T

  The field hospital smelled of antiseptic and blood.

  Decian moved through the converted bunker complex, past rows of cots where wounded soldiers lay in varying states of recovery. Canvas partitions divided the space into sections. Medical staff moved between patients with practiced ease, their movements economical and precise.

  He found the critical care section toward the rear. A nurse pointed him to the third partition on the left without needing to ask who he was looking for.

  Livia lay on a reinforced cot, propped at an angle to ease her breathing. Her chest was wrapped in clean bandages, fresh gauze covering the surgical sites where they'd repaired her collapsed lung. Monitoring equipment surrounded her — wires snaked over the wrappings on her chest, an oxygen line was under her nose, and IV tubes ran from both arms. Her face was pale but alert, eyes tracking him as he entered.

  "Tribune," she said, her voice steady despite the careful way she breathed.

  "Livia." He pulled a camp stool beside her cot and sat. "How are you feeling?"

  "Like I got trampled by a warhorse and then shelled for good measure." A faint smile crossed her face. "The surgeons say I'm lucky. The lung could have killed me in the field."

  "It nearly did."

  She shifted slightly, wincing. "Marcus pulled me out. Did you know that?"

  "I didn't." Decian felt something tighten in his chest. "He failed to report it."

  "He wouldn't. Too prideful, our baby brother." Livia's eyes were distant for a moment. "I remember hitting the ground. Then nothing until I woke up in triage two days later."

  Silence settled between them. Decian could hear the activity beyond the partition — low voices, the clink of medical instruments, someone moaning in pain farther down the ward.

  "How's the estate?" Livia asked, breaking the quiet. "Have you heard from home?"

  "Last dispatch said the spring planting was successful. Branch Accardi's holdings are productive this year; the family should turn a profit."

  "Mother will be pleased." She paused. "Father?"

  "Still antagonizing the Senate. He sent word after Alpha. Acknowledging the losses and informing me that he made a formal complaint against Legate Kasio."

  She looked up at that.

  "For ordering the charge?"

  "Aye, he said it was a waste of Testa blood.”

  Livia's expression hardened slightly. "Does Father expect the complaint to succeed, or is he just making noise?"

  "Making noise, most likely. House Kasio holds Consular class; they have sway. But it gets logged. Central Command will see it." Decian exhaled slowly. "Thirteen dead from Branch Accardi gives him standing to complain. Whether it changes anything..." He shrugged.

  "Uncle Lucius was his brother." Livia's tone was flat, acknowledging the fact. "Father's entitled to his anger, even if it accomplishes nothing."

  "Anger doesn't bring them back."

  "No. But neither does silence."

  They moved on to discussing unimportant topics for several minutes. The weather back home. The state of the orchards. Whether the new stable master was competent. Small talk between siblings, the kind of conversation that filled space without touching anything real.

  But Livia could see through it.

  "You're avoiding something, brother," she said finally.

  Decian looked at her. Her eyes were sharp despite the pain medication, that EmberBorn clarity cutting through the fog.

  "Uncle Lucius," he said quietly.

  "I know, Decian." Livia's expression didn't change, but something shifted in her voice. "I'll miss our uncle, too.

  The words were simple. Direct. No sentiment, no drama — just Strata acknowledgment of loss and survival.

  "Thirteen, out of thirty.”

  "We carried the banner forward." Livia's tone was steady. "That's what matters."

  "Does it?"

  She studied him for a long moment before shifting to the harsher dialect of Flame Script spoken in their homelands. "You’re questioning Doctrine now?"

  "No." He said, switching as well. "Never. Just counting the cost."

  "The cost is acceptable. You know that, we all know that." Her voice carried the weight of someone who'd paid it personally. “Our blood bought the position. The Empire advances. Flame burns forward."

  Decian didn't respond. The monitoring equipment beeped steadily beside her.

  "When do you deploy?" Livia asked, moving the conversation along.

  "A week. The reinforcement troops are expected tomorrow. We're moving to Falcon Sector."

  "Will it be Defensive operations?"

  "Yes."

  She absorbed that. "And me?"

  "You're not marching with us, Centurion." He met her eyes. "Your recovery will be months, not weeks. The regiment can't wait."

  Livia's jaw tightened, but she nodded. "I expected as much. When will I be cleared?"

  "The surgeons haven't said yet."

