5:27 hours later, 7.4 miles northwest, 03:29 p.m. — Northern Shoreline, Cossyra Island
The Mediterranean sun blazed overhead, its light scattering across the restless blue waters and the bronze-ribbed hulls of the Roman warships anchored offshore. Along the crescent beach, legionaries and sailors hauled timber, tent poles and bundles of provisions through the surf as shouted Latin commands carried across the wind.
From the shadow of the forest emerged Hyrax, his men advancing behind him in disciplined formation. Each carried a crate of dark weathered wood, dull knocks of ceramic vessels echoing from inside. Hyrax’s gaze drifted past the familiar Roman quadriremes and fixed upon the monster anchored farther out at sea.
The vessel dwarfed everything around it.
A Roman Deceres.
Its immense hull rose from the water like a floating fortress, layered banks of oars stretching across its sides beneath reinforced timber and bronze plating stained by salt and war. Crimson Republican standards snapped from towering masts above the deck.
Only a commander of enormous influence could justify bringing such a vessel to an island like Cossyra.
Hyrax slowed as smaller boats ferried milites and supplies between the shore and the Deceres. Guards stood watch near the landing points between the three vessels, watching the shoreline with disciplined stillness while legionaries hurried around them.
A flicker of relief crossed Hyrax’s mind, there were no grotesque creatures clung to their faces. These men were clean, untouched by the horrors that still haunted his thoughts.
One of the Roman guards stepped forward, raising a hand to halt the Spartans.
“You there, Spartan leader,” he called in smooth Latin, his sharp gaze settling on the crates. “What do your men carry?”
Hyrax halted his men with a curt gesture, stepping forward to meet the guard’s gaze. “Spoils of war,” he said plainly, gesturing to the boxes. “Commander Cinna sent us to deal with a villager—a beast of a man who had the audacity to bring down an entire Roman legion. We crushed him, as ordered. On our return, we found a village abandoned and brimming with treasures—wine being chief among them. A fitting reward for loyal service, don’t you think?”
The guard’s eyes lingered on Hyrax for a moment before shifting to the boxes. “Treasure indeed,” he said, his voice measured, neither approving nor questioning. “And your return is timely.”
Hyrax narrowed his eyes, his arms crossing over his chest. “You’re not part of Cinna’s command. What command do you and your men belong to?”
The guard smirked faintly. “We’re assigned to safeguard a senator of Rome. He has arrived to oversee certain matters. Delicate matters.”
Hyrax’s brow furrowed. A senator? Here? The significance struck him instantly. Men of the Senate rarely left Rome, and rarer still was one willing to stand so close to a battlefield.
The guard stepped aside, signaling his men to allow passage. “Good day, domine.”
Hyrax gave a curt nod, motioning for his men to proceed toward the gangplank of their warship. His eyes lingered on the towering third vessel as they marched. The presence of Roman councilmen here raised questions, questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answered.
3:46 p.m. — Medicus Quarters, Dominatus Maris Deceres, Northern Shoreline, Cossyra Island
The room, though practical, exuded an air of Roman precision. Brass sconces flickered with light, casting warm, golden glows across the stone floor. Sleek, polished tables were arranged in neat rows, each manned by skilled medical staff, tending to the wounded. The walls were adorned with charts, medical scrolls, and fresh herbs, but the ambiance was not one of peace. It was a place of action, designed for the swift care of soldiers, both Roman and allied.
Epicrates awoke with a sharp intake of breath, the pressure of the bandages wrapped around his chest and arms almost suffocating him as he tried to move. His head swam with confusion, and his body felt as though it had been through the fires of war. For a moment, his thoughts were muddled, drifting through fog, but then the blur cleared and he saw the face of a man standing beside his bed—only the man’s face was not like any doctor Epicrates had encountered. The man’s skin was pale, and wrapped tightly across his face was a living, writhing creature, its black, glossy body curling and squirming as if it were a part of the man’s very flesh.
Epicrates screamed in horror, bolting upright. His legs tangled in the blankets, and he nearly toppled out of bed. His breath came in ragged gasps, heart pounding like the beat of a war drum. His eyes widened in terror as he saw the creature’s tendrils stretch toward him, its eyes glimmering like polished obsidian.
“By the gods—what is that?!” he shouted, panic overwhelming him.
Two nurses, one with a creature wrapped around her face and the other free of such horrors, rushed to his side. The nurse with a creature on her face placed a calming hand on his shoulder, while the other one stepped back, her eyes wide with alarm at his outburst.
“Tribune, please, calm yourself!” one nurse pleaded, but Epicrates, in his panic, lashed out, his mind reeling.
“They’re monsters! What are these abominations?!” he screamed, eyes darting around the room. His gaze swept the quarters, and to his shock, he saw more creatures—on the faces of other medical staff, and even a few patients. The monsters were everywhere. The room, once a place of healing, now felt like a nightmare, a den of twisted, unholy creatures.
He recoiled, his hands clutching the side of the bed to steady himself. His body trembled, and he could not stop the rising sense of dread that clawed at him.
One of the nurses hurried from the room, rushing down the corridor. A moment later, the sound of heavy boots echoed outside the quarters, and the door swung open. Two guards, their armor gleaming under the torchlight, rushed in and seized him, pulling him roughly from the bed. He flailed against their iron grip, shouting incoherently, his mind a whirl of confusion and terror.
“By the gods! What madness is this?” Epicrates cried, but his words were drowned by the clamor of the guards, dragging him down the hallway.
Suddenly, the group came to a halt. A familiar figure stood before them: Virgilius, his presence commanding the guards to stop and listen.
“Release him,” Virgilius said firmly, his voice unwavering. “I have orders to take him from here,” His eyes, steely and focused, met Epicrates’s gaze, and for a moment, the officers’s fear faltered. He saw no creatures on Virgilius’s face, no twisted parasites clinging to his skin.
Epicrates hesitated, his mind still racing. “What is this? Where am I being taken?”
Virgilius gave a reassuring nod. “You are being escorted to your chambers. You need rest, sir. The worst has passed. Trust me.”
The guards, though reluctant, complied, releasing Epicrates into Virgilius’s care. The two guards moved down the hallway, and as they did, Epicrates’s mind slowly began to clear.
He turned to Virgilius, disbelief etched across his features. “I thought you were dead, struck down by that wild old man.”
“We were struck down, but not slain,” Virgilius whispered, “I have much more to tell you—about the creatures that you see.”
Epicrates’s confusion deepened. “You can see them too?”
Virgilius nodded solemnly. “Indeed, and soon our brothers will too.”
4:01 p.m. — Grand Triclinium, Dominatus Maris Deceres, Northern Shoreline, Cossyra Island
The banquet deck glowed beneath the mingled warmth of sunlight and flickering torchfire. Long tables groaned under the weight of golden platters overflowing with roasted meats, fruits, and exotic delicacies. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings of warriors and gods, shields hanging alongside polished swords. Servants in ornate tunics darted between tables, offering wine in bronze containers, the aroma rich and intoxicating.
Nikandros and Hyrax stepped into the hall and were met by a short, bald crewman who bowed slightly, greeting them before escorting them to their seats. Nikandros’s eyes swept the room, scanning the faces of soldiers, nobles, and warriors alike. Across the table, a few chairs down, Virgilius and Epicrates sat side by side. Virgilius’s posture was calm, controlled, but Epicrates… Epicrates looked like a man who had seen a ghost. His wide eyes flicked from one corner of the hall to the other, hands tight against his knees, every movement taut with unease.
“I hope he can keep it together,” Hyrax murmured, his gaze lingering on Epicrates.
“Hope who can keep what together?” Queen Bleeda asked, her head resting lightly in her hand, eyes sharp. She and one of her top warriors sat directly across from Hyrax and Nikandros, studying the pair with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
Nikandros felt a small chill despite the warmth of firelight, a creeping unease that threaded through the laughter, chatter, and clinking of goblets.
The sound of the great doors opening cut cleanly through the noise. A hush followed—subtle at first, then total.
All eyes turned as a man entered. He was well into his sixth decade, yet carried himself with a quiet and unshakable authority. A simple tunic showed beneath his dark cloak, its broad purple border marking him as a man of senatorial rank. At his side stood two stern lictors. They held their fasces, the traditional bundled rods and axes of Roman law, as unmoving as statues. Just behind him, a tall, sharp-featured scribe followed with a rigid posture and a disciplined expression.
Every man and woman in the hall rose to their feet.
The Senator paused, taking in the room. Then, with a humble gesture of his hand— “Please,” he said, his voice calm but carrying effortlessly across the chamber, “be seated.”
No one moved.
He smiled faintly. “It is I who should stand for you,” he continued. “For men and women such as yourselves, who bleed and toil at the edges of the world so that Rome may endure. So sit, eat and be honored.”
Slowly, the room obeyed.
Virgilius’ eyes narrowed as he scanned the senator and his men. All four… clean. No creatures on their faces.
For the first time since the tea, he felt calm. Yet next to him, Epicrates was quietly unraveling. The officer’s eyes darted. Servants. Cooks. Guards lining the walls. Faces—Covered. Everywhere. The creatures pulsed and shifted, their tendrils curling and tightening with subtle, sickening rhythm.
His breathing grew shallow. Gods… how many…? A hand nudged him. Virgilius’s. Subtle. Firm. A look—stand up.
Epicrates blinked, wiping sweat from his brow as he forced himself upright. After a moment spent steadying his breath, he turned to Hyrax. “Navarch,” he began, his voice touched with strain, “I am told you secured a rather rare consignment of wine.”
