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The night sky above Gamma Cephei IV glittered with a thousand newly arrived stars as the Imperium Romana's star fleet hung in orbit around the planet. The Cepheian homeworld smoldered with the ruins of a hundred cities until only the massive metropolis-fortress carved into the planet's north pole remained, its hypervelocity shields rendering it impervious to planetary bombardment. The bellicose and unrepentant Cepheians had left the Romans only one option: to crack the city defenses the old ways. Salvhi's boulevards of shining metal were a-swarm with legionaries and Cepheians as the armies clashed for control of every building and every street. The city's innards blazed with scorching luminescence as the hard light rounds of the Roman pila stitched the air with the plasma bolts of the Cepheian long-guns.

In the tallest of Salvhi's spires stood the God-King Xotha'il, looming in his throne room while the last bastion of his army burned. His Royal Guard lay slaughtered on the cold stone floor, their corpses intermingled with those of the Romans that had broken into the inner sanctum of Gamm Cephei's Most High Lord. Xotha'il towered over his foe, the only living Roman in the room, by a whole meter. With skins covered in coal-black scales and long, reptilian heads, the enormous Cepheians had more in common with vipers than with men, although the two species shared one trait: cunning. The Cepheians had launched an attack at Alpha Centauri under the pretense of trade negotiations in the hopes of driving the spearpoint of their starfleet into the Sol system, but the Romans' quick defense posturing stalled the Cepheian advance and steadily pushed the serpentine invaders back to their home system.

That was less than a year ago. Now they were whittled down to one city, their armies and fleets winnowed and ground to dust beneath the heel of the advancing Roman forces. Soldiers like the Roman before him had brought the Cepheians to heel. The Roman's armor was utilitarian in contrast to the King's; the ultrasleek segmentata harness with a gleaming hint of an energetic shield, burnished greaves and bracers of an officer, and a helmet with a broad, ear-to-ear crest of wavering crimson. The Roman's face was hidden beneath a reflective mask of metal; half red for the god Mars, half black for the god Dis. The Emperor girded himself in armor woven from threads of gold as befitting his station, a tall plume of green rising from his crowned battle-helmet that made him appear even taller than he already was.

Both figures had expended their main weapons in the heat of battle, leaving the Roman with his gladius and scutum and Xotha'il with the spear of his ancestors, a weapon that had united his people in an age long lost to Cepheian history. The spear gleamed wetly with blood, as did the soldier's sword, but neither figure moved to renew combat. It was if both had only come to the realization that the other was still there and still alive, had only just realized that the fight was not quite over.

“Tell your warriors to surrender and they will be spared,” said the Roman, his voice muffled by the metal grotesque obscuring his features, “We've cracked your fortress wide open and every Legion on this planet is converging here. If you don't surrender, everyone in this city will be put to the blade.” The God-King responded with a lightning lash of his spear, using it like a bludgeon to smash the haft headlong into the legionary's shield. The shield's energetic disc cackled to life as it absorbed the incoming blow's force, but even then the God-King's offensive was strong enough to throw the Roman across the room, sending him crashing through a finely wrought statue on his way to the ground.

The masked Roman was up and moving again without missing a beat though, a potent cocktail of combat-chems coursing through his veins and driving the pain and stiffness out of his battle-weary limbs. The two warriors met in the center of the room, the Roman's gladius limned with a corona of energy as it clashed against the sparking shaft of the Cepheian's spear. The serpentine king back-pedaled furiously but he couldn't put any distance between himself and the Roman – his opponent dogged after his every step, sword-arm pumping furiously, raining blow after blow down on the Cepheian.

Xotha'il took advantage of his opponent's over-zealousness, one end of his spear flashing out under the rim of the oval-shaped scutum to knock the air from his foe's lungs, the bladed end following suit a split second afterward, sending the Roman reeling for a moment. The edge of the spearhead had shorn the mask from the Roman's helmet, leaving a deep gouge in the top of the helmet where it had nearly managed to find purchase in the man's skull. The Cepheian waded in, thrusting with his again with his spear, but the disoriented legionary slipped clumsily beneath the attack, swiping out desperately with his sword.

The gladius's blade, sheathed in a cascade of white-hot energy, parted the golden weave of armor that the God-King wore, biting into the black-scaled flesh beneath. Sinew and bone parted effortlessly as the sword cut its way through the Cepheian leader's belly, leaving a smoking, gaping evisceration where a sheet of glittering armor and scaled-flesh had once been. The Roman soldier stumbled past, ripping his sword free from the wound as he wobbled away from his fatally wounded opponent. Xotha'il, God-King to the Cepheian race, the last of an unbroken dynastic line reaching back millenia, collapsed with a wheezing, wet rasp, curling up spasmodically on the floor. The Roman, turning back to regard his foe's death throes, sheathed his blade and disnegaged his scutum with a shudder of fatigue. Five days of spilled blood and gore stained his armor and clung to his skin. Five days of furious veneration of Mars, of singing the wargod's praises as he and his men went about their gruesome work. The end of Xotha'il meant the end of any organized resistance by the Cepheians; without their idolized leader, they had no figurehead to rally to. The battles raging in the streets below were just an afterthought to a war that had just ended.

The Roman flipped the panel of his right bracer open, revealing a small screen and an array of keys. The comm system crackled with interference as it came to life, smatterings of chatter jumbling into his ears as he tapped into the Legion's communication network. “Legate Septimus of the First Luna Legion reporting in. Operation Glycon is complete. Requesting medicus support to Prime Spire immediately. Broadcast immediately on all Roman and Cepheian frequencies: The God-King is dead. The Snake-God is no more.”

Trudging over the corpses of Romans and Cepheians alike, the Legate peered out of the glasteel fixture into the streets below. Septimus could almost see it – the message going out across the airwaves, lighting up the Cepheian comm frequencies with terror and panic, the battle lines shifting as any hope for Cepheian independence crumbled. Just like the Alpha Centaurians. Just like the Cygnians. Each had raised their swords against the Imperium Romanum, and each had been laid low. Legions carried the Roman banner outward from the Sol system, reaching out further and further into the Milky Way. Some aliens negotiated but most fought. All of them eventually came under the aegis of Rome. The Legate peered up into the sky, looking past the glimmering underbellies of Roman starships at the real stars above and wondered: how long before they were stamped with the glory of Rome?