Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The hills of southern Valcres fell away beneath them, soft with winter's last breath.

Saint Joan rode at the head of her force, a white cloak flapping behind her like a banner of defiance, though no sigil adorned it.

She carried no standard.

She didn't need one.

The people followed her name, not her heraldry.

They had called her mad once.

A heretic.

A hallucination born of fever dreams and peasant prayers.

But now?

Now she was a commander through and through.

No — a symbol.

One that moved like light through the ruin Francia had become in the east.

Romanus had driven like an arrow through the flesh that is Francia, and in doing so thousands of people uprooted and fled for their lives, some were captured by the nobles and pressed into the impression forces sent to push the Romans back, while others successfully escaped, but then came news of the impression forces defeat.

That's when panic truly set in, even with winter already deeply set in, commoners abandoned their homes to flee west.

Then came word of the western invasion, followed by the south.

Francia was bleeding all over, and the commoners had no where left to run, that's when she really arrived, a beacon for all these lost souls to rally around.

Her army wasn't grand at least in terms of quality — barely fifty thousand, and many of those half-trained militias, devout volunteers, and knightly remnants who had escaped the crucible of the west though casting aside their noble heritage lest they be punished for their failure.

But they followed her without question.

Because she did not order them forward.

She walked first.

And so, when the scouts came riding from the eastern pass, screaming of a Roman legion — a full one — moving to intercept their push toward Bellenne, Joan only nodded.

"We turn,"

she said.

The captains hesitated.

"There are eight thousand of them,"

one muttered.

"Maybe more."

Joan looked to him.

Her eyes were quiet.

Not angry.

Not wild.

Just… still.

Like a mother staring at her children who had done something they really shouldnt

And she spoke.

"Then we fight."

~

Two Days Later — The Pass of Saint Ivelle

The terrain worked in their favor.

Narrow slopes, thick undergrowth, frozen gullies hiding below the snow.

The Romanus force advanced in textbook formation — scouting lines clean, archers wide, infantry flowing in wide lanes toward the clearing beyond the pass.

But the pass didn't lead to a clearing.

It led to fire.

Joan's trap was crude, but efficient.

The Francians had waited in dugouts hidden behind false ridgelines.

When the Romans passed through the lower funnel, her knights struck from above — slamming into the archers and supply teams first, cleaving through the surprised rearguard before the formation could reorient.

The Romanus infantry turned like a hive, gladii raised, shields up.

But that was when the snow beneath them gave.

Joan's engineers — what few she had — had melted and refrozen layers of ice over stone-strewn pits, disguised beneath snowfalls and sapling brambles.

Dozens of soldiers dropped into chaos, their ranks rupturing.

And then Joan descended.

Not behind her men.

Ahead of them.

A dozen witnesses would later swear they saw her blade shine blue as she rode down the hill, snow flurrying around her like a cloak of light.

She struck the Roman line like a hammer.

Where her blade moved, soldiers fell — cleanly, as if the metal cut not just through flesh but through air and fear alike.

It was not fury.

It was control.

And it turned the tide.

The Romanus formation collapsed.

Not utterly — they retreated with discipline, falling back to defensive positions at the pass's mouth.

But their officers were dead.

Their command line severed.

And hundreds — hundreds — of trained legionnaires lay broken or bleeding in the snow.

It was the first true loss for the Empire.

And when the fires were lit that night to honor the dead, it was not Roman standards that flew above the ridgeline.

It was the Fleur.

Francia's crest.

Raised high by trembling hands, and for the first time in weeks, cheered.

~

That Same Night — Far Away, in the Camp at Le Pont Noir

The Root messenger arrived just after dusk — clad in grey, eyes red from the cold, voice flat and fast.

Julius took the scroll and dismissed the man before Sabellus could question him.

He unrolled it by firelight.

He read it twice.

A long silence passed.

Sabellus stepped forward.

"Is it from the coast?"

"No."

"The Root?"

Julius nodded.

He handed the parchment to his second.

Sabellus scanned it quickly, his frown deepening with each line.

"An entire legion?"

"Beaten,"

Julius said.

"Not routed. But disarmed."

"Location?"

"Saint Ivelle Pass. Three days south of the Bellenne corridor."

Sabellus's jaw tensed.

He kept reading.

When he reached the final lines, his brow arched sharply.

"Her sword,"

he said slowly.

"They saw it glowed?"

The fire crackled.

Julius's gaze was fixed on the horizon.

"She broke the vanguard in single combat. Took a hilltop in the first hour. The field captain reports she's the reason they had to withdraw."

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then, low and almost to himself, he added:

"They said it shone… blue."

Sabellus lowered the scroll.

"She was supposed to be a captive?"

"She's not."

"Then why,"

Sabellus said, frowning,

"is she not with us?"

Julius didn't answer.

Not immediately.

His jaw worked slightly, one hand brushing against the edge of the command table, where the newest maps had been etched with flame markers and unit reports.

"She may not know."

"Know what?"

Julius turned, finally meeting Sabellus's eyes.

"That it's me, or who she even is anymore..."

~

Three Days Later — City of Dornel

Joan stood atop the western wall, gazing down at the cheering crowd.

They had flooded the courtyard below the keep.

Not nobles.

Not lords.

Just people.

Farmers, traders, tanners — all of them shouting her name.

"Joan! Saint Joan! Shield of Francia!"

She winced.

She hated the title.

She had never asked for it.

But after the pass, the news had spread like lightning.

Not just that she had won — but how.

The blade.

The glow.

The fact she had struck a Roman commander from his horse with a single blow.

She had done what the Crown, and nobles could not.

She was someone who was originally attached to the Prince, performing good deeds here or there, but now...

Now she was a symbol of Francian resistance, and the people were rallying around her.

Her army which had suffered losses against Romanus, had replenished its ranks and even gained a fair number while at it.

She looked to her hip the cold iron sword that hung there was just like any other sword right now, but from this conflict it had become known far and wide she was a mana blade, one who had potential to become one of the strongest in the world.

Francia's second hero as it were, but given the firsts age it could be said that Francia finally had a successor hero!

But deep down, beneath the fear and the hope and the exhaustion, something whispered in her heart.

Not in words.

But in memory.

A name.

A place.

A feeling that something — or someone — was waiting for her beyond the horizon.

She had no real memory, even her name was a gift given to her by the prince, but she had now become the sword of Francia, defender of the people, and with their expectations she needed to continue the resistance.

She needed to teach the people how to properly fight, how to push back the imperial invaders.

And there would not be much time to do so.

Romanus had been mostly stationary all winter long, but the cold was already starting to lessen, and spring was well on it's way once the natural barriers caused by the snow and cold were gone Romanus would come again with a vengeance and Francia would need to be ready.

Perhaps it would be worthwhile to go to the royal capital and petition the prince or even the king to assign an army to join her own volunteer force to expell the Romans from their lands, only together could they be strong enough to pull this off, but right now...

She was a threat, raising an army without the crowns consent was an act of treason against the state afterall.

Though she never officially formed an army, one had formed around her all the same.

Still without the shackles of the past she had nothing much to fear and only her gut instinct to do whatever she could for the people remained and so, even if it would cause her great pain she would advance to bring the people freedom and justice!

Across what remained of Francia the Divine warrior Saint Joan the hero they needed was more popular a figure than even the King or the national assembly which is supposed to represent the will of the people.

In wartime popularity is a dual edged blade, if the army sides with Joan those in power fear that blade being turned on them, but at the same time that popularity provides morale for those who are being sent off to battles most likely not to return except when Joan is there to save them.