350 A.D. – The Eastern Front, near the Danubian Frontier
The wind howled across the desolate fields of the Dacian borderlands, where the frostbitten earth cracked under the weight of dying men's boots. Smoke blackened the sky, rising from villages reduced to ashes. Charred beams jutted out like broken ribs, remnants of homes that once echoed with laughter. Crows circled above, feasting on the grim offerings of war.
The world was ending once more.
In the valley below, a fierce skirmish unfolded between the weary remnants of the Roman auxiliaries and a barbarian warband of Gothic tribes. Shields splintered. Spears pierced flesh. Horses reared, their screams lost in the cacophony of chaos. The ground was soaked and crimson, drinking deeply.
And at the center of it all stood a man whose name would fade into obscurity.
Castiel Vaughn fought like a cornered beast. His armor bore the scars of too many battles, and his short sword glistened with blood, not all of it belonging to his foes. A deep gash marred his left forearm, where rusted iron had met soft skin, but he hardly felt it. Blood loss blurred his vision, yet instinct propelled his movements. He roared as he cut down a Gothic warrior lunging for his commander, severing the man's arm at the elbow. The attacker screamed, collapsed, and was trampled into the mud.
"Regroup!" a voice cried from the rear, part command, part desperate prayer.
But it was futile. The Roman lines had shattered hours ago. There was no formation left, no rank or discipline. This was no longer a battle; it had devolved into a slaughter.
Castiel turned toward the crest of the hill, searching for an escape. Smoke and fire danced above the trees his village. His wife. His son and his daughter. The boy was only six.