Aetius stood in the command tent when the rider arrived. The messenger wore Hun leather and carried a leather tube sealed with Roman wax. Inside was Aetius's own order, written three days before, detailing the positions of every legion under his command. Attila had sent it back. Aetius unrolled the scroll slowly, checking for alterations. There were none. The seal had been broken cleanly, read, and resealed with wax stolen from some other Roman dispatch. Every troop position was there. Every supply line. Every weakness in the divided defense he had ordered to protect three cities at once. He set the scroll on the table and looked at the Hun messenger, who met his eyes without fear. The man was not here to negotiate. He was here to deliver a message simpler than words: We know. Aetius dismissed him with a nod. The rider left, and Aetius stood alone with the proof that his enemy had become his mirror, seeing everything he saw, reading every move before he made it. He walked to the tent opening and looked out at the camp. Fires burned in neat rows. Sentries walked their posts. Men sharpened blades and checked straps on armor that had seen too many battles. They trusted him to win because he always had. But Attila had changed the terms. The Hun king wasn't just fast or brutal anymore—he was informed. Someone in the Roman chain had broken, sold out, or been captured. It didn't matter which. What mattered was that Rome's greatest defender now fought blind while his enemy saw everything. Aetius turned back to the scroll on the table. He would need new orders, new positions, new plans written in his own hand and carried by men he trusted with his life. The work of saving Rome had just become harder. He picked up his stylus. The work was all he had left anyway.