Calamity. Thunder and wrath. Orsin gripped the ship's rail as their vessel was catapulted by the storm, surging upon an enraged tide. Salt sprayed his face as their bow crashed over a wave. Seawater drenched the galley's deck and dragged against his shins, washing away the nervous vomit and voidance of the Brenti javeliners and legionnaires aboard.

Beside him, Jonarius moaned. A familiar face in the chaos. Jonarius was a Brenti lad like him; they had enlisted together in the legion's auxiliaries on Orsin's fourteenth birthday. That was three months ago now, and a world away. Jonarius's jaw was tight, lips curled into a rictus smile. His piteous moan rose with the ship's bow as it plunged into another wave. He must not have known he was making the noise over the rain and wind, but Orsin heard it. An animal fear which he too possessed, but managed to contain by the thinnest margin. He clutched his javelin quiver until his knuckles went white and his forearm shook. But there within the cold terror burned an inextinguishable pride.

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Orsin's great-grandfather had fought to liberate his homeland from the Urkun khanate. Now he would do the same for their ancient allies. The winds howled in the heavens–heralding the pantheon's coming. Finally, Auctoritas had come again to Philoxenian shores. The Gods' eyes were upon them...

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