A cold breeze drifted over the ridge, making the flame of a nearby torch gutter. I realised I was shivering slightly, whether from the chill or the unnamable dread that sometimes found me after bloodshed. I sank down to sit on a broken section of stone (a piece of the city's outerworks blasted loose by a Roman ballista). Stretching out my legs, I finally allowed myself a moment's respite. My body ached dully in dozens of places; small nicks and bruises accumulated over the course of the night's violence. They would all heal. They always did. I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled, trying to release the tension coiled in me.
Victory was ours, and yet I felt a strange disquiet. The shape of things to come… where would all this lead? The fall of Agrigentum would only spur Rome onward—more battles, more slaughter, perhaps a long war with Carthage across the sea. And I would be in the shadows of all of it, an unseen blade. Ruso and the Senate would see to that; I had made myself their weapon tonight beyond any doubt. A weapon—Marcus Flaccus had called me that, back when they offered me this command. Not a man, but something to be aimed and loosed. I wondered if they already plotted how next to use or hide me. Perhaps even now, some fearful senator was whispering that I should not be allowed back in Rome's civilised heart, that I belonged out here in the dark doing the unspeakable until I was needed no more.
I tilted my head back and gazed at the smeared heavens. The moon had a ring around it tonight, a halo in the smoky sky—a pale echo of my black sun emblem. I almost chuckled at the irony. A Roman officer with no past and an uncanny gift for survival, leading a band of spectres under a banner of an eclipse. What would historians make of this, I wondered? Perhaps nothing—perhaps we would remain an unrecorded rumour, the truth too strange for the official chronicles. More likely, they'd credit the consuls and generals with brilliance, and whisper of Tenebris only in candlelit taverns and legion camps. A living legend, they'd call me. A man who walks in darkness and cannot die.
I closed my eyes. At that moment, I felt more specter than man indeed. The rush of combat was gone, leaving only the emptiness and the memories that never fully slept. Images fluttered on the edge of my mind: fleeting recollections of other battles, other faces—from decades, even centuries ago. Sometimes I could almost remember a time before the fighting, a time before the curse that clings to me. But it was like chasing smoke. I let out a long breath, and that breath became a silent prayer in the dark. If I am to be Death's hand, grant me the strength to endure it. And if there is still a man somewhere inside this shell… grant me the will to remember him.
A distant cheer rose from the city as the Roman legions secured the forum. I could imagine the scene: exhausted soldiers raising their swords amid the rubble, shouting praise to Jupiter and Mars, proclaiming the first major victory in Sicily. They had no idea what had truly won them the day. Few ever would. The Carthaginians certainly would have no answers when they finally crept into that blood-soaked bunker and found their leaders slain without a clue. We had left them with nothing but questions, just as promised.
And me? I had questions too, ones I dared not voice. Each time my wounds closed and my life went on when by rights it should not, the questions deepened. What am I becoming? How many more lives will I take—and outlive—before this ends? Does it ever end? The darkness inside me yawned, offering no reply.
With effort, I pushed these thoughts down and stood. The night was waning, and duty was not yet done. The maps needed to be delivered to Ruso; decisions needed to be made for the coming days. I had to don the mask of the dutiful commander a little longer. There would be time enough later to wrestle with the nightmares. For now, I would continue playing the part fate had written for me in this saga. The Immortal's Odyssey through war and legend marched on, and I along with it.
I picked up the leather satchel of Carthaginian plans and slung it over my shoulder. Blood had dried stiff on my cloak; it rustled as I moved. At the edge of our camp, a few Umbra sentries straightened, acknowledging my presence with clenched fists over their hearts. I returned the gesture silently. Without a word, they fell in behind me at a respectful distance, an honor guard of phantoms. We began the walk toward General Ruso's command tent atop the ridge. Each step felt heavy, as if the earth itself tried to tug me down into its depths—back into those tunnels where I surely belonged.
When I looked back toward Agrigentum one last time, I saw the first light of dawn bleaching the sky above the city's skyline of temples and towers. Smoke from the night's fires twisted upward like black serpents, slowly fading into the brightening air. The ancient city's fate was sealed, another layer of conquest added to its long history. I wondered if its stones would remember the whispers of our passage below, or if that too would vanish with the final echoes of war.
