Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The thaw had passed.

The mud was firming, the roads stabilizing, and with the first full week of sun-drenched days since winter's grip released its hold, the war resumed in earnest.

Romanus no longer advanced like a single spear.

It surged now like a tidal wave — split, channeled, reinforced.

The Empire had bled through the snows, but never paused.

It had waited.

And now?

It was hungry again.

~

Eastern Front — La Morienne

Trumpets rang through the morning fog like jagged teeth scraping iron.

The eastward sun slashed red across Julius's field table as riders thundered down the slope, delivering dispatch after dispatch from the flanks.

His gloved hand hovered over the map, tapping a point south of the river Sepraine.

"The 13th has linked with the 11th. Push begins in two days."

Sabellus stood nearby, his face pale from lack of sleep.

"And the corridor?"

"Still secure,"

Julius answered without looking up.

"The eastern bulge remains open, and Saint Joan's forces have retreated far enough north to buy us two weeks' breathing room before we see her again."

Sabellus exhaled through his teeth.

"She's alive, then."

"Regrettably."

Julius rolled a pebble over the stretch of red markers he'd used to represent Joan's army, now frayed and scattered.

"She learned. She'll be better next time, more dangerous, but we still need to capture her alive!"

"But she also lost half her army as a result of the battle."

"Which means she'll be twice as dangerous with the half that remains, while to Francia even escaping with only half is still a victory compared to how the nobles battles wound up with us, thousands more will flock to her banner."

He straightened and signaled the order: march.

The renewed westward push was no longer a question of if.

It was time to begin the second phase of the eastern invasion — to sweep further west, link with Elheat, and deliver what remains of Francia the final killing blow.

"Move the 7th and 8th Cohorts across the Greyplain. Begin sapping around the ruins of Rouesse. And dispatch a rider to the envoy in Germania. If they want in, now's the time."

~

Elheat's Front — West of Caedonne

Elheat, ever the hammer to Julius's scalpel, did not wait.

With two fresh legions at his back, he rode like a storm across the middle southern territories, where the fields were flat and wide and the villages sparse.

Smoke clung to the skies where resistance had flared — and fallen — and his men had begun to call this phase The Clearing.

But this time, the land did not yield as easily as before.

The King's decree had taken root.

~

Village of Dorneau

The battle had been short but vicious.

Francian levies — barely trained, half-armored, but fighting with religious level zeal — had ambushed Elheat's advance party in the woodline, felling officers with crossbows and boiling oil dropped from forest platforms.

Elheat himself had taken a blade to the shoulder fending off a charging militiaman, the young boy's eyes wide with madness as he screamed

"For Joan!"

and drove his sword forward without care for life or limb.

The Iron General bled, but he survived.

The boy did not.

Later, bandaged and seated near a captured well, Elheat addressed his officers.

"They've learned something,"

he muttered, wincing as his arm was re-wrapped.

"Strategy?"

one asked.

"No."

He shook his head.

"Desperation."

They would fight harder now.

Die harder.

Francia had rallied under its King's banner — and Joan's myth.

And that made them dangerous.

~

— The Envoy to Germania

The hall was cold, even as spring warmed the lands beyond its walls.

Inside, two fires burned low in iron braziers, and the scent of old wine and damp oak filled the air.

The envoy from Romanus — dressed not in military red, but in the soot-gray robes of the Root's diplomatic order — waited as the Germanian Speaker of War descended the dais.

"You come with offers,"

the Speaker said in clipped High-Tongue.

"Not offers,"

the envoy corrected.

"Opportunity."

A murmur passed through the assembly.

"Romanus is conquering a continent."

The Speaker's eyes narrowed.

"And bleeding while it does so."

The envoy gave a thin smile.

"Better to bleed moving forward than rot due to standing still."

A moment passed.

Then the envoy unrolled a scroll — gilded edges, Imperial seal — and laid it across the stone table between them.

Julius's handwriting.

Treaty of Iron Accord — Proposal.

