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Head Priest Aranus the Elder stood before the kneeling worshippers, atop the altar, with a burning furnace hanging from a chain in his hands. A golden ceremonial breastplate hung heavy from his neck, representing the sacred beasts the stars drew every evening. Assistant priests on the side, between the pillars, throat sang and recited enchantments. A fire and a cauldron of burning seeds stood under the stairs beyond the altar, separating him from the followers. The sweet scent of the sacred seeds filled the Sanctuary of the Holy Oak; that old forest shrine that had to be converted into a marble temple according to legal requirements of the Sacred Itruschian Empire. And the sacred fire cast its light on the walls, as Guarding Stones stood on the side, and a replica of the Red Sun of Ares shone over their heads, as a gleaming rose-coloured ruby.

Suddenly, the wooden door opened, and twenty men stepped in, one by one, all of them wearing long coats of bear fur. The worshippers stared at the blasphemous sight of the Brown One flayed and displayed as a thing of naught. The appearance of the men was also foreign, with distinct sharp features, short wavy hair, and shaven faces.

Head Priest Aranus the Elder welcomed them with a nod. They passed through the pillars and surrounded the Sacred Labyrinth, not bowing before the holy relics, and frowning at the scent of the Holy Flowers that perpetually impregnated the temple and opened the wisdom of men.

“Good morning,” the priest said in a low voice, ecstatic and gleeful with the holy smoke. Then, he cleared his throat and spoke again. “You are not from around these lands, it seems. We welcome thee, nonetheless. This is a sanctuary to Ares, our protector.”

“We are traveling warriors,” one of them said in an accent Aranus could identify too well. An Itruschian. Aranus nodded and glanced back at the worshipers. The throat singing rang in their ears, and he noticed the wary glances of the travellers, as if wondering what kind of a being could produce such a sound.

After a long silence, a veteran, Vasa, stepped forward to demand for a blessing. His hair was straight, now grey. Aranus remembered him as a Dragon Knight, fighting alongside their old chieftain, riding against the Empire. And now, Vasa’s own son was an Imperial Legionnaire. A long black moustache hung from his nose, and a humble coat, with blue and gold colours, covered his entire body. He walked solemnly up the stairs of the altar, and he knelt before the fire that separated Aranus from him and shut his dark eyes.

“Aranus the Elder,” the man said, kneeling on one leg and stretching his arms to the sky. “Please ask for the God of War to take care of my son, Adna of Adachia, for we have received no indication of his state. We know not whether he is in health or wounded. We know not of his campaigns, and we pray his Legion has not been decimated or lost in the Northern forests.”

“I will do, with this sacred fire,” Aranus said solemnly.

“Please grant me my wish. I only desire to hear of my son again, and so does my wife.”

Aranus noticed a woman kneeling, hands interlocked in prayer, and a young child next to her. The little one had his father’s features, dark hair and beautiful small eyes. A future warrior.

Aranus started to recite the Chant of Visions, and as accustomed as he was, he quickly entered the visionary state, expecting to see something.

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In that moment, Aranus felt a surge of energy go up his spine. He clenched his fists, as a rush of memories raced through his mind, like a meaningful dream he had forgotten as the day went by.

His eyes were fixed in the distance.

He saw…

Blood on the floor.

Fire on the roofs.

And that was not the North. The houses were round, covered with hay, with the hills of Adachia towering from behind like silent witnesses.

Blood.

A blade, and golden light. The earth…

“Priest Aranus?” Vasa spoke.

Aranus was speechless for a second, and when he lifted his head it was too late. But how could it not have been?

Two of the strangers walked to the back and blocked the door.

Adna’s mother, startled by the sudden gesture, rushed to the door, one of them opened his coat and revealed full Imperial armour. The woman stepped back, then turned and went back to the stones, kneeling again, as if nothing had happened.

Then, the other soldiers jumped to their feet, throwing the coats to the floor, and revealing their segmented armours and the swords that hung from their belts.

Aranus took a stumbling step forward as the men grabbed the worshipers by the hair, mostly women, wives of legionaries far away, and pointed the knives to their necks.

Aranus said in a loud voice, waving his bare hands, and raising his bearded chin.

“What is this defilement, legionaries! Who is the centurion of this legion? What is this?”

“Remain calm, old man,” a voice spewed. One of the soldiers was speaking. He had wavy dark hair, a square jaw, and deeply tanned skin. “This has been ordered by the Governor of the Province of Tharcia, Larius Brutus Caitanus.”

“What is this? Leave these guests of the Empire alone! For the love of all the gods of righteousness.”

“We will need your cooperation, old man.” The soldier stepped up. Aranus recognized the armour. He was the centurion.

“What for! Our peoples are at peace!” Aranus said.

“This is serious. Now, swear your cooperation and...”

“To swear what?”

“Swear your allegiance to the Empire, old man.”

“You know what I have sworn. My people, collectively, have agreed to move to this land and serve the Empire. No more revolutions, no more battles, as long as our mutual terms are agreed.”

“It is not what the Imperial intelligentsia has uncovered. Now, yield yourself. We want you alive.”

“Fine. I’ll do as you please. Now, don’t bother these people any more.”

“Swear it, for the Empire.”

“Swear what?”

“Swear it!” the man said, as he pointed his blade at a mother and child kneeling beside them. She screamed, her face contorting in fear.

“I swear my allegiance!” Aranus said. “Now, leave them alone.”

“Your cooperation has been noted,” the centurion said, turning toward the door. “Kill all the men,” he spewed.

“What?” Aranus stepped forward, as the legionaries unsheathed their short swords.

Vasa turned around, trying to protect himself with his forearms, but one of the soldiers lunged at him, sword in hand, and cut through his chest.

“Betrayal!” Vasa said bitterly, and the soldier attacked him again, slicing his neck. Aranus contemplated the cruel irony that befell Vasa. His son’s very comrades in arms had killed him. Aranus clenched his fists and his teeth, he cursed the soldiers in the depths of his mind, but his frail body was useless against their weapons. He blinked in disbelief. Was he having a nightmare? Was he trapped in a vision of the future? He tried to wake up, to no avail. But the screams and spilled blood around him proved it was all too real.