As for me, I walked on into the coming day, silent and inscrutable as ever. Around me, legionaries gave way, some gazing with a mixture of respect and dread. Already, some averted their eyes—perhaps having heard rumours of what we'd done in the dark. I could almost feel the stories starting to spin themselves, like the Fates' threads weaving in hushed tones. They would say Agrigentum fell because something inhuman stalked its halls that night. They would be half-right.
I tightened my grip on the satchel's strap. The leather was embossed with a Carthaginian sigil that my thumb traced unconsciously—a snarling baetyl, symbol of a god. I thought of Hasdrubal's face as I struck him down: the disbelief, the terror giving way to acceptance at the very end. He had looked into the abyss behind my eyes and seen whatever monster lived there. I carry that monster with me still, I know. It grows with each life I take and each year I endure.
Dawn broke fully, its golden light washing over the carnage-strewn plain. Romans were cheering now, hoisting their standards on the captured walls. To them, this was a glorious morning. To me, it was just another day won by blood and shadow. I squared my shoulders and stepped forward into the light, even as my soul lingered in darkness.
No one hailed Tenebris as a hero when I entered the command tent to make my report. No poets would sing of the butcher's work I had done beneath Agrigentum. But in the quiet, in the dark corners of legion camps and frightened enemy whispers, my tale was already growing—an immortal horror story, a legend to warn children and battle-hardened warriors alike. I could almost hear it on the wind: the living shadow, the undying one, the black sun of Rome. A living legend, indeed… and the weight of that legend hung on me like a yoke.
As I began to speak to Ruso and the gathered officers, delivering the maps and recounting our success in measured, emotionless words, a part of me stood aside in spirit, watching a tired man play the role of myth. Inside, I felt hollow, older than the stones of Agrigentum, heavier than its darkest catacombs. My dreams tonight, if they came, would be darker than ever—filled with the faces of the fallen and the echoes of ancient wars. But I would bear them, as I always do.
For I am Tenebris, and this is my odyssey: to wander through death and legend, to fight on when others fall, to descend into darkness and emerge unchanged. Unchanged on the surface, at least. Deep down, piece by piece, I feel something shifting—taking shape like a sword being forged in secret. The shape of things to come, perhaps. I do not know yet if it will be salvation or doom. But as Agrigentum's smoke curled into the morning sky and the world cheered a victory won by unseen deeds, I knew one truth with iron certainty: the shadows still had need of me, and I would answer their call.
I fell silent in the command tent, my report complete. No one spoke for a moment. The officers exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions a mix of gratitude and apprehension. Marcus Atilius Ruso cleared his throat, eyeing me as one might a leashed predator. "Well done, Centurion," he managed carefully. I only nodded.
Stepping back out into the daylight, I allowed myself one final thought before duty claimed me fully: They will whisper of this night in the years to come. In tavern corners and around campfires, they will speak of the siege, the secrets, and the horror beneath Agrigentum. They'll say that when Rome laid siege to that city, something else laid siege to the souls of its defenders—something that struck in silence and vanished without a trace. They'll lower their voices and call it, the immortal shadow. And perhaps one day I will only be that: a whisper in the dark, a myth to frighten or inspire.
For now, I remain flesh and blood, no matter how unnatural. I feel the ache of exhaustion and the sting of my fading wound as I walk away. Tonight, perhaps, I will find a few hours of restless sleep. And when I close my eyes, I will see again the black depths of those tunnels, and the reflections of my own darkness staring back at me. I will dream, as always, of battle and fire and eternal night.
And yet, as the morning sun climbs higher, I stand unyielding—a living legend carrying Rome's darkest secrets on my shoulders. This is the life I have carved out, or that has been carved out for me, strike by strike, siege by siege. Onward I will stride into the next chapter of war and fate, silent and brooding, a blade in the shadows. Let them whisper in Rome's darkest corners. Let them fear or worship the myth of Tenebris. I will endure those whispers as I have endured all else, with grim resolve. For though I walk in darkness, I serve the light of a purpose I have yet to fully see—the shape of things yet to come, looming just beyond the horizon of my cursed immortal sight.