The report was wet.

  Varro stared at the blood smeared across the bottom of the slip — probably from the surgeon when he’d signed off. The ink hadn't run, so the lines were still legible.

  Second Battalion Casualties — Falcon-13 Breach Containment: 32 KIA, 14 WIA (returned to duty), 3 WIA (critical).

  He sat on an ammunition crate near a mortar lane, back against the trench wall, helmet on his knee. Around him, his men conducted morning routines — cleaning weapons, checking equipment, eating cold rations. The normalcy of it felt obscene.

  Six hundred and fifty-two operational. Thirteen percent casualties.

  Acceptable.

  "Sir."

  Alexia appeared next to the crate, moving lightly on the duckboards. She held a folder but didn't offer it immediately.

  "All are squads accounted for. No contact overnight. We got another supply convoy this morning — ammunition, medical supplies, and rations are stocked to operational levels.”

  "Good."

  She sat beside him on the crate, glancing at the casualty report in his hands, saying nothing for a moment.

  "The men are asking about rotation."

  "Three weeks until we’re due. Go ahead and spread the word."

  "Yes, sir." She paused. "You should eat something."

  He looked at her. When had he last eaten? Yesterday morning, the night before that? He wasn't hungry.

  "Later."

  She didn't push it. As she stood, she handed him the folder and walked off toward the Eight Platoon.

  Varro folded the casualty report and tucked it into his field case with the others — Thirty-two fresh names.

  He stood, slinging his rifle, and began walking the line as well.

  Near Seventh Platoon, a fire team sat cleaning their weapons. One — a young soldier completing his mandatory service — looked up as Varro approached.

  "Sir, is it true? Are we rotating out next month?"

  "It's true."

  The relief was immediate. He noticed the others exchange glances, a quiet understanding flickering between them.

  Varro felt some of their relief spreading to him.

  "Keep your weapons close. The Theocrats don't care that we're going home."

  "Yes, sir."

  He kept walking.

  The main line stretched ahead. Everything was in order.

  At the western edge of his section, he found Lieutenant Sulla coordinating a work detail — overseeing some of his troops while they reinforced a section of trench wall damaged by the assault two days ago.

  Faustus saw him and straightened. "Sir. Repairs here should be finished by midday."

  "Good. Make sure the firing step is clear before evening stand-to."

  "Understood, sir."

  Varro looked past the trench toward no-man’s-land. Smoke drifted across the broken earth.

  Three more weeks.

  The reality settled into him properly this time. Three weeks, and he’d be on the transport trains heading south to the Testa homelands. Away from the shelling. Away from the casualty reports. Away from Falcon Sector.

  Home.

  He felt something loosen in his chest a little.

  "Lieutenant," Varro said. "When we get to the homelands, I’d like to share a cigar with you."

  Faustus blinked, surprised, and grinned — the first genuine smile Varro had seen from him in weeks. "Consider it done, sir."

  Varro nodded and walked back towards his crate. The troops were talking now, voices carrying the same cautious optimism he'd heard from the fire team. Three weeks. They'd made it through five. Three more felt manageable.

  When he reached the ammunition crate, Alexia was waiting with a canteen and a ration tin.

  "Eat, sir. That's an order from your adjutant."

  The absurdity of it made him smile as well. He took the tin — cold beans, dried beef, and hard bread.

  It tasted better than it had any right to.

  The wine was decent — much better than the rotgut that circulated through the ranks.

  Cato sat on a camp stool in the small partitioned room attached to Second Cohort's command bunker. Tiberius sat across from him, pouring from a bottle he'd kept stored since deployment — estate vintage from the Hadrian holdings.

  "To surviving another day," Tiberius said, raising his tin cup.

  Cato touched his cup to the other Prefect's. "To surviving."

  They drank. He could feel the tension in his shoulders ease slightly.

  Tiberius touched the fresh stitches running across his cheek and forehead. He’d caught some shrapnel in Falcon-13 while coordinating the response. It was clean work from the surgeons; no infection, minimal scarring expected.

  "You look like horseshit.”

  "Could’ve been worse. At least I didn't lose an eye." Tiberius smiled, the expression pulling at the stitches. He winced but kept the grin. "A few more weeks and we’re on the trains south. Some new scars are a small price to pay for that."

  "How’s your cohort holding?"

  "Battered. We’ve lost a hundred and sixty-four since deployment." Tiberius refilled both cups. "Yours?"

  "One hundred and ninety-seven after the breach. But we held the line."

  "Aye, we all did." Tiberius leaned back against the wall. “The Tribune confirmed our timeline?"

  "This morning. We’ve got a month in our own holdings once we get back."

  "Four weeks home." Tiberius exhaled slowly. “I haven't been back in nearly two years. I miss the wine," he raised his cup in emphasis.

  "Year and a half for me," Cato said. The thought of home settled warmly in his chest — his wife, his sons, the estate orchards in summer. "My wife writes that the orchards are producing well this season."