  As if summoned, a medical officer appeared at the partition entrance. Middle-aged, Kindled caste from the tattoo at his throat, wearing the insignia of a senior field surgeon.

  "Tribune," the surgeon said with a brief nod. "I need to examine the patient."

  Decian stood, switching back to senate-standard Script. "Of course."

  He looked down at Livia. "I'll send word when we deploy."

  "March well, little brother." Her voice was calm, controlled. "Bring them home."

  "As many as I can, sister."

  He turned and left the partition. Behind him, he could hear the surgeon beginning his examination, speaking in a low professional tone.

  "—lung is healing well, but you're looking at a minimum of six months before full clearance—"

  Decian kept walking.

  "—families estate infirmary for recovery, then reassessment—"

  Six months. She'd be home while the regiment ground forward.

  He passed through the ward, past wounded soldiers from a score of different houses and branches. Some watched him pass with thoughtless expressions. Others slept fitfully under medication. A few saluted at the sight of his sash from their cots — the mechanical gesture of troops who still had discipline even flat on their backs.

  He stopped to return each salute as he passed.

  Outside, the late afternoon light fell across his face. Decian stopped for a moment, letting the fresh air fill his lungs.

  Tomorrow, the replacements would arrive. Fresh troops to fill the gaps. New officers to learn what command actually means.

  He turned and walked back towards his men.

  Dawn came gray and cold.

  Decian woke in his quarters — a reinforced bunker room behind the command post, furnished with a cot, field desk, and storage locker. He couldn't tell how much sleep he’d gotten. Dreams kept fragmenting into waking moments, pulling him back to consciousness with images he didn't want to examine.

  He never slept much anymore.

  Sitting up, he checked his watch in the dim light. 0530 hours. Early, but not unusually so. He dressed mechanically — undershirt, trousers, uniform tunic, boots.

  His cuirass hung from a nail hammered into the concrete wall, the purple sash of his office hanging loosely along its width. He'd clean it later. First, breakfast.

  The officer mess was a thick canvas tent attached to the command bunker, large enough for a dozen officers to eat without crowding. When Decian entered, only two others were present — Prefect Tiberius Hadrian from the Second Cohort and a cavalry Lieutenant, both eating in silence. They looked up, nodded acknowledgment, and returned to their meals.

  Decian moved to the service line where a Kindled cook stood behind steaming pots and pans.

  "Morning, sir. Eggs and sausage?"

  "Yes."

  The cook filled a metal tray with scrambled eggs, three links of sausage, a hot roll and handed it over. Decian nodded his thanks and took it with him to the large camp stove that held the tea jug.

  Setting his tray on the edge of the stove, he poured the dark liquid into a tin cup, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a small glass vial. The liquid inside was a clear, pharmaceutical-grade stimulant issued to officers for sustained operations. He poured four drops into the tea with practiced precision, capped the vial, and returned it to his pocket.

  Just to stay level. To keep the edge sharp when exhaustion tried to dull it.

  He stirred the tea with a spoon, set it onto the tray, and found an empty table to sit.

  The eggs were still warm, the sausage greasy and salted. He ate efficiently, tasting nothing in particular. Food was fuel.

  The stimulant-laced tea burned going down, familiar and necessary.

  Around him, the mess began to fill as more officers arrived for breakfast. Conversation was muted — professional exchanges, status updates, the quiet rhythm of a unit preparing for another day.

  Decian finished eating, drained his tea, and stood, dropping his tray and cup at the wash station as he left the tent.

  The morning air was sharp, cutting through the smoke that perpetually hazed the horizon. He walked toward where the First Wing was assembling for morning drills. He could see them forming up in the open area between supply depots — less than three hundred troopers. The gaps in formation were obvious. A wing should be five hundred strong, and he was missing a second to back it.

  The reinforcements would arrive later today. But this morning, he drilled with those who remained.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  A grizzled cavalry lieutenant from Bracnh Valen saw him approaching and called the formation to attention.

  "Tribune on deck!"

  Two hundred and eighty-five fists crashed into collarbones in unison.

  "At ease," Decian said, stepping into the formation. "Standard close-quarters drill. Dismounted combat in trench conditions. Lieutenant Valen, run it, if you would."

  "Sir." The lieutenant turned to the wing. "You heard the Tribune! Form up in pairs. Trench clubs and daggers. We're running confined-space engagement."

  The troopers moved with vigor in the presence of their commander, splitting into pairs and retrieving the drill equipment from training racks. Weighted wooden clubs, dulled knives, padded arm guards.

