The Garrison compound sat behind stone walls in Lantis' western district.

  Cato rode at the front of the column as the regiment marched through the gates. Hours had passed since the ambush. Since the executions. Since the message had been sent.

  The compound was Imperial construction — proper stone and mortar, fortified walls twelve feet high with firing positions every fifteen yards. Inside, barracks buildings were arranged in orderly rows. With a central command post, supply depot, and armory — everything a frontier garrison needed.

  Except for functional fucking troops.

  Auxiliary soldiers watched from the barracks and walls as the Testa regiment filed in. Roughly three thousand men and women in worn uniforms, carrying basic bolt-action rifles that looked decades old. No standardized body armor. Minimal heavy weapons. They moved with sluggish energy.

  Cato dismounted near the command post. Tiberius swung down beside him. Around them, the regiment spread through the compound. A Prefect emerged from the command post. Early forties, Forged caste, wearing a cuirass that had seen better days. He saluted as Cato approached.

  "Acting Tribune. Prefect Stravan Levio Lavan, commander of the garrison forces."

  "Prefect." Cato returned the salute. "This is Prefect Tiberius Hadrian."

  Stravan nodded to Tiberius. "Your men can take the eastern barracks. We've kept them clear since we got word you were coming." He paused, turning back to Cato. "Heard about what happened today. The ambush, and the, uh… response."

  "Word travels fast on the frontier.”

  "It does. Quite fast after what you did in the square." Stravan's expression remained professionally neutral. "My men saw the bodies being disposed of."

  Cato studied him. "Your office, if you would, Prefect. We need to coordinate."

  "Yes, sir."

  They walked into the command post. The interior was sparse; map table, filing cabinets, and a desk covered in reports. Stravan gestured to a pair of chairs. Cato and Tiberius sat. Stravan remained standing, hands behind his back, pacing slightly in the space.

  "I'll be direct, sir; my troops are restless. We've been holding defensive positions since we rotated in seven months ago. Taking casualties every week, nothing major, just ones and twos here or there. Mainly its patrol ambushes and supply raids. But my junior officers are hesitant to enforce proper order because the Governor won't authorize offensive operations."

  "Why not?”

  "He thinks negotiation will work. That if we minimize force, the Black Hand will come to terms." Stravan's tone carried frustration. "It hasn't worked. They've only grown bolder. Today's ambush wasn't their first. They've been hitting us consistently since the veteran cohorts rotated out shortly after our arrival."

  Tiberius leaned forward. "What's the state of your forces? Equipment, morale, leadership?"

  "Demoralized, most are commoners, just service levies completing conscript rotations. In terms of equipment, basic bolt-actions, a few carbines, and two heavy weapons squads total. Nothing like what you brought." He gestured toward the window where Testa troops moved through the compound. "Your regiment has better equipment, better training, better everything."

  "We are House Testa's primary regiment. I prepared for the trip."

  "I noticed." Stravan moved to the map table. "As to leadership, The Black Hand operates in cells. Different warbands under different commanders. Not truly organized but effective when they want to be. They hit us, then disappear into the population. The locals won't inform on them — either because they're sympathetic or because they're terrified."

  Cato stood and joined him at the map. Lantis spread across the table — districts marked, garrison positions noted, known Black Hand activity highlighted. "How many cells?"

  "Unknown. Estimates range from fifty to seventy across the city. More in the surrounding Territory." Stravan tapped a section of the map. "We think they've been stockpiling weapons here. A lot of the supply convoys they hit are for ammunition along these lines; they’re getting fed information."

  "And it’s coming from inside one of the garrisons.”

  Stravan looked up sharply. "Sir?"

  "You have a leak. Someone tipped the Black Hand about our arrival. That ambush was coordinated with our entry. They knew we were coming, and from where."

  Stravan's jaw tightened. "You're certain?"

  "The commander I interrogated confirmed it. Someone in the militia garrison or yours is feeding them intelligence."

  "Fuck. Do you know who?"

