"Ought we not to move, Leviticus?" Morom asked. He'd already donned his armour. No doubt he was feeling betrayed that Titus had gotten to grab his glory before him, whilst he'd been busy telling his men to fetch those damnable arrow caches, which now sat in giant piles, unused.
Leviticus did not reply. He was watching, ever so carefully, like an owl sat in the branch of a tree, tracking the movements of the forest. He caught flashes of the chaos behind the front line. Even the initial flash of green. His instinct that this had been a trap once more descended into a manner of uncertainty. For a trap, the enemy seemed awfully willing to sacrifice their own men…