  Stripping to his undershirt, Decian joined them.

  He paired with a young trooper from Branch Martis. The soldier's eyes widened slightly when Decian stepped across from him.

  "Sir, I—"

  "It’s just a drill," Decian said. "Don't hold back."

  They moved through the sequences. Attack patterns, defensive responses, disarms, and counters. The trooper was competent, well-trained, but still hesitant to strike at his XO. Decian adjusted, pressing harder, forcing the young man to respond with full commitment.

  Around them, the wing drilled in synchronized pairs. Lieutenant Valen walked between the pairs, correcting form with a vine stick and calling out errors.

  Decian rotated through multiple partners over the next hour. Veterans who'd fought beside him for years. More star-eyed troopers from the previous reinforcement cycle who were still learning. He worked each sequence without speaking beyond necessary corrections, letting the physicality ground him.

  Sweat soaked through his undershirt. His muscles burned. The stimulant kept him sharp, but the exertion was real.

  This was why he was here. He needed the movement, needed to push his body until the thoughts quieted and only the drill remained.

  After an hour, Lieutenant Valen called the formation back together.

  "Good work. Dismissed to morning duties. Squad leaders, equipment inspection in thirty minutes."

  The formation broke. Troopers moved toward water barrels and equipment maintenance areas.

  Decian grabbed a canteen from the supply rack and drank deeply, pouring the rest over his head. The cold shock cleared the sweat and brought a moment of clarity. Checking his watch, he saw it was already 0700.

  He had an officer briefing in an hour.

  Time to clean up.

  An hour later, Decian stood at the head of the massive table in his command post, cuirass polished, rebreather mask in its mount on the right collar, sash twisted along his waist. Maps covered the surface — sector layouts, supply routes, troop dispositions. His senior officers assembled around the table: two cohort Prefects and their juniors, the lone remaining cavalry Centurion with his Lieutenants, the chief logistics officer, the chief medical officer, the quartermaster, and his adjutant, Cassia.

  Prefect Martis stood to his right — calm competence in his bearing. First Cohort's commander. Reliable. Professional. One of the officers he trusted most.

  "Reinforcements arrive at midday," Decian began without preamble. "Fifteen hundred infantry and nearly eight hundred cavalry are in the column. Integration protocols have already been distributed. I want all units combat-ready within the week."

  He looked around the table. "We deploy to Falcon Sector in eight days for a line rotation. I expect sustained contact and continuous shelling. Our primary objective will be to hold and repel while the legion stationed within that sector conducts offensive operations to stabilize the area."

  Prefect Martis spoke. "My cohort is only at seventy percent strength.”

  "Indeed, and the Second Battalion still needs a new Centurion," Decian said, meeting Cato's eyes.

  He nodded. "I'm aware, sir."

  "One of the incoming Centurions is your nephew from Branch Martis." Decian's tone was neutral, factual. "He's yours."

  Something flickered across Cato's expression — recognition or maybe concern. But he simply nodded. "Understood, sir. I'll integrate him personally."

  "See that you do." Decian shifted his attention to the cavalry officers. "The First Wing is understrength, and our Second Wing doesn't exist at the moment. A new cavalry Centurion and juniors for the Second are coming in the column. I want them briefed and both wings to integrate squadrons. The veterans need to anchor the new troops."

  Decian faced the Centurion directly, “With Centurion Accardi out of service during her recovery, you will now fill in as my second for the First Wing.”

  "Yes, sir," Alexios Hadrian responded, snapping a tight salute.

  The briefing continued for another twenty minutes. Logistics updates, supply timelines, and communication protocols for Falcon Sector. His officers asked questions, raised concerns, and proposed solutions. Professional. Efficient. These were experienced commanders who knew their jobs.

  Finally, Decian straightened. "As I said, they should arrive by midday. Officer assignments will be processed immediately upon arrival. I want all commanders to have integration plans finalized by evening formation. Questions?"

  Silence.

  "Dismissed."

  The officers filed out, some in pairs discussing details, others heading directly to their units. Cato lingered near the entrance for a moment, catching Decian's eye. A brief nod passed between them — acknowledgment, understanding. Then he too left.

  Decian stood alone at the field table, looking down at the maps.

  Cassia appeared at the entrance. "Sir, the assignment files for incoming officers."

  She set a folder on the table and left.