  "Not yet. I'll be handling the investigation personally." Cato met his eyes. "In the meantime, get your juniors in line and your troops back to proper order. I need the Auxiliaries functional. We're going to be hitting these bastards back, and I can't do it with demoralized conscripts watching from the walls."

  "Understood, sir." Stravan hesitated. "Permission to speak freely?"

  "Go ahead."

  "The executions today. The public display." Stravan's tone remained neutral. "It was effective. Brutal, but effective. But the Black Hand won't let it stand. They'll respond, and soon."

  "I'm counting on it. Let them respond. We'll crush the response and keep pushing. Eventually, they'll realize the cost is too high."

  "Or they'll double down."

  "Then we keep escalating until they break." Cato straightened. "This is what we do, Prefect. We came here to restore order. That's what will happen."

  Stravan nodded slowly. "Yes, sir."

  "Good. Coordinate with my staff. I want a full assessment of your troops by tomorrow morning. Who's reliable, who's not, which junior officers need replacing. We'll integrate command structures and begin joint operations within the week."

  "Yes, sir."

  Cato turned toward the door, then stopped. "One more thing. The leak investigation stays quiet. Don't mention it to anyone outside this room. Not your officers. Not the Governor's staff. No one. Understood?"

  "Understood."

  Stravan saluted. Cato and Tiberius left the command post and stepped back into the compound. Around them, the regiment continued settling in.

  Tiberius spoke quietly. "He's competent."

  "He is, but his hands have been tied. The Governor's been running this operation into the fucking ground."

  "And now you're fixing it."

  "Now we're fixing it, my friend." Cato looked across the compound toward where the governor's villa rose beyond the walls. "Next problem on the list. Let's go meet the man responsible for this mess."

  They walked toward the gates, an honor guard falling into step behind them.

  The villa sat down the street from the garrison compound, near the militia barracks in the Imperial district.

  Cato walked the street with Tiberius and the honor guard. Afternoon sun beat down on proper paving stones. Around them, the western district kept its Imperial character. Straight streets. Proper drainage. Buildings that followed regulatory designs. The only part of Lantis that looked like it belonged to the Empire.

  Militia troops watched with darkened eyes from their barracks as the Testa honor guard passed. Local soldiers in Imperial-style uniforms that didn't quite fit right, holding varying generations of Strix pattern bolt actions.

  They reached the villa's entrance. Two militia guards stood at attention. One knocked on the door as Cato approached.

  A steward appeared, bearing Altian features and wearing formal robes. "Acting Tribune. The Governor is expecting you in his office."

  Cato nodded. The steward led them through corridors decorated with paintings of local scenes and scattered with documents. The villa seemed to function as both a residence and the Territorial headquarters.

  The steward stopped at a door and knocked. "The Acting Tribune, Governor."

  "Send him in."

  Cato entered. Tiberius followed. The honor guard remained outside.

  The office was larger than Stravan's command post but no less cluttered. Charts covered one wall. Ledgers were stacked on shelves. A desk filled the center, covered in reports and correspondence. Behind it sat Governor Levian Fallan Ravon.

  The Governor looked to be near his sixties and carried the bearing of a man who'd spent decades in staff positions rather than field command. He wore formal robes with the territorial governor's insignia — a political appointment dressed in administrative authority.

  He didn't stand as Cato entered. Instead, gesturing to chairs across the desk. "Acting Tribune. I heard about the ambush."

  Cato sat. Tiberius remained standing near the door. "Word travels, Governor."

  "Yes, it does, especially when you execute sixteen prisoners in public and dump the bodies in a bloody bog." Levian's voice carried heat. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The unrest that's going to cause?"

  "I sent a message.”

  "You started a fire." Levian leaned forward. "I've spent nearly a year trying to de-escalate this situation. Nine months of building relationships with moderate elements in the population. Showing them the Empire can be reasonable. That cooperation is better than resistance."

  "And in those nine months, how many of your patrols were ambushed? How many convoys hit? How many casualties did your garrisons take?"

  Levian's face hardened. "We were managing the situation—"

  "You were losing." Cato pulled a sealed copy of his orders from his cuirass and tossed them on the desk. "High Command didn't send me here to continue your management strategy. They sent me to restore order. Read it yourself."