  "How’s your eldest? He must be finishing his trials soon."

  "He completed Exustus earlier this year. EmberBorn caste, like his mother." Cato allowed himself a moment of pride. "He was offered a course at one of the civic universities. Imperial Law."

  Tiberius raised his cup slightly. "Branch Martis continues its tradition, then. Your line has produced many great minds."

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "We try." Cato took another drink. "And your daughter?"

  "She also completed Exustus recently. Kindled mark. The House is taking her in for resource coordination after her mandatory service."

  "A solid posting."

  "She was disappointed. She’s wanted to be Forged since she was just a babe." Tiberius smiled faintly. "But my wife is grateful it keeps her close to home."

  "I can’t fault her for that."

  They drank in silence for a moment, thinking of home.

  "The feast at the Accardi estate," Tiberius said. "That comes first, correct? Before we scatter to our own holdings?"

  "Aye, it’s tradition. Lord Accardi honors the regiment and our service. We eat well, drink better, and then go to our families."

  "Branch Hadrian will be sending my wife and daughter as representatives. My father is too old to travel that far anymore." Tiberius swirled his wine. "Is your family attending?"

  "My wife and youngest will meet me there." Cato looked forward to seeing them — his wife's sharp intelligence, his young son's eager questions about the intricacies of command and battle. Four weeks would not be enough time, but it would be something.

  "Good. It’s been too long since I’ve had a proper meal that wasn’t rations or field slop." Tiberius finished his cup and set it down. "A month of real food, real beds, no artillery or raids. Then back to this."

  "Then back to this.”

  "Do you ever think about not coming back?"

  Cato looked at him directly. "No."

  "Neither do I," Tiberius admitted, standing carefully. "Strange, is it not? We could request reassignment. Take staff positions on some cozy Legion."

  "We could."

  "But we won’t."

  "No, we won't.” Cato paused, looking for the words. “It's the job, and we do it well."

  “That we do, my friend.”

  Tiberius moved toward the door. "Thank you for the visit, Cato. I should check on my cohort before evening formation."

  Cato stood and clasped his forearm briefly. "Heal well. I’ll see you at the Accardi estate."

  He stepped out into the bunker corridor and made his way back toward First Cohort's section. Outside, evening routines continued.

  Three weeks until home. Until his wife and son. Until the Martis estate and summer orchards.

  Then back to this.

  The thought didn’t trouble him. It was simply the rhythm of his life — war and leave, duty and family, the grind and the respite between.

  He had done this for years. He would do it for years more.

  Decian couldn't sleep.

  Instead, he walked the forward positions under starlight, a tin cup cooling in his hand. He’d mixed a few drops in before leaving his quarters. The routine was automatic now — pour the tea, add the stimulant, drink. It kept him functional.

  Troops on night watch nodded as he passed. He returned the gesture without thinking, checking positions more out of restlessness than necessity. Everything was in order. It always was.

  Three more weeks.

  The thought kept surfacing, no matter how hard he pushed it down. Three weeks until they rotated off the line. Three weeks until transport heading south. Three weeks until home.

  He should feel something about that. Relief. Anticipation. Something.

  But he felt nothing.

  Or maybe he did? And that was the problem. The numbness that had settled over him since taking command was starting to crack. He didn't know what was underneath it anymore.

  Livia would be at the estate.

  That particular thought cut deeper than the rest. His elder sister. One of the few people who could still reach him through the fog. She'd be at the feast, recovered enough to attend but nowhere near cleared for deployment.

  Six months, the surgeons had said. By the time the regiment marched out, she'd only be four and a half months into recovery. She wouldn't be coming with them. She'd have to rejoin later, weeks after they were already back on some front.

  He wanted her there on the march out. Needed her there. But she wouldn't be. The swirling thoughts sat in his chest like a stone.

  A runner appeared from a communication trench some yards away, moving fast.

  "Sir." The soldier stopped in front of him, slightly out of breath. "Legion Command has sent down orders. A diversionary raid has been requested to be executed at 0300 hours in sector Falcon-7-1-4. Legionaries will be launching the main operation farther up the line. They need us to draw attention."

  Decian checked his watch, 0205 hours; he could delegate this. Probably should delegate it. Any of the Centurions could lead a night raid.

  But the thought of sitting in his command post, waiting, thinking about going home and Livia and everything that should matter but didn't—

  "I'll lead it," he said. "Get me a hundred veterans from the reserves. Full raid kit. Assembly at staging point Bravo in thirty minutes."

  "Yes, sir."

  The runner left. Decian finished his tea and turned toward his quarters. The revolver seated under his arm wasn’t the right weapon for a raid like this.

  Mission focus began to settle over him. That still felt real enough.

  He walked into the staging area at 0230 hours and saw his veterans already assembled.

  They stood in loose formation, checking equipment with the quiet efficiency of troops who knew their jobs. No nervousness. No wasted motion. Just professionals preparing for work.