  Decian opened it and began reviewing names, backgrounds, and previous postings. Most were standard, competent officers filling necessary roles. A few stood out. One in particular.

  Centurion Varro Martis Testa. Branch Martis. Command School Graduate — Class of 3112. Previous Service: Three-year mandatory term, 27th Legion, southern provinces. First command posting.

  Cato's nephew. Fresh from Command School, with minimal field experience

  Decian stared at the file for a long moment.

  He could assign Varro elsewhere. Put him in a safer position, give the younger man an easier introduction to command. That would be the personal choice. The considerate choice.

  Cato was reliable. The kind of officer who'd earned his respect through competence, not rank. If Decian gave his nephew an easier posting, he would understand. Might even appreciate it quietly. And if Varro proved incompetent in a less critical role, it would spare Second Battalion the consequences.

  But it would also be drift.

  Favoritism. Sentiment. Exactly the kind of weakness that corroded proper Imperial structure.

  The Second Battalion needed a commander. Varro had the training and the rank. That was sufficient.

  Decian closed the file and set it aside with the others.

  The command post was quiet.

  He sat behind his desk, the assignment folders open in front of him again. Outside, he could hear the faint sounds of reinforcements arriving and integrating with his regiment — sergeants shouting orders, equipment being distributed, the organized chaos of over two thousand fresh troops finding their positions.

  Cassia appeared at the entrance. "Sir, the new officers are starting to line up."

  "Send the Infantry postings first."

  Two Lieutenants entered together — a young man and woman, junior postings, probably fresh from their mandatory service. They saluted sharply.

  "Lieutenants Marcus Valen Testa and Toria Hadrian Testa, reporting for assignment, sir."

  Decian looked up from the folder. "Lieutenant Valen, you are assigned to Second Cohort, Fourth Battalion, taking command of the Nineteenth Platoon. Lieutenant Hadrian, First Cohort, First Battalion, taking command of the Fifth Platoon. Report to your respective Prefects for integration briefings."

  "Yes, sir."

  They saluted and left. Efficient. Professional. No complications.

  Cassia appeared again. "Centurion Martis, sir."

  "Send him in."

  The new Centurion stepped through the entrance, posture straight, scarlet sash bright against his gray uniform. The Martis crest painted across his curriass. Fresh commission written in every movement — eager, confident, untested in command.

  "Sir." He saluted crisply. "Centurion Varro Martis Testa, reporting for assignment."

  Decian looked up briefly. He saw Cato's resemblance in his nephew. Saw the enthusiasm that hadn't been ground down yet. Saw his own younger self, before Alpha-1-3-7 and the countless operations before it. Before the stimulants became routine. Before command.

  Varro stood waiting, probably expecting acknowledgment of his family name, maybe some discussion of his command school performance. Expecting something beyond a mechanical assignment.

  Decian had nothing but that to give him.

  "Martis. Good. You’re to take command of the Second Battalion in First Cohort."

  He pulled a status report from a separate folder. "Your uncle, Prefect Martis, commands First Cohort. Report to him. He'll brief you on integration protocols. Your battalion is currently at five hundred and seventy troops. You’re receiving one hundred and eighty reinforcements from the column. Standard strength is seven hundred and fifty. Get them integrated and combat-ready within forty-eight hours."

  "Yes, sir. Sir, if I may — I wanted to ask about the recent operation you commanded at Alpha. The breakthrough tactics you employed—"

  Decian looked at him fully for the first time. The question grated him. Not because it was inappropriate — tactically, it was reasonable from a new officer wanting to learn. But talking about tactics wouldn't prepare Varro for what actually mattered. It wouldn't prepare him for the weight of sending troops into the field, knowing half wouldn't come back. Wouldn't prepare him for the casualty reports afterward, the names that kept surfacing, no matter how many drops of stimulant he put in his morning tea.

  Command School taught theory. Field command taught cost. Varro would learn. Or he wouldn't.

  "You’ll learn through experience, Centurion. Dismissed”

  He looked back down at his report.

  Varro stood there a moment longer.

  "Dismissed, Centurion."

  Varro saluted — the motion slightly stiff now — and turned to leave.

  Decian watched him go from the corner of his eye before returning the status report to the assignment folder.

  Cassia appeared at the entrance again. "Sir, Centurion Ferro and her wing officers."

  "Send them in."