  Levian picked up the orders, breaking the seal. His expression darkened with each line he read.

  "These give you operational command of all Imperial forces." His voice went flat. "Including my militia."

  "Correct."

  "The militia answers to the territorial administration. They're civil defense forces under my authority—"

  "They're Imperial troops, and they answer to me now. You can keep administrative control of the Territory. But military operations are mine alone."

  "This is insane." Levian stood, hands flat on the desk. "You walk into my Territory, slaughter prisoners before the population has even processed what happened, and now you're taking my command authority? Do you understand what you're doing? You're going to turn every moderate in this city into a fucking Black Hand sympathizer."

  "The moderates aren't your problem, Governor. The Black Hand is your problem. And they've been making you look weak for months because you've been too afraid to remind them of Imperial power."

  "I've been trying to avoid turning this into a bloodbath—"

  "It's already a damn bloodbath! Your troops have been dying for six months with no response! From my position, you haven't even attempted to make it stop."

  Levian's face flushed. "I have twenty-five years of experience on the 75th Legion's command staff. Ten years as their chief tactical advisor. I know how military operations work—"

  "You know how to plan campaigns from a headquarters tent. You do not know how to handle a coordinated resistance." Cato's tone had dropped back to level. "If you did, the Black Hand wouldn't have ambushed my regiment the moment we entered your city."

  "Because your heavy-handed approach is exactly what they want! You give them martyrs, you give them propaganda, you give them proof that the Empire is a brutal occupier—"

  "The Empire IS a brutal occupier. That's not propaganda. That is a fact. And the faster the population understands that, the faster they stop helping the Black Hand kill Imperial soldiers."

  Levian stared at him with the same shocked expression. "You're going to get people killed. Civilians. Innocents. Any Imperial citizen in the Territory will be at risk, military or not."

  "People are already dying. Your way just makes it slower." Cato stood. "Governor, I'm not here to debate tactics with you. High Command gave me operational authority; you have read the orders yourself now. That means I decide how we prosecute this campaign. You can object all you want, but unless those orders get countermanded, this is how it works. Petition the Senate if you disagree."

  "When this blows up in your face—"

  "Then I'll deal with it. But until then, stay out of my fucking way." Cato picked up the orders from the desk. "You're good at administration. Focus on that. Let me handle the fighting."

  Levian's hands clenched. "The militia—"

  "Will be integrated into joint operations under Crucible command. Their officers will coordinate with my staff. They will participate in offensive operations under proper leadership." Cato's voice hardened. "You don't get a vote on this, Governor."

  Silence stretched between them.

  Levian sat back down slowly. "Fine. You have operational command. But when your brutality creates more problems than it solves, when the population turns completely against us, when this Territory becomes ungovernable — remember I warned you."

  "I'll remember." Cato turned toward the door. "I am going to need daily reports on territorial administration. Supply status, trade convoys going to or from Xerxes, and any civil issues. You can coordinate with my adjutant."

  "Anything else?"

  "Yes. If you hear anything about intelligence leaks, informants, or suspicious activity in your staff or the militia, you report it to me immediately. We confirmed someone tipped off the Black Hand about our arrival. Until I find who, everyone's a suspect."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Levian looked up sharply. "You think someone in my administration—"

  "I think someone with access to troop movements and schedules warned them we were coming. Could be the Auxiliary garrison. Could be the militias. Could be your staff." Cato met his eyes. "Until I know who, I trust no one. Including you."

  The Governor's face went white. "You're accusing me—"

  "I'm telling you there's a leak. And until it's found, everyone's under suspicion. Operations will start by the end of the week. Stay out of my way."

  He left the office. Tiberius followed. The honor guard fell into step as they exited the room.

  Tiberius spoke quietly once they were outside. "That could have gone better."

  "It didn’t need to, I just needed to be clear."

  "He's going to fight you on this."

  "Let him try. He doesn't have the authority, and he knows it." Cato looked back at the villa. "He's spent months trying to negotiate his way out of a guerrilla war. Now we do it my way."

  They walked back toward the garrison compound.

