Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The wind rolled low across the frost-dusted fields where the carnage had recently ended, carrying the scent of charred wood and copper-slick blood.

In the distance, smoke still coiled upward in lazy spirals from the burning pyres, and the field surgeons worked tirelessly under grey, weeping skies.

Julius did not allow himself to bask in victory.

He had already moved on — his mind far ahead of the plundered corpses and cracked shields behind them.

The war was still young.

And the Kingdom of Francia, battered and bleeding though it was, was beginning to wake.

Three days had passed since the fall of Guilliame de Tournelle, and the Romanus legions had not slowed.

Fresh supplies had arrived through the newly secured corridor from Bellenne, the Iron Road now choked with carts and logistical wagons, ensuring the juggernaut of war stayed fed, clothed, and armed.

Entire towns had switched allegiances without a fight.

Border barons and independent lords — once hesitant — now bent the knee easily, swearing fealty in exchange for clemency, or simply survival.

Romanus offered protection, grain, and law.

More than what the crown of Francia had managed in months of disarray.

But as Julius's forces moved deeper, the reports began to change.

Fewer white flags.

More closed gates.

And finally… resistance, real proper resistance.

~

Outside the Command Tent – Morning

The thunder of hooves preceded the cry of the watchmen.

Two scouts rode hard down the northern trail, their horses streaked with foam, their faces pinched with cold and urgency.

Sabellus was already outside when they arrived, cloaks snapping in the wind.

"Report,"

he barked.

The first scout wasted no time.

"Royal banners, Lord Commander. Over the city of Rouvray, and again at Saint-Valais. We spotted regimental formations on the move. Infantry in uniform. Professional units — not peasantry."

Sabellus narrowed his eyes.

"How many?"

"Two regiments in Saint-Valais — perhaps three to four thousand strong. But more concerning—"

He glanced to the second scout, who nodded and continued.

"Locals speak of larger movements farther east. Refugees from Arvest claim that the capital has issued a full muster order. Royal troops have begun moving from the heartlands. They're pulling in bannermen."

Sabellus didn't blink.

He turned to the tent behind him.

"Summon the Emperor. Now."

~

Minutes Later – War Tent

Julius stood at the map table, his cloak discarded, his hands resting on the eastern quarter of the war-map now smudged from use.

The scouts knelt before him as Sabellus relayed the full message.

When they finished, the tent was silent.

Caetrax broke the quiet first.

"They're consolidating. Finally. After all this time."

Julius gave a short nod, but his tone was unreadable.

"We've driven the wolves from their dens. Now we find the pack, ready to try and take back their homes."

He glanced toward the red-threaded markers placed across the map.

Each denoted Roman victories.

Wedges.

Townships fallen.

Barons converted or executed.

But new ones had appeared in blue.

Fresh lines of resistance.

And near Rouvray and Saint-Valais — the crest of the Francian crown, stitched in gold.

"Three regiments isn't a threat on its own,"

Gallius offered.

"But if more arrive—"

"They will,"

Julius said.

"And that's the point."

He looked to the others.

"We have blooded them, but we have not yet fought Francia. Not truly. What we've faced so far are the fringes. The discarded. Lords without allies, militias without orders, frontier territories meant to be a buffer should Visigoth ever come calling. But the crown is awake now, and their true military might marshelling against us."

Sabellus frowned.

"We can't pull back. The corridor will collapse if we give them space."

"I'm not retreating,"

Julius said sharply.

His eyes flared with cold determination.

"We double our efforts. Secure the wedge. Lock it. Fortify it. From Bellenne to Arvest, every village that bears our banner becomes a wall."

He pointed to a point between Saint-Valais and the coast.

"We meet them there. On our terms. And we show the kingdom what happens when Francia fights a real war."

~

Elsewhere — Rouvray

The city's walls were old but solid, reinforced with recent stone from the quarries to the south.

And atop them flew the standard of the Francian crown once more.

In the courtyard below, troops drilled under the command of Marshal Theoderic, one of the King's most respected field commanders.

His mustache twitched as he studied the field map before him, hands clasped behind his back.

Dozens of messengers and captains stood nearby, awaiting orders.

A nobleman approached — young, flushed with cold and frustration.

"My Lord Marshal,"

he began.

"Should we not strike them now? The Romans move like they own these lands. Every hour we delay—"

Theoderic held up a gloved hand.

"You are young,"

he said quietly.

"That is not a fault. But it is a condition that breeds impatience."

He turned to face the lad fully.

"Romanus wants us to rush. To throw ourselves at them piece by piece. Guilliame did. So did Bertram of the east. They died for it."

"But—"

"No. We wait. We let them commit to the invasion and the positions they think they've won. And then we close the vice."

Behind him, the commander's advisors nodded grimly.

The war had changed.

And now… it would truly begin.

~

Three Days Later – Romanus Encampment, Near Saint-Valais

The camp was quiet.

Not with fear.

But focus.

Every man knew what was coming.

Scouts had spotted Francian banners closer now — not just nobles, but full regiments bearing the fleur-de-lis.

Julius stood beside Sabellus on the ridge overlooking the field.

His Iron Cavalry stood to the rear, unmoving.

The legions were already arrayed, forming trenches and raising their shield towers.

A proper siege line — but meant not to assault, but to hold.

"The scout returns,"

Sabellus said, pointing.

A single rider galloped across the field, cloak snapping in the wind.

He dismounted fast, handed off reins, and knelt.

"My Emperor,"

the scout gasped.

"Speak."

"They've camped at Le Mardein. Eight miles out. Three banners, likely more en route. Total force, estimated at fifteen thousand."

Sabellus's brows lifted.

"That's half the standing army."

Julius nodded slowly.

"So be it."

He turned to his captains.

"Ready the men. We won't meet them in the field. Not yet."

He pointed down into the shallow valley at the foot of their camp.

"We dig in. We bleed them on the march. And when they are tired, cold, and hungry—"

He paused.

"We end the war."