  Four officers entered — a Centurion and three Lieutenants, all cavalry. The Centurion was older than Varro, seasoned, with the look of someone who'd spent years in the saddle. Forged mark clear on her throat.

  "Sir. Centurion Valeria Ferro Testa, reporting for assignment." She gestured to the officers standing at attention beside her. "Lieutenants Adrian Ferro Testa, Marius Sulla Testa, and Helena Hadrian Testa."

  Decian looked up at them. "At ease. You’re to hold command of the Second Cavalry Wing, Centurion. Coordinate with Centurion Hadrian from Wing One; he will split the current veterans and help you form the squadrons for your wing. Get them integrated by tomorrow evening. Report to the southern depot, your troopers are waiting."

  "Yes, sir."

  They saluted and left.

  When Cassia returned to say all officers had reported, the afternoon light was on the edge of fading.

  "Integration reports are due by morning formation," Decian said without looking up from the maps. "Make sure all commanders understand the timeline."

  "Yes, sir."

  She left. Decian sat alone in the command post. Outside, the sounds of the constant background of artillery from the forward positions continued.

  He pulled the stimulant vial from his pocket, considered it, then set it on the table beside the maps.

  Seven days until they marched.

  Decian found Cato waiting near the equipment depot after evening formation. The Prefect stood with his back against a supply crate, a cardus-leaf cigar already lit, smoke curling up into the dark sky.

  "Tribune," Cato said, offering the cigar case.

  Decian took one, bit the end, and lit it from the match Cato struck. They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the kind that only came from years of shared battles. Around them, the regiment settled into evening routines — fires being banked, guards posting, voices low in the darkness.

  "How'd the integration go?" Decian asked.

  "Smoothly," Cato exhaled smoke. "Most of the fresh faces have at least a few rotations under their belts."

  "Good."

  Cato studied his cigar, then looked at Decian.

  "You shot my nephew's hopes down rather quickly today."

  Decian didn't look at him. "He asked about tactics."

  "And?"

  "Tactics aren't what matters." He took a pull from the cigar, feeling the intoxicating pull of the leaf spread in his lungs. "He'll learn what does soon enough."

  Cato nodded slowly. "His schooling gave him theory. You gave him reality."

  "Someone had to."

  "I appreciate it, sir." Cato's tone was genuine, not ironic. "Branch Martis expects results from the young bloods. Better he understands the weight now rather than when it's too late."

  Decian finally looked at him. "You think he'll manage?"

  "I don't know yet. He's Intelligent. Well-trained. Eager. But eagerness doesn't keep troops alive."

  "No."

  "He needs to earn their respect. The veterans in Second Battalion aren't going to follow him just because he's Branch Martis." Cato paused. "But if he's willing to work for it, they might."

  "And if he's not?"

  "Then the bastards will eat him alive, and I'll request a replacement," Cato said with a snort.

  The bluntness was refreshing. No sentiment, no family loyalty overriding practicality.

  "Fair enough, Prefect," Decian said.

  They smoked their cigars in silence for a few moments. Lights out was called. Somewhere along the line, a flare went up — blue — a routine patrol signal.

  "It's a week till we march. How long are we to deploy?" Cato asked finally.

  "It’ll be a short rotation. Six to eight weeks, depending on how the Legion fares."

  "And the new officers?"

  "Some will adapt. Some won't." Decian exhaled smoke. "The mud sorts them out quickly enough."

  "Branch Accardi took heavy losses at Alpha."

  "Thirteen gone," Decian said quietly. "Out of thirty that rode with me."

  "Lucius was a solid man to have. Your uncle served well."

  "He did."

  "Marcus came through."

  "He did."

  Another silence. The cigar burned down between Decian's fingers.

  "And your sister?" Cato asked.

  "It’ll be six months of recovery at least. She'll be cleared for duty again, but not this campaign."

  "Will she return to the regiment?"

  "Yes. Eventually."

  Cato nodded. "Then Branch Accardi endures."

  "It does."

  The statement hung in the air between them while they finished their cigars. When the last ember died, Cato straightened.

  "I should check on my cohort."

  "Go, my friend."

  Cato nodded once, saluted his commanding officer, and walked off toward First Cohort's staging area. Decian watched him disappear into the darkness, then stood alone for another moment.

  Around him, the regiment prepared for another night.

  Decian sighed and walked back toward his command post. Reports would be waiting. Troop ledgers. Integration updates. Supply requisitions. Equipment logs.

  The machine continues.