  Tomorrow, the real work would begin.

  The walls were quiet.

  Cato stood on the western rampart with Tiberius, looking out over Lantis in the midday sun. It was market day. The main square of the western district was packed — Imperial citizens and local subjugates moving between stalls, haggling over produce, cloth, and made goods, the normal rhythm of the city when things were calm.

  "Looks almost peaceful," Tiberius said.

  "It won't last."

  Cato watched the crowd a hundred yards away. Somewhere in that mass of people, Black Hand fighters were planning their next move. "Yesterday's executions sent a message. They'll have a response."

  A woman laughed at one of the stalls. Two children ran between carts. An old man carried a basket of fruit toward the exit into the other districts.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Cato saw them.

  Five figures in long coats pushing through the crowd. Moving wrong. Too fast. Too focused. Heading directly toward the main gates of the compound.

  "CONTACT—"

  The first bomber broke into a sprint.

  The MG crew stationed outside the main gates opened up with barking fire, sending heavy rounds tearing through the air. The bomber was hit three times, but momentum carried his body forward three more steps before the vest detonated.

  The blast wave hit Cato like a fist. Stone dust and smoke billowed up from the street where the man had just been. His ears rang. Screams erupted from the market.

  Without pause, the second bomber was already running straight into the smoke. The third sprinting off to the right.

  "ALL POSITIONS, ENEMY IN THE MARKET—"

  Another detonation. And another. The MG nest disappeared in fire and shattered stone. Part of the wall crumbled around it. Bodies — soldier and civilian alike — scattered across the street in pieces.

  Then the mortars started.

  The first shell hit the supply depot's roof. Cato felt the impact through the rampart stones. Fire bloomed. Another shell slammed into the armory's eastern wall. Then the barracks. Concentrated fire patterns, timed and methodical.

  "Get down—"

  Tiberius pulled him below the rampart lip as another mortar screamed overhead and impacted somewhere in the compound behind them.

  Gunfire erupted from the street, rounds impacting into the walls.

  Cato looked over the edge.

  Black Hand fighters poured in from the square, rushing to the ruined front gates. At least a few hundred. Armed with rifles, tossing firebombs as they ran, and supported by multiple heavy weapon crews posted in nearby buildings. They had timed it perfectly — bombers clear the gate, mortars suppress response, infantry exploit the breach for maximum damage.

  And in the compound below, chaos.

  Testa troops were already moving into defensive positions — squads forming up, grabbing weapons, establishing fields of fire. But the Auxiliaries were scattering. Running between buildings. No coordination. No leadership. Just panic.

  "For fucks sake." Cato grabbed his radio. "All Testa units, defensive positions. Hold the compound. Auxiliaries—"

  Another mortar shell hit. Closer this time. The rampart shook.

  He looked down into the compound again. The Auxiliaries were worse than useless right now. Thousands of troops were doing nothing while his regiment held the line.

  He had to get them organized.

  "Tiberius, coordinate from here. Get our cohorts into proper formation. I'm going down."

  "Sir—"

  "Just do it—” he pointed to the chaos below, “—they’re breaking."

  He dropped from the rampart and hit the ground running.

  The compound was a fucking disaster.

  Cato sprinted between buildings as mortars continued to fall. The supply depot was fully ablaze now, flames pouring from the collapsed roof. The armory's wall had a hole punched through it. Auxiliary troops ran past him in both directions — some toward the fighting, most away from it.

  He stopped one of those fleeing by the shoulder. A young soldier, eyes wide with terror.

  "Where's your sergeant?"

  "I don't— I don't know, sir—"

  "Then find him. Get to your barracks and form up with your unit. NOW."

  The soldier nodded and ran. Cato kept moving.

  A heavy weapon opened up somewhere near the front gate. Black Hand, from the sound. Probably dragged a crew-served MG into the square after taking out the Imperial nest. Return fire barked from Testa positions —- controlled bursts, disciplined. But there weren't enough of them to stop its roar.

  Cato reached the central yard where most of the Auxiliaries had clustered. A thousand troops stood around like lost children while the compound burned and the enemy pushed closer.