Germania shall act in mutual interest to secure and absorb all holdings of Achaeia before the summer's solstice.

Romanus will not interfere with the Germanian claim to the Goldmounts, the border mines, or the Blackwater Forts.

In exchange, Germania will commit two legions of mercenary auxiliaries to the Francian campaign — one for the eastern front, one for the western.

And Romanus retains all seized coastal territory for the Empire.

Upon victory, Germania receives exclusive trade priority across the new Romanus-held coast, and conquered lands.

The Speaker stared at the signature for a long time.

Then spoke a single word:

"We'll think on it."

The envoy bowed.

And left.

~

Romanus-Western Front — The Line Stalls

By the fourth week of the new campaign, Elheat's march began to slow.

Towns no longer fell with ease.

Local garrisons, reinforced by newly armed levies, had begun erecting fire walls, digging trenches, and deploying mobile crossbow platforms — crude, but effective.

Romanus siege wagons burned near the village of Chevraix, and several hundred soldiers were lost in a single night when Francian partisans detonated the central bridge with pitchbombs stolen from their own fallen men.

"This isn't the same war,"

Elheat admitted.

"No,"

his captain said grimly.

"It's the real one."

But the Iron General did not break.

He turned his army toward the cities.

He wouldn't waste time on villages anymore.

~

Eastern Front — The Drive West

In the east, Julius's plan was taking shape.

The corridor remained fortified — unbreached.

Saint Joan had fled south, now equal distance from Julius in the East, and Elheat in the south.

And now the road to Bellenne and Valricon lay open.

But Julius was not sprinting.

He moved his legions like a spider setting threads — careful, deliberate, ensuring no part of the web was too thin.

He dispatched scouts to flank through the kingdoms interior, where Francian deserters had begun rebuilding shattered watchtowers under the command of Joan, rather than the kingdom itself.

He sent diplomatic agents to small cities that had not yet chosen a side, offering food, safety, law.

Some accepted.

Others resisted.

All paid the price.

~

Romanus High Command — La Morienne Encampment

Sabellus watched the sun fall across the treeline.

He turned to Julius.

"Joan hasn't moved since the southern pass."

"No,"

Julius murmured.

"She's waiting."

Sabellus sighed.

"For what?"

Julius didn't answer.

Instead, he traced a finger along the map — a long curve from east to west.

"She's the spirit of their war,"

he said at last.

"Amaury is the sword. The King, the crown. But she's the soul."

He looked up.

"We cut her off. She'll retreat. But if we capture her…"

Sabellus nodded.

"The war might end."

"No."

Julius stared into the firelight.

"But it will begin to hurt them so much more than everything we've done until now."

~

Free Francia — Near the Wastes of Caron

Saint Joan stood at the edge of a ridge, her cloak wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes distant.

Below, new recruits sparred — farmers, merchants, servants.

Their hands blistered.

Their backs raw.

Their faces hollow.

But they fought.

Because they believed.

Because she stood with them.

"Report from the east,"

Morn said, handing her the scroll.

She read it.

Then another.

And another.

Finally, she spoke:

"Romanus moves again."

"Yes."

"They push from the south. While the emperor from the east. And Britannia from the north. We are being crushed on all sides."

Morn waited.

Then asked,

"What do we do?"

Joan's hand touched the hilt of her sword.

It hummed beneath her fingers — faint, but clear.

"We stop being hunted."

She turned.

"And become the hunter instead."

~

From Three Fronts, the Fire Spreads

Romanus did not falter.

Elheat pushed from the coastal plains, burning cities that dared to resist.

Julius, methodical as always, advanced through the heartland, bringing the weight of empire behind every footstep.

And in the north, Britannia dug in, daring Amaury to come, waiting defensively to give their old rivals a bloody nose before grabbing up some lands before watching them fade to history.

Francia was burning.

But it was not yet broken.

And deep within its heart, the soul of resistance stirred again.

Saint Joan rode at dawn.

Not to survive.

But to strike back.