The Mojave cooled fast once the sun dipped behind the hills, the heat bleeding out of the sand like a bad memory. The camp was quiet—too quiet—just the soft crackle of a dying fire and the distant hum of night insects brave enough to exist out here.

Cassidy was already awake. She usually was.

She sat on a crate with her rifle across her knees, hat tipped low, eyes scanning the dark. Old habit. Good habit. You didn’t survive caravans, raiders, and the NCR’s special brand of stupidity by sleeping easy. She took a pull from her flask, then glanced toward the bedroll across the fire.

The Courier slept like the dead. No twitching. No muttering. Just still.

That was what bothered her.

Cass leaned forward, squinting. Firelight flickered across the Courier’s chest where their jacket had fallen open slightly. Something glinted—wrong shape, wrong shine. Metal, but not NCR stamped, not some scav junk either.

She stood, boots crunching softly in the sand, and crouched beside them. Careful. Respectful. She nudged the jacket aside just enough to see it clearly.

Her stomach dropped.

A coin. Old, heavy-looking. Gold-colored but worn smooth from fingers and time. It had been punched through and strung on a leather cord, resting against the Courier’s skin like a brand that could walk.

Cassidy didn’t need to touch it to know what it was.

A bull, stamped deep and proud. Beneath it, letters burned into the metal:

LEGIO CAESARIS

Caesar’s Legion.

Cass exhaled slowly through her nose, the way you do when anger and fear show up holding hands. “Son of a bitch…” she muttered.

Legion denarius weren’t just currency. They were messages. Warnings. Claims. The Legion didn’t mark people by accident—and they sure as hell didn’t do it gently. Which meant one of two things: either the Courier had dealings with Caesar… or the Legion thought they owned them.

Neither answer sat well.

Cass reached out, lifted the necklace just enough to feel its weight. Cold. Solid. Real. Not something you woke up with by coincidence.

She looked back at the Courier’s face—peaceful, unaware—and for the first time since she’d met them, Cassidy felt something close to unease crawl up her spine.

Whatever road the Courier had been walking before the Mojave spat them out… it had crossed the Legion.

And the Legion never forgot.