  "FORM UP!" His drill voice cut through the chaos. "Squads on me! NOW!"

  Some turned. Some just stared.

  He grabbed the nearest officer, a Centurion by the sash at his waist. "Get your battalion together. I want a defensive line facing the front gates. Move!"

  The Centurion hesitated.

  "MOVE, OR I'LL SHOOT YOU MY-FUCKING-SELF!" He pulled his pistol in emphasis.

  That got through. The officer started shouting orders. Other Auxiliaries began responding, forming loose ranks.

  More mortars hit. One struck near the eastern barracks, another in the open, ten yards from where Cato stood. Shrapnel screamed past.

  He kept organizing. Pointing squads toward positions. Directing fire teams to reinforce Testa troops at key points. Physically shoving soldiers who weren't moving fast enough.

  Ten minutes. It took ten full minutes to get them functional.

  By the time Prefect Lavan appeared — running from the command post with blood on his cuirass — the Auxiliaries were finally holding a coherent defensive line.

  Stravan stopped beside him, breathing hard. "Sir, I—"

  "Your troops scattered. I’ve got them back in order. Now keep them there."

  "Yes, sir." Stravan looked around at the organized positions, something like relief crossing his face. "Thank you."

  "Thank me by making sure they don't break again." Cato keyed his radio. "All positions, status."

  "Front gates are holding. We pushed them back from the initial breach."

  " —back gate is under pressure. They're trying to flank—"

  “—depot is fully engulfed. We're evacuating what we can—"

  The back gate. Cato turned to Stravan. "Get to the other side. Make sure that gate holds."

  "Yes, sir."

  The Perfect ran. Cato moved toward the front, where the fighting was heaviest.

  The Black Hand had established positions in buildings around the square. Rifle barrels bristling from windows. The crew-served MG they'd dragged into the square was finally put down, but the ones in the buildings were still tearing chunks out of the compound walls.

  He reached the shattered front gate. Centurion Lucan was there, hiding behind a chunk of wall and coordinating First Battalion's response. Bodies were scattered in the square beyond — Black Hand fighters and civilians mixed in the carnage.

  "Status?"

  "We're holding, sir. They hit hard, but the cunts couldn't sustain it. Most are holed up in the buildings now. Some are still trying to push from the east." Lucan gestured toward the supply depot, still burning. "We need that fire out before it spreads."

  "I'll handle it." Cato looked out at the square. The Black Hand's momentum had stalled, but they weren't retreating. They’d dug in, popping off shots and waiting.

  He keyed the radio. "Centurion Martis, report."

  "Here, sir."

  "Take Sixth Platoon. I want you out the gates. Break their positions in the square and push them back. Kill the fighters, but bring me sympathizers if you can."

  Static. Then: "Understood, sir. Moving now."

  Cato turned to Lucan. "When Martis deploys, give him covering fire. Keep pressure on the heavy weapons."

  "Yes, sir."

  The radio crackled again. "Testa Actual, back gate. We repelled the breach attempt. They're pulling back."

  “Copy, hold your positions in case they come back.”

  Cato moved away from the gates toward the burning depot. Supply staff were hauling crates out of the building, trying to salvage what they could before the whole structure collapsed. The regimental medical officer had set up a triage station nearby — wounded were being treated in rows, some screaming, some already still and silent.

  He counted bodies as he passed. Nineteen local troops dead so far. Three Testa. More were wounded.

  The armory wall had a hole punched clean through it. The structure was damaged, but the building was still standing. They could repair it.

  Behind him, gunfire intensified at the front of the compound.

  His nephew was moving out.

  Varro led the Sixth Platoon through the crumbling front gates.

  One hundred and fifty troops behind him, splitting into fire teams as they hit the square. The crew-served MG behind an overturned cart sat silent now, its crew torn apart by fire from the compound walls.

  Rifles still cracked from the buildings.

  "Keep it low!" Alexia pointed toward three structures where muzzle flashes strobed from upper windows. "Third and fifth squads, with me!"

  She took half the platoon left. Varro took the remainder straight toward the nearest building — four stories, wooden construction on a stone foundation, every window shattered from suppressive fire during the assault.

  He called his fire team up while sending the rest of the unit on ahead with a wave of his hand. Ten soldiers formed a line at the entrance. Two carried shields — the rest had rifles up and grenades ready.

  They went through the door fast.

  The ground floor was torn apart. Furniture shredded, walls pocked with bullet holes, spent casings rolling under Varro's boots as he moved. There was blood on the floorboards leading to the stairs. Fresh. Someone had dragged themselves up.

  He gestured. Two soldiers took point, moving up the stairwell with weapons raised.

  "Second floor clear!"

  Varro followed them up. The third-floor landing was worse — a dead fighter leaned against the wall, stomach ripped open by rounds that had punched through the window and kept going. The body was still warm. Blood pooled beneath it, dripping through gaps in the floor.

  The fourth-floor door was closed. Varro could hear movement behind it — furniture scraping, someone breathing hard.

  His men didn't wait. Corporal Cassius kicked the door and pushed through with his shield leading.

  A fighter stood behind an overturned table, rifle coming up. Varro shot him in the chest. Two bursts barking out in less than a second. The man's body jerked backward and hit the wall, sliding down and leaving a red smear on the plaster.

  He saw movement in the corner. A middle-aged Altian woman stood there unarmed. Her hands came up slowly. Controlled. Not panicked like someone caught in a firefight should be.

  "Don't move." Varro kept his rifle on her while his team spread through the floor, clearing the rest of the floor.

  One of his soldiers appeared in the doorway to his right. "Sir, two dead in the other room. We found an MG nest. There’s brass all over the fucking floor. Gun’s still warm."

  Varro didn't lower his weapon. The woman stood perfectly still, watching him. Her dress was clean. No dust, no blood. She hadn't been cowering during the assault.

  "Search her."

  A soldier moved forward and patted her down quickly. His hand stopped at her waist, beneath the fabric. He pulled out a pistol — small caliber, worn grip, with a loaded mag.

  Varro stepped closer. "Why do you have a firearm?"

  "For— for protection—"

  "Non-militia subjugates are barred from carrying weapons. You know that." He looked past her toward the room where the MG nest sat, then back. "They set up a fucking gun nest in your apartment. And you let them."

  "I didn't— they forced me—"

  "Don’t lie to me, Altian. You had a fucking weapon, and no harm came to you. You weren't forced." Varro's voice stayed level. "You’ll hang for your support.”

  Her expression flickered. Just for a second. Then she looked down.

  "Bind her hands," Varro said. "She's coming with us."

  Two soldiers moved forward. The woman didn't resist as they tied her wrists behind her back; her eyes stared at the floor, tears silently streaming down her face.

  Varro grabbed his radio. "Fourth-floor clear. One detained. Let's move to the next building."

  They descended through the blood-smeared stairwell and back into the street. The gunfire had dropped off — just scattered shots and distant shouts coming from deeper in the district. His other teams were pushing east, clearing buildings block by block. The Black Hand was finally in retreat.

  Varro led his team two blocks deeper. Another building, another entry. This one had a weapons cache in the back room — two rifles leaned against the wall, ammunition crates were stacked in neat piles, and three firebombs sat in a pile on the windowsill. No fighters remained inside. The fireteam torched the ammo as they left.

  The next building had resistance. Two rebels barricaded on the third floor, firing through the doorway as Varro's team positioned at the second-floor landing. Rounds chewed into the walls around them. Cassius got his shield up, absorbing impacts while another soldier pulled a grenade, cooked it for two seconds, and tossed it up the stairs.

  The blast was muffled. Then nothing but a soft whimper came from the top.

  They advanced up the stairs and cleared the room. One of the fighters was already dead, shredded by shrapnel in the confined space. The other couldn't have been more than sixteen and was crying softly to himself while cradling a ruined arm. Varro walked over to him and put a bullet in his skull.

  He turned and headed back down without saying anything.

  By the time his platoon rallied at the square, the shooting had stopped completely. His squads filtered back in groups. Most had been engaged multiple times, scattered contacts across ten blocks, before the remnants of the Black Hand melted into the rest of the city.

  The fourth squad reported finding a mortar position two blocks east. Four fighters set up on a rooftop, all dead now. The mortars were slag — destroyed with thermite grenades that were still smoking when they left.

  The third squad had found another cache. The fifth detained two more suspects — men who'd been in buildings where MG nests operated, both claiming they'd been forced to shelter the fighters.

  One of Varro's soldiers was dead. Private Senna from the second squad — killed by a round to the throat during a clearing. She’d bled out before they could get pressure on it. Three others were wounded but still walking.

  Fifty-two Black Hand fighters had been confirmed killed in the operational area.

  The radio crackled. "All Second Battalion units, recall to compound."

  Varro pulled his squads back through the square. Two more platoons passed them, heading out — cleanup sweeps pushing into an adjacent district where the insurgents had fled to after the initial assault.

  The compound was still chaotic when he returned, but organized now. Medical staff worked triage near the command post. Supply teams battled the depot fire, with black smoke pouring into the afternoon sky. Engineers with measuring tools assessed the collapsed armory wall. Auxiliaries finally stood in proper defensive positions along the ramparts, shame written on every face.

  Cato was near the command post with Stravan and Tiberius, bent over a map. Varro approached and waited.

  The Acting Tribune looked up, his expression loosening. "Varro, Report."

  "We had heavy resistance for the first three blocks, sir. After that, they started to break off into the city." Varro gestured toward where a group of his men held the three detained suspects. “Fifty-two insurgents KIA. My men found two weapons caches and destroyed a mortar position. No Black Hand taken, but we have three suspects detained — all three were found in buildings where gun nests had been set up, the woman also had an illegal firearm."

  "Good." Cato's voice was flat. Anger underneath, controlled but present. "Casualties?"

  "One dead. Three with minor wounds."

  Cato turned to Stravan. "Final count?"

  "Twenty-four Garrison troops dead. Six Testa. Twenty-six wounded total." Stravan looked exhausted, his voice carrying shame. "The armory wall has collapsed completely. The depot's still burning. Latest estimate is thirty percent supply loss, maybe more."

  "They hit us directly," Cato’s voice was barely a whisper. Fury beneath every word. "Suicide bombers in a civilian market. Heavy weapons set up a hundred yards from our garrison. Mortars on the fucking compound itself."

  "They have more support than we assumed," Tiberius said.

  "It would seem so, Prefect." Cato turned back to Varro. "Good work today, nephew. Get your platoon rested and re-supplied. I need your battalion ready. Expect orders by morning."

  "Yes, sir."

  Varro saluted and walked toward where the platoon was recovering near the western barracks. Behind him, he could hear his uncle already organizing the next operation — coordinating interrogations of the detained suspects, planning repair schedules, setting patrol routes for tomorrow.

  The anger in the Acting Tribune's voice was clear now. This wasn't just harassment anymore. The Black Hand had assaulted an Imperial garrison directly — they were willing to die in a civilian market and take everyone nearby with them to make their point.

  This campaign was going to be uglier than anyone had anticipated.

  Varro reached his platoon. Alexia stood with the squad leaders near the barracks entrance, redistributing ammunition from crates the supply staff had brought up.

  "You did well today, all of you. Get your troops fed and in their bunks by nightfall. We're back out tomorrow."

  The squad leaders saluted and dispersed. Alexia remained, watching the compound work to repair itself.

  "Sir, that woman you detained. You think she was actually involved?"

  "She had a pistol. In a building where Black Hand fighters set up a nest. And she hardly reacted to a man dying ten feet away from her." Varro looked back toward the command post where Cato stood over the map. "Either she was involved, or she's the unluckiest civilian in Lantis."

  "And if she wasn't involved?"

  "Then she shouldn't have had an illegal firearm."

  Alexia nodded slowly and walked away towards the barracks.

  Varro stood alone for a moment, thinking about the boy with the ruined arm.

  The Black Hand had shown its hatred.

  Tomorrow, the Empire would remind the city of the cost of such actions.