roman slammed his palm into the table, "I refuse for this legion to look like a bunch of misfit bandits lead by some brain-dead Lucius Aemilius Paullus mimic."

Shaylah blurted, "Amil Paul-what now?"

The centurion grumbled, "The stupid consul that made us lose 50,000 men in the war with Carthage."

The second-in-command felt a slight soreness in her neck as it swivelled to and from once more, muttering, "Okay. Your old-world nonsense, got it. I'll just do the mercenary registration now."

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Cyrus nodded in acknowledgement and rose from his stone stool, "I look forward to it."

With the meeting concluded, the individuals dispersed.

The amount of white triangles, grew smaller and smaller, turning into small, wrapped bundles of white linen. Large, cumbersome rectangular bags with legs began moving towards the tunnel in a steady stream.

The library had turned into nothing but a barren shelf, with a small pile of bags placed on the table. Similarly, the L-shaped crafting station had to be stripped clean. The top of the bench was covered by a neat row of bags.

A hand-held wooden cart was dragged to the two sites, which was swiftly filled with leather baggage, a divider distinguishing the two stations. With the aid of two legionnaires, a massive wooden cover materialised on top of the wagon.

Cyrus waved his hand. A lock and key appeared, securing the cover to the wagon.

With grunts and hisses of exertion, the squad of four gradually disappeared into the tunnels with their payload.

Not a sound could be heard across the massive, underground chamber. The barren ground held archeological traces of civilization, ranging from footprints to dents. A lonely wreath-like structure stood on the far side. Its only partner stood on the opposite side, a mouth into another world.

The faint clicking and grinding of rocks echoed from the cavity. A few seconds later, it spat out a small trickle of pebbles and stones.

No longer overwhelmed by the stone's migration, a faint, rhythmic echo of leather on stone emerged from the entrance. It sometimes doubled, sometimes diverged into separate streams. This irregular fibrillation grew in strength.

After several minutes, two pairs of feet appeared on the roof of the mouth. Legs. Abdomen. Before long, the people finally entered the frame of stone amidst the background of brown. One dressed in smooth, curved plated armour, complete with a broadsword swinging from her hip and a buckler on her back.

The other's armaments looked as if individual pieces of the plate had been patched together, forming a strange stripe-like design. A short scabbard swung from his hip with a leather handle protruding from the top. A rectangular, full-body shield protected his back.

The legionnaire turned to the knight, "Do I just say unclaim?"

The knight nodded.

The ground rumbled in protest as the illicit drug was removed from its system. Losing its toughness, the pressure from the mountain of dirt, and stone sitting upon its head exceeded its now draining strength.

The stone buckled at the top edges where the vertical met the horizontal. Cracks ripped through the entire structure like lightning flashing across the black sky.

With one final roar of defiance and fury, the stone chamber collapsed. But much to its dissatisfaction, its murder had left long ago.

Cyrus and Shaylah hurriedly jogged up the tunnel. The ghost of the chamber nipped at their heels, desperate to strangle and clog their airways with its airborne pollutants.

Bursting from the exit, the pair backed away, just in term to see the eruption of Mout Training Ground. Dust and other gases spewed from the vent. However, before it could reach the two, the ash cloud was dispersed by a gentle breeze.

The grey bloom restarted at a lesser intensity as the main vent collapsed, following its older cousin's lead.

Without a second glance at the deed, the centurion addressed the neat rows of troops, "You know what to do."

Fifty fists slammed into metal, emitting a meaty thud. The chant of "Yes, Imperator" accompanied the salute.

The pair split: Cyrus leading the front, Shaylah guarding the rear.

A trumpet sounded. The snake of red and yellow began to slither through the undergrowth.