The gallows stood where they had been constructed an hour earlier in the market square.

  Varro watched from the edge of the crowd as Imperial troops assembled the condemned in a line. Seven Altians, hands bound behind them, nooses already looped around their necks. The scaffolding creaked under their weight as they were positioned.

  He wasn't on duty. He didn’t even really need to be here. But something had pulled him from the barracks this morning when word had spread.

  The woman stood third from the left.

  Middle-aged. Altian features. Silently crying to herself, just as she did a month ago, when one of his men pulled the pistol from her waist and walked her down the blood-soaked stairs.

  She'd claimed innocence then, and again at the tribunal. They hadn't believed her.

  Varro hadn't either.

  The crowd pressed closer — Altian subjugates kept at bayonet distance by a cordon of Auxiliary troops. Some faces showed fear and grief. Others carried that same quiet hatred he'd seen for weeks now. No one spoke. The square had gone silent except for the creak of the gallows.

  An Imperial officer stepped forward. Centurion Navan, one of the garrison commanders. He held a parchment and read from it in Senate-Standard Flame Script, voice carrying across the space.

  "By order of Imperial Tribunal and the authority of Acting Tribune Cato Martis Testa, the following have been convicted of material support to armed resistance against the Dominion of Flame. The sentence is death by hanging.”

  He read their names. Altian names Varro didn't recognize, except for one — Zelrexia Vex.

  Navan folded the parchment and stepped back.

  The executioner moved to the lever.

  Varro's hands squeezed into fists at his side. He'd seen men die before. Hundreds of them. In trenches, in bunkers, in close-quarters fighting where he could smell their blood and hear them choking on it. This shouldn't have felt different.

  The lever pulled.

  Seven bodies fell. Ropes snapped taut. Some died instantly — necks breaking with audible cracks. Others kicked and thrashed, strangling slowly as the nooses tightened. Zelrexia jerked a handful of times and went still. Her eyes stayed open, staring at nothing.

  The crowd continued their silent observation.

  Varro stood there longer than he intended to. Watching, memorizing the woman's face. Thinking of when he'd told her she'd hang.

  He turned and walked away before the bodies were cut down.

  The mess hall was half-full when he entered.

  His troops occupied most of the tables — off-duty soldiers eating breakfast, talking in low voices, soaking up the precious downtime they had. The month in Lantis had worn on them; it could be heard in the muted tones of conversation, and seen in the downcast eyes all around.

  Varro grabbed a tray and moved through the line: porridge, local flatbread, weak tea.

  He found a table near the back and sat.

  "Centurion, may I join you?"

  He looked up. Prefect Hadrian stood with his own tray, gesturing to the empty seat across from him.

  "Of course, sir."

  Tiberius sat and started eating without ceremony.

  "You were at the executions?”

  "I was."

  "The woman you detained, she hung today?"

  Varro nodded. "Third from the left."

  Tiberius ate in silence for a bit, then set his spoon down. "A dispatch rider brought the post from Asana this morning. The House won the Blood-Debate."

  The words took a second to process. Varro had known the Debate was happening — everyone in the regiment knew. But details had been sparse.

  "When?"

  "Four days ago." Tiberius picked up his tea. "The Tribune fought personally in the final duel; it’s caused quite a stir in the Senate, so I’ve heard."

  Varro's hand paused halfway to his mouth. "He fought?"

  "He did. Against the fucking Legate this all started over nonetheless." Tiberius took a drink. "He's laid up in a care room in the capital now, recovering."

  "What happened?"

  "The dispatch didn't say much. Just that the fight was close. Decian took significant wounds but landed the killing blow." Tiberius shrugged. "You know how these things go. The Senate won’t release full accounts until the political aftermath settles."

  "Legate Kasio’s dead, then."

  "Aye, and House Kasio's been censured by the Senate according to the Acting Tribune — they’re ruined." Tiberius leaned back.

  "How's my uncle taking it?”

  "Relieved, I'd imagine. This campaign's already been ugly." Tiberius finished his tea. "Speaking of which — you're on a convoy escort today, correct?"

  "My Ninth and Eleventh Platoons. We're moving trade goods to the Xerxes border and back."

  "Is that enough men?"

  “I’d prefer more than the fifty riders I’m getting, but I’ll make do." Varro met Tiberius's eyes. "They've been hitting the convoys hardest for weeks now."

  "Their warbands have adapted. They know it's impossible to hold ground against us, so they’ve focused on bleeding our logistics instead." Tiberius stood, picking up his tray. "Keep your troops sharp, Varro. If they hit you, make them regret it."

  "Yes, sir."

  Tiberius walked off. Varro finished his meal in silence, thinking about the woman swaying from the gallows and the Tribune recovering in a hospital hundreds of miles away.

  Soon he'd be back on the highway with his men. Escorting trucks through hostile territory — waiting for the Black Hand to try something.

  They always did.

  The convoy rolled south down the paved highway toward Xerxes.

  Varro sat in the back of the third truck, rifle across his lap, watching the landscape pass. Twelve supply trucks total stretched ahead and behind him in a long column. Fuel, warsteel, and silver ingots were packed in neat crates at his feet — the kind of cargo the Black Hand wanted badly enough to bleed for.

  Three hundred infantry from the Ninth and Eleventh Platoons rode with him in the trucks or marched alongside. The bulk of the cavalry was spread around the flanks, while the scouts pushed out a mile forward.

  The road cut through open country here. Scrubland, low hills, and marsh pools where the ground stayed wet all year. It wasn’t the dense urban maze of Lantis, but it wasn't safe either. The Black Hand operated everywhere in Alta Territory.

  His driver glanced back. "Twenty miles to the border, sir."

  Varro nodded. Twenty miles to Xerxes. Where they'd hand off the cargo to the local forces and head back with the supplies they needed in the city. A simple trade run. Routine.

  Except nothing had been routine since they got here.

  He scanned the terrain ahead. The highway rose slightly and veered slightly off to the side, following the contour of a low ridge that ran parallel to the road about fifty yards to the east: a sheer rock face fifteen feet high, topped with scrub brush. Good cover if you needed it.

  His truck passed the ridge.

  The lead vehicle jerked to a halt a couple of spots ahead. The convoy accordion-collapsed behind it — drivers slammed on brakes, soldiers shouted in confusion.

  Varro was already moving. He vaulted from the truck bed and hit the ground running, rifle coming up.

  A cavalry scout burst into view ahead, riding hard toward the column side saddle. The man's left leg hung uselessly along his mount, blood soaking through his trousers. He had his carbine in one hand, firing backward over the horse's flank at something behind him.

  Black Hand fighters poured over the hills to the north. Dozens of them. Then more. A full warband, moving fast and firing as they came.

  The scout took another hit. His shoulder jerked. He kept riding.

  "DISMