The thugs cheered everytime they added a piece of fuel to make the flames climb higher. Their masked faces would warp into something out of an old nightmare with each illumination. The taller flames also lit up Ampelius’ hiding place, shrinking the shadows he clung to. He pressed his back harder against the rusted metal, forcing his breaths slow and steady, doing everything he could to keep from giving himself away.

  Every move the thugs made pulled at Ampelius’ attention. One fed the flames with splintered wood, while another stalked the alley like a panther. It didn’t feel like random looting or mindless destruction, there was some kind intent in the way they moved, something ritualistic in how they circled the fire. Ampelius watched closely, trying to read them, to catch the small details that slipped past the masks and bandannas, like the way they stood, what they carried, any scrap of identity that might give them away.

  Who are these people, and what do they want? he wondered, his jaw tight. The city outside was drowning in panic, yet here, these men moved with unsettling calm, as if they expected this blackout.

  The allway was thick with smoke and the acrid stink of scorched fabric. It made its way down his throat and made his eyes water, but he stayed put, watching. Every instinct screamed to leave, to vanish back onto the street, but another part of him wouldn’t let go. If he could understand what they were doing, maybe he could make sense of the madness swallowing Vetera.

  He leaned in, straining to catch their voices over the crackle of the fire.

  “Have you heard about the Empire’s new tech?” one thug said, his voice muffled by the bandanna. “Crazy how far they’ve come since the old days.”

  “Yeah,” another replied. “There was a time they were nearly finished. Now they’re ruling half the world with that energy tech and their military muscle.”

  A third let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Makes you wonder if they can really hold it all together, though.”

  Ampelius made a mental note of their words away, while a cold knot formed in his gut. If these street thugs doubted Rome’s strength, then its possible their iron grip wasn’t as good as he’d always believed.

  Time slowly bled by as the fire burned, until fresh movement stirred deeper in the alley. Two figures stepped out of the shadows, both dragging something heavy between them. Ampelius’s felt cold when they revealed the limp shape of a body. His throat tightened, and he forced down the lump that was rising there. They hauled this body shaped figure past the fire and dumped it beside a utility pole that was close enough that he could hear the dull thud as it hit the ground.

  Ampelius’s anxiety spiked as he realized that he easily could end up like the body by the pole. His pulse hammered in his ears, but whether it was reckless curiosity or sheer madness, he found himself clinging to the need to know what was happening rather than fleeing into the dark.

  The fire’s crackle drowned most of their words, but one cut through very clear: “Iron Vandal.”

  The name hit him like a spark to dry tinder. For a moment it hovered on the edge of his memory, like a vague and half-formed paper before slamming back into place with every rumor and hushed story he’d ever heard about them.

  Rome viewed the Iron Vandals as nothing more than terrorists, a group that was known as a ruthless and faceless organization that was blamed for every bombing, every ambush, and every act that rattled Roman order in the western hemisphere. But Ampelius knew the stories ran deeper than that. The Vandals didn’t see themselves as criminals; they called themselves partisans, freedom fighters, people that were attempting to push back against what they saw as a Roman occupation.

  Their name carried the historical weight of older rebellions, born from ashes of resistance that had flared and died long before. These generations of resentment had hardened into something more violent. Under Rome’s grip, that fire only grew, as their tactics became more brutal, and their defiance was more desperate, all fueled by the dream of reclaiming what they believed was their homeland.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Emmett had warned him about the Iron Vandals before. They thrived in the shadows, he’d say, fighting with modern guerrilla tactics that made them nearly impossible to pin down. They also loved to strike Roman infrastructure, tear up supply lines, and ambush convoys before disappearing back into the country side. That knowledge of the land was what gave them their edge, what kept them one step ahead of Rome’s armies.

  Ampelius had heard a few stories from his cousin, one such tale of daring raids and explosive ambushes that were whispered by legends among those who hated Rome. Despite every crackdown, the blood Rome spilled to stamp them out, did little to stop their attacks. Their resolve was never fractured, and that persistence alone was enough to give him goosebumps.

  Rome's portrayal of the Iron Vandals as being ruthless terrorists was not without merit. Their attacks often resulted in collateral damage, espeically with innocent lives that happen to get caught in the crossfire. Yet, to the Iron Vandals and their supporters, these actions were the price of "liberation". They saw themselves as freedom fighters, willing to make any sacrifice to reclaim their homeland.

  AAs Ampelius readjusted himself, he thought about their presence in Vetera. That had to mean they had something to do with the blackout, that it was planned. The looting, the body in the alley, all of it was part of a strategy to tear at Rome’s grip. Not that he was complaining. However, this added a new edge of danger.

  The Iron Vandals were unpredictable, ruthless, and utterly committed to their cause. Any encounter could mean death, despite having mutual feelings toward their enemy.

  When Ampelius glanced back at the body on the ground, noting the flex cuffs binding the person’s hands and the potato sack over their head. Initially, he assumed they were dead. This might be a good time to get lost, he thought, feeling a familiar surge of survival instinct. But as the body twitched, revealing faint signs of life, Ampelius was taken aback, a part of him stirring with an instinct to intervene. This might really be a good time to get lost, he thought again. Suddenly, the body twitched and began to move slightly. To his shock, the person was still alive!

  One of the thugs noticed the body twitch and stroded over. They took a knee as they yanked the potato sack free. The fire's light fell across the face of a bald, middle-aged man. His skin was slick with sweat, while his eyes were wide with pain as they locked onto his captors.

  Ampelius’ fists clenched before he even realized it. The sight of the man hit harder than he expected, not just because it was some faceless victim, but a man, alive, and suffering. For a second, the urge to leap out and do something burned hot. His muscles also coiled with the instinct to act, but he forced them still, grinding his teeth as pragmatism shoved its way back in.

  He held his breath while his inner self fought. He felt at the edges of his restraint, but reason pressed heavier, reminding him that one wrong move would only add another body to that alley floor, his own.

  The nearest thug to the body leaned in, shouting something Ampelius couldn’t quite make out over the roar of the fire. The captive tried to answer, as his lips moved, but the voice was thin and ragged, but the crackling flames swallowed every word.

  Another figure stepped forward, with their bandanna pulled high, and jabbed a finger at the prisoner as he joined in on the tirade. Both of their voices rose together in a harsh, accusatory tone, while circling him like predators. Ampelius strained to catch a word, a phrase, or anything that might give him a clue, but the fire drowned it all out, leaving only the sight of anger closing in on a man who had no way out.

  The shouting died suddenly, leaving only the fire’s crackle. One thug reached behind their back and drew a revolver, its barrel catching the light in a cold gleam. They leveled it at the captive with unnerving calm, then jerked their chin in a sharp order to stand.

  Ampelius’ stomach churned as nausea rolled through him. His pulse hammered, every instinct screaming to look away, but his eyes stayed fixed on the scene.

  The thug barked more words he couldn’t hear, arms cutting the air with violent gestures. The captive’s eyes darted frantically, but in the end, he rose as he trembled, while helpless with nowhere else to go.

  Suddenly, everything went quiet. The thug pressed the cold barrel of the revolver against the man's forehead, their finger hovering near the trigger. Ampelius held his breath, the gravity of the situation sinking in as he watched the terrifying scene unfold.

  The gunshot was like a crack of thunder, the man dropped instantly, and spray of blood marked the wall before his body crumpled to the ground. The echo rang out louder than the fire itself. The thug who pulled the trigger laughed, with a sound so cold and empty it made the air feel thinner.

  Ampelius stood frozen, his stomach twisting as he stared at the body sprawled on the ground. The laughter from the murder clung to him even as he forced himself to back away, facing the pull between self-preservation and the faint urge to do something, anything other than just watch.