  Decian stepped onto the platform. His rebreather mask clipped at his collar, purple sash twisted around his cuirass.

  "We’re going into the Theocrat’s line," he said, voice carrying across the formation. "The Corps have hammered the section we’ve been asked to hit for the last twenty-four hours. I want a silent approach. Once we’re in, move deep but keep it quiet, knives and clubs only."

  He paused, scanning the faces looking back at him.

  "When the alarm goes up, drop grenades and keep suppressive fire. Questions?"

  Silence.

  "Blacken your gear and check your blades. We move in twenty minutes."

  The formation dispersed. Decian prepared his own kit, sliding his knife out of its scabbard and checking its edge before grabbing a bandolier of grenades and slipping it on. Finally, he dropped the mag of his Spar pistol, slammed it back into place, and cocked it to put one in the chamber; he’d left his rifle behind on the rack, too much weight for close work.

  The stimulant was sharpening everything as it moved through his bloodstream.

  At 0255 hours, the raiding party formed up in a forward trench. Decian looked out across no-man’s-land. For the first time in hours, his mind felt clear.

  "Move."

  They crossed in complete silence.

  His troops glided through the broken earth like ghosts. No talking. Hand signals only. The darkness was absolute, the smoke thick enough to taste.

  Decian led from the front, using shell craters for cover, watching for movement in the enemy line ahead. The artillery had done brutal work — wire barriers torn apart, trenches collapsed in sections, entire firing positions obliterated.

  They reached the remaining wire and began preparation. Cutters worked in silence, snipping through strands one at a time.

  He was the first into the trench, landing silently on duckboards slick with mud. A sentry stood ten feet away, facing the wrong direction, rifle slung over his shoulder.

  Taking three quick steps, he closed the distance. Decian's hand covered the man's mouth as his knife found the gap between helmet and collar. The blade went in clean. The sentry jerked once and went limp. Decian lowered him quietly to the boards.

  Around him, his veterans dropped into the trench. Silent. Professional. Spreading out in both directions.

  They moved deeper into the trenches.

  Another sentry appeared ahead, walking the trench line. Decian rushed him before he could fully turn. Knife to the kidney, then into the throat as he fell. A wet grunt escaped the dying Theocrat's lips.

  His troops moved like shadows around him — knives finding vital points, clubs crushing skulls. Bodies falling quietly into the mud.

  Decian went through it all methodically. A soldier emerged from a dugout entrance — knife under the ribs, twist, pull free. Another sentry at a corner — blade across the throat. A third stumbling from a collapsed section — Decian caught him from behind, hand over mouth, knife through the base of the skull with a hammer grip.

  The stimulant made the world come into focus. Every motion was precise. Efficient. He could see the angles, read the patterns, and know exactly where to step and strike. This made sense. This was real.

  Kill them quietly. Kill as many as you can before they know you're here.

  His troops worked the same way. They pushed fifty yards into the Theocrat position without raising an alarm — bodies left in their wake.

  Decian killed another. Then another. His dagger punched into throats, gaps in armor, and soft points between ribs. Blood slicked his hands. He barely noticed.

  A Theocrat officer emerged from a command dugout, lamp held in front of him. He saw the bodies and opened his mouth to scream.

  Decian's knife flew into his throat before the sound came out. The lamp fell, shattering. Oil spread across the duckboards.

  Someone farther down saw the light go out and shapes moving between positions.

  Within a minute, a warning flare went up.

  Bells. Shouts. Rifle fire erupted from where the alarm was being sounded.

  "GRENADES!"

  The raiding party shifted instantly. Grenades flew into dugouts and bunkers. Automatic fire from SMGs opened up on Theocrats scrambling from cover. The silent infiltration became chaos in seconds.

  Decian moved through it without hesitation. Grabbing his knife from the dead officer, he turned back to his men. His pistol came up as he put two rounds into a Theocrat trying to man a gun nest. Another charged with a bayonet — Decian sidestepped from instinct, drove his blade into the man's side, twisted, and pulled it free.

  The violence was immediate. Absolute. He could feel everything else disappear within the pandemonium. No thoughts about going home. No weight in his chest about Livia. No confusion about what he should be feeling. Just the mission. Just knowing exactly what to do and how to do it.

  Violence was the only time anything made sense anymore.

  His men fought with the same brutal efficiency around him. Grenades. Knives. Point-blank fire. The Theocrat trenches collapsed into panic.

  Decian killed another dog. Then another. His pistol clicked empty. He holstered it, never letting his blade stop.

  Ten minutes were up.

  "CHARGES!" he shouted over the noise.

  Demolition teams moved to bunkers and communication trenches. Planting charges on support beams and entrances. Fuses set for five minutes.

  "WITHDRAW!"

  Signal flares shot into the sky — red, then green. The Imperial artillery resumed immediately, shells flying overhead to hammer the entire surrounding sector.

  The raiding party pulled back in controlled groups, covering each other as they moved.