The cold wind descended between the rugged peaks of the Hernican Mountains, whistling through the cracks and shaking the sparse vegetation clinging to the rock. Under the grayish light of dawn, Septimius Alcarinus Felicior leaned over a rocky formation, his fingers tracing the rough surface as he analyzed its composition. At first glance, it was nothing more than a common vein of quartz and iron, like so many others in those mountains.
However, when he activated his gift, everything changed.
His green eyes, glowing with an impossible light, flashed as reality unraveled into shades beyond human perception. Minerals ceased to be mere inert elements; impurities floated in the air like specks of dust, and the metals hidden within the rock began to shine intensely. Then he saw it: a thin vein of mithril, a metal that did not belong to this world.
Septimius held his breath. On Earth, mithril was nothing more than a myth, something no Roman miner could extract or comprehend. But he could. His Aurea Gens blood granted him an understanding beyond the earthly. He could feel the energy flowing through the stone, hear its silent call.
"Impossible…" he whispered to himself, placing his hand over the vein.
The metal vibrated slightly under his touch, recognizing his presence. With the right tools, he could extract it. And with enough of it, he could forge weapons and armor beyond the imagination of any Roman blacksmith.
But he was not alone.
In the distance, a contubernium of hunters moved like shadows between the underbrush and rocks. They were not mere scouts; they were troops of the 9th Legion, elite warriors trained in stealth and combat with multiple weapons. Their mere presence meant that something else was happening in those mountains.
Septimius remained still, observing them from his elevated position.
Septimius advanced confidently along the hillside, his mind occupied with what he had just discovered. The mithril veins were more abundant than he had imagined. If he managed to extract enough, he could create that. The mere thought quickened his pulse.
As his gaze followed the hidden metallic trace within the rock, his feet stepped firmly over the uneven ground, paying little attention to the low shrubs and tall grass covering the path. He didn't see the collision coming until it was too late.
A warm body crashed into his with force, and they both tumbled down the slope in a swirl of white wool and startled bleats. Septimius felt his cloak entangle as he tried to stop his fall with his hands. Finally, his back hit the ground with a thud, and an instant later, something—or someone—landed on his chest.
"Oof…" he grunted, feeling the weight pressing down on him.
A pair of brown eyes shone with surprise and annoyance above his face. A girl his age, with dark brown hair tousled by the fall, looked at him with a frown.
"By all the gods! Where did you come from?" she exclaimed, quickly moving away as she brushed off her earth-toned tunic, now covered in grass.
Septimius also got up, shaking the dust from the leather armor beneath his traveler's cloak. He had to act discreetly. He couldn't allow anyone in the area to realize who he truly was.
"I apologize, I didn't see where I was going," he replied in a controlled voice, maintaining a neutral accent, far from the refined Latin of Rome.
However, the young woman paused, crossing her arms as she observed him with narrowed eyes.
"You speak well," she commented, almost suspiciously. "Not like those from the Sacco Valley."
Septimius raised an eyebrow, surprised. Most of the peasants he had dealt with spoke a rustic Latin, full of idioms and local twists that were hard to understand. But she… she had a clear speech, with barely any traces of the barbaric dialect that dominated the region.
"And so do you," he said before he could stop himself.
She smiled with a certain pride, but also with mischief.
"Here in the Hernican Mountains, we still speak as our grandparents did," she explained. "Those barbaric tongues they speak in the valleys haven't reached us yet. Nor have those new stories of a single god that some swear is the only true one."
She crouched and picked up her wooden amulet, which had come loose during the fall. Septimius noticed the carved figure on it: the goddess Ceres, patron of agriculture.
"You're a shepherd," he said, more as a statement than a question.
Lucia nodded, stroking the head of one of the sheep that had remained nearby after the commotion.
"And a farmer. I work the fields with my family, though I prefer when it's my turn to tend the sheep. You don't have to bend your back as much, and you can think about other things."
Her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she studied him.
"And you? You don't look like a simple traveler."
Septimius instinctively straightened his back but kept his expression neutral.
"I'm just a merchant looking for opportunities."
Lucia let out a soft, condescending laugh.
"Merchant? You carry no goods. And you don't have a merchant's hands either."
Septimius looked at his own hands, roughened by military training, marked with small cuts and scars. A real merchant would have softer hands, used to counting coins, not wielding a sword.
She noticed his discomfort and smiled, tilting her head.
"But don't worry. I won't tell anyone you're here."
Septimius didn't know whether to feel relieved or more unsettled.
Lucia turned to gather her flock, but before leaving, she cast him one last glance.
"If you're looking for opportunities, traveler, you'd better know where you're stepping. These mountains hold secrets some prefer to keep buried."
And with that, she walked away with her sheep, leaving him with more questions than answers.
Septimius moved through the underbrush like a shadow, his body in perfect sync with the environment. He had been born for war, trained since youth in all the martial arts of Rome: he could wield a sword in formation with the legion, ride both light and heavy cavalry, draw a bow with lethal precision, and stalk like the elite hunters now trailing him. Yet at that moment, his objective was neither an enemy nor prey.
Lucia walked with the ease of one born in the mountains, unconcerned by the hidden dangers in the thickets. Septimius followed her with a predator's grace, his movements calculated, his breath contained. He told himself he did it for strategic reasons. A young woman who spoke clean Latin in a region where the barbaric dialect dominated was no minor detail. Perhaps she had useful information. Perhaps her family had connections he was unaware of.
But deep down, he knew the truth.
He had been captivated by her presence.
His hunters, legionnaires of the IX Legion, accustomed to tracking any target, began to grow uneasy when, in an unexpected turn, they lost the trail of their own tribune. It wasn't the first time they had seen him vanish, but that didn't make it any less unsettling. If someone like him wanted to become invisible, he could.
Septimius followed Lucia as she crossed a small stream and climbed a narrow path. Each of his steps was measured, each breath controlled. Yet, he was still surprised when she, without turning, spoke with a tone of quiet amusement:
"If you're going to follow me, traveler, you might as well walk by my side instead of hiding like a wolf."
Septimius paused for an instant. Then, with an almost imperceptible smile, he stepped out of his hiding place among the bushes and joined her side.