“Hhm… yes,” Hyrax replied, stroking his beard. “We uncovered a cache of Falernian—sealed amphorae, left untouched likely since the first war with Carthage.”
A few murmurs stirred across the table.
“Falernian?” Praefectus Hadrianus leaned forward slightly, brows lifting. “After so many years? Surely the seals—”
“The wax has held,” Hyrax cut in evenly. “Not a single amphora compromised.”
“Hmm,” Legate Cinna muttered, folding his arms. “If it dates back to the first war… that would place it at, what—twenty-two, perhaps twenty-four years?”
“Right at its height,” the Senator added, lowering himself into the central seat between Nero and Hadrianus. “A rare fortune indeed.”
“Then we are in the presence of something extraordinary,” Epicrates said, forcing a smile. “A treasure such as that deserves more than delay. Perhaps we might open a few containers now… and offer a proper libation.” He glanced around the table. “To our victory here… and to the campaigns yet to come.”
“You Romans are talking me sober.” Bleeda snorted, raised her bronze cup, and brought it down against the table with a dull clang. “Open the damned jars already.”
Hadrianus turned to Nero. “Shall we have the jars brought forth? It would serve well to honor both our guests—and the moment.”
Before Nero could answer—
“Do it,” the Senator ordered, raising a hand lightly. “You have all earned such indulgence.” His gaze swept the room. “And it would please me greatly to share it with you.”
Nero gave a short nod and gestured sharply toward the servants. “Bring forth the amphorae,” he ordered. “And quickly.”
Servants moved at once, disappearing into the lower decks.
5:33 hours earlier, 7.4 miles southeast, 10:28 a.m. — Set’s Cabin, Magna Vulcanus Crater, Cossyra Island
The cabin pulsed with activity. Hyrax’s men moved in disciplined rhythm through the cramped interior, sealing clay vessels of wine with wax and passing them hand to hand down long lines that stretched from the hearth, through the doorway, and into the yard beyond. Outside, more Spartans worked around stacks of round wicker crates, carefully packing the bottles for transport.
The sharp scent of herbs and heated wine lingered thick in the air.
Near the center of the cabin, Nikandros and Virgilius stood watch while Set and Hyrax prepared the final batch of tea-infused wine. Steam curled from the mixture as Set poured it carefully into waiting vessels before wax seals were pressed into place and the containers disappeared down the line of waiting hands.
“Will this be enough for two warships?” Hyrax asked, tossing back a small cup of the remaining concoction.
“It will have to be,” Set replied. He wiped his hands clean against a cloth before moving toward the doorway. “Come. We should walk and discuss a few contingencies.”
5 hours later, 7.4 miles northwest, 4:16 p.m. — Grand Triclinium, Dominatus Maris Deceres, Northern Shoreline, Cossyra Island
Legate Cinna stood at the head of the long table, raising a goblet of aged Falernian beneath the wavering torchlight.
“To victory. To the spoils of war. And most importantly,” he declared, a faint grin touching his weathered face, “to wine carried across generations of conquest. True liquid history.”
He tilted the goblet slightly, the dark crimson wine catching the firelight like blood polished in gold. Around the chamber, officers, nobles, and warriors lifted their cups in thunderous agreement.
The senator began to rise to speak, but a violent cough seized him mid-breath. His body jerked sharply as wine spilled from his goblet across the table. One of the stern guards beside him staggered soon after, clutching at his throat as another coughing fit overtook him.
Then the room began to change.
Men and women all throughout the chamber suddenly lurched forward gasping, their bodies convulsing as horrific wet shrieks echoed through the quarters. Hands clawed desperately at the grotesque creatures fused to their faces.
Epicrates watched in stunned disbelief as one of the black, bloated things began shriveling directly against the face of a wine server. The creature convulsed violently, its slick tendrils tightening around the man’s skull before rapidly curling inward like dying roots cast into flame. A terrible screech escaped the thing as it peeled away from the server’s face in a spray of dark fluid and collapsed twitching onto the deckboards.
All across the chamber, more of the creatures began dying.
They writhed. Screamed. Fell away.
Men who had not truly drawn breath on their own in years collapsed to the floor coughing violently as their lungs struggled to remember life without the parasites attached to them. Others wept openly between ragged breaths while blackened carcasses of the dead creatures slid across overturned platters and shattered goblets.
But the senator did not change.
Nor did the two guards beside him.
They continued coughing violently, yet nothing peeled from their flesh. No creatures shriveled against their skin. No tendrils loosened.
Virgilius’ expression darkened instantly.
“The windows!” he roared.
He and Nikandros surged through the panicked crowd toward the three great stern windows lining the chamber. Along the way, they swept cloaks and forearms through the torch stands, extinguishing flame after flame.
Darkness spread rapidly through the quarters.
A final torch hissed out.
The chamber vanished into blackness as coughing, screaming, splintering wood, and the wet death-cries of the creatures swallowed the ship whole.
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