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.
