Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The trees rustled faintly at the edge of Le Pont Noir, a shallow valley split by a long-frozen stream and bordered on both sides by hills thick with pine and snowfall.

The fog hung like smoke, and the white silence was shattered only by the muffled grind of distant boots and the occasional clink of armor adjusting under fur-lined cloaks.

Winter is not a time to wage war, but Romanus at least was prepared for it, having lost no forces due to the environment itself the entire campaign so far.

Julius stood atop the central ridge, where his forward command had been established — not in a tent, but exposed on a makeshift wooden dais surrounded by raised stone and a half-circle of sharpened stakes.

His Iron Cavalry waited in silence behind him, their horses breathing mist, their weapons unsheathed.

Before them, stretching beyond the frozen ridgelines, was the corridor.

Their corridor.

And today, it would be sealed in blood, while removing defenders that would prevent further land grabs once the spring thaw comes and their troops can march at peak efficiency, while Francia is troubled by Elheats advance from the south, along with the Marines invasions of the West.

"Positioning complete,"

Sabellus reported, dismounting beside the command dais.

His cloak was streaked with frost, but his eyes burned with clarity.

"Are the flanks concealed?"

"Better than I hoped,"

he said.

"The pincer groups are in place. The Nymbrati are shadowing the southern edge of Theoderic's column. He doesn't see them yet."

Julius nodded, staring toward the edge of the mist.

"And the bait?"

"Still burning,"

Sabellus replied, a faint smile touching his lips.

"The supply carts in the outer valley were left in plain sight. Their scouts reported it this morning. Just enough food, enough steel, enough oil to make it look real."

"They'll take it,"

Julius said flatly.

"They'll think it's our rear line. A disorganized fallback."

Sabellus paused, then gestured across the ridgeline.

"If they do… they'll charge headlong into a wedge of three legions."

"No,"

Julius said.

"They'll charge into the jaws of the empire and find just how sharp our teeth are."

He turned from the ridge, motioning to the aide standing by.

"Signal the southern cohort. They're to delay the trap's close until the forward banners pass the second marker."

Sabellus raised a brow.

"You want them deeper?"

Julius's gaze didn't waver.

"I want them buried."

~

South of Le Pont Noir – Francian Royal Host Vanguard

Marshal Theoderic was no fool.

The march had been slow, yes — but disciplined.

His soldiers weren't levies.

They were professionals.

Knights, armsmen, heavy infantry, archers.

Men who had trained their whole lives for war.

Men who had proper weapons and armor, even pages and attendants to help them setup camp, and even get their gear on and off.

But even now, he could feel something was off.

They hadn't seen resistance in days.

Not a single tower fired on them.

No ambushes.

No sabotage.

Only frost, wind, and smoke in the distance.

And the occasional corpse.

That was the part that disturbed him.

They'd found bodies.

Not Roman.

Not their own.

Just… villagers.

Hung or burned.

Fields salted.

Animals slaughtered.

It was not pillage.

It was method.

And now… ahead of them, just past a sloping ridge, smoke.

And carts.

Supplies.

Wagons.

Stacked in disarray.

"Abandoned?"

one of his knights asked.

"Bait,"

Theoderic murmured.

"But…"

He paused.

The path beyond narrowed — a perfect natural funnel.

Forested slopes to both sides.

Easy for archers.

Traps.

But it was the open middle that disturbed him most.

Flat.

Too flat.

He could see the bait.

But not who had left it.

And that meant the enemy was hiding.

"Form skirmish lines,"

he ordered.

"Send the second battalion to probe the path. I want scouts in the forest edges. No gaps. Tell the archers to watch the treelines."

"And if they find nothing?"

"Then we continue,"

he said grimly.

"But we do not break formation."

~

West Ridge – Romanus Flanking Legion

Commander Rucaran of the 8th Legion crouched low behind a snow-covered embankment as the distant horns echoed faintly across the field.

He watched as the Francian vanguard moved with impressive discipline — tighter than expected.

Not rabble.

Not nobility acting solely on pride.

Real soldiers, their first real test as an empire, and as an army.

"Orders?"

his aide asked quietly.

Rucaran's eyes narrowed.

"Wait for the marker,"

he said, pointing to the red-and-black flag still furled in the snow beside the supply carts below.

"Once that drops, the main pincer moves. Until then…"

He motioned with a hand.

"Archers. Knock."

Behind them, nearly three hundred archers pulled arrows from their oiled leather cases.

Not the long-range volleys of open war.

These were barbed shafts.

Short-range.

Meant to pierce plate, not morale.

"Don't shoot yet,"

Rucaran said.

"When the bait is taken. Not a moment sooner."

The trap was not sprung.

It was set.

And now it waited.

~

Inside the Valley – The Teeth Close

The Francian second battalion advanced into the narrowing corridor between the hills.

Footmen fanned out.

Scouts circled.

The carts — battered, stacked with supplies — sat still under the open sky.

One captain approached the nearest wagon cautiously, lifting the tarp.

His eyes widened.

Steel.

A full shipment of swords and light armor.

"Ours now,"

he whispered.

A signal was given.

More men surged forward.

And then… the flag dropped.

The red-and-black Romanus banner fell from the post beside the cart, silently and swiftly.

From both sides, a sound rose — like distant thunder building under the snow.

The ridgelines came alive.

From west and east, legions emerged from their concealment — glinting iron, gladius blades, tower shields.

Archers rose behind them and let loose.

A storm of arrows rained down upon the exposed second battalion.

Cries erupted.

Men fell screaming.

Lines broke.

The forward companies reeled back, trying to regroup.

But then the Nymbrati struck.

From inside the treelines behind them — where scouts had reported nothing — shapes moved with unnatural silence.

Dagger teams.

Poison-tipped blades.

No armor.

No sound.

They tore through the rearguard like a scythe.

In minutes, the entire battalion was caught in a vice.

Theoderic's eyes widened as the full trap revealed itself.

"Drums,"

he roared.

"Sound the charge! Collapse the center before it closes!"

But it was already too late.

Julius's trap was not a net.

It was a mouth.

And the teeth were already biting down.

~

Atop the Ridge — Julius Watches

Sabellus stood beside him, eyes locked on the battlefield below.

The outer flanks of the Romanus legions now surged forward in perfect timing — one unit peeling into the corridor like water flowing through a channel.

The enemy was strong.

Theoderic's command was sharp.

But the illusion of advantage was gone.

Now, there was only war.

"Begin the advance,"

Julius said softly.

Sabellus looked to him.

"Our signal?"

Julius raised a hand.

A plume of black smoke erupted from the command platform, soaring into the sky.

Across the valley, horns answered — deep and low and cold.

One after another, the Romanus war machine began to move.

Cohorts stepped forward.

Shields locked.

Spears lowered.

The lines became one.

The Empire had bared its teeth.

And now… it would feast.