The Betrayal
It wasn’t always like this. Alaric had once walked proudly in Roman sandals. His golden hair marked him as a valued auxiliary soldier in the esteemed Third Gallic Cohort. He deftly handled the legion's spears and auxiliary cavalry, earning respect among the disciplined ranks. He fought as one of Rome’s best until the General betrayed him.
For all the blood Rome spilled, a single order undid him. The culling of his people—the defiance of the Gallic tribes. Words spoken over wine in the legion’s tent blindsided Alaric: "Their fields stink of rebellion. We shall strike not only fear but silence into their hearts. Leave no village standing."
The commander, Valerius Quintillus, gave the order casually, as though the people were no different than the crows that scavenged their fields. Alaric had frozen in that moment. The conflict within him broke into a storm. His loyalty to Rome faltered. His loyalty to his own people surged. He fled that night, stealing his blade and a rooster gifted to the camp by a soothsayer. It was said the creature would crow three times when death approached the one who betrayed its keeper.
The Sisterhood of Shadows
Verdimont lay impossibly silent when Alaric arrived, save for the occasional rush of wind through the pines. The village was nestled in a clearing, its circular dwellings crowned with sod roofs that blended seamlessly into the landscape. Smoke drifted upward from the largest of these structures, a hall where the Druids gathered beneath oak patterns carved into its wooden door.
The Druidess Catira greeted him. She stood sharp and graceful, dressed in robes of natural fabric dyed with the deep hues of berries. Her black hair fell long, with feathers and animal bones braided into the locks. Her clear, fierce eyes took in Alaric slowly before landing on the caged rooster.
“You come bearing omens. Why?” Her voice rang like the low cry of an owl.
“I seek judgment,” Alaric replied. “For crimes done in Rome’s name—and against its will. For sparing your people, but failing to stop the slaughter entirely.” He clenched his fists. “The man responsible, Valerius, grows fat on stolen grain while the soil drinks blood. I want him to fear what storms I bring.”
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment as if measuring his soul. Then she motioned for him to follow her inside the hall. The light of the fire blazed on their faces, casting dancing shadows over walls plastered with ancient runes. The rooster ruffled its feathers uneasily in its cage.
The Judgment
Gathered within the circle of flame-lit Druids, Alaric recounted his betrayal of Rome, his escape, and his evolving allegiance to the rebellion in the woods. The rooster remained eerily silent, its usual crow silenced in the sacred space—a sign considered ominous.
Catira knelt before him, holding a bowl of sacred water swirling with strange herbs and powders. She murmured incantations over it, her lips speaking a language older than the stones that rested beneath the hall.
“You seek the gods’ wrath against Valerius,” she intoned, her voice rising like the hum of a gale. “But revenge is never one-sided. Do you understand? When you summon death, it takes more than one sip from the chalice.”
Alaric had no illusions of innocence. “Let it take whom it may. My cause is just.”
Catira gestured for him to release the rooster. The bird flapped briefly before settling into the center of the circle. Its movements were studied as a sign from beyond. A curious silence fell, the anticipation crackling like static in the air.
When the bird crowed—once, twice, then thrice in swift succession—a gasp swept through the room. Catira’s eyes widened. “The cursed general’s fate is sealed. But Alaric... you have awakened forces you do not yet understand.”
The Reckoning
Days later, Alaric approached the Roman camp under shadow. Cloaked in his Druidic-reinforced resolve, with the rooster’s feathers braided into his tunic’s green hem, he was no longer merely a deserter. He was Judgment incarnate.
Valerius Quintillus, seated at his opulent war table, met Alaric’s icy glare moments before the rooster swooped into the tent, screaming into the silence. The general’s blood splattered the table, more from fate than from Alaric’s blade, but the rebel leader didn’t flinch. The crackling, cursed bird flew thrice around its gasping victim before fading somewhere into the night.
Aftermath
As Alaric melted back into Gallia’s forests, he lived in the new uncertainty of a man who had tipped the balance between the mortal and the divine. The rooster’s shadow followed him always—physically gone, spiritually tethered. But his people? His tribes? They whispered his name as more than a man. He had become a storm that had bent gods and Rome alike to save their sovereignty.
Deep in Verdimont, Catira prepared for the day Alaric’s shadow returned, as the gods never left debts unpaid.
Genre: Fantasy/Adventure
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: What are the Economic Consequences of Germany's Ban on Chick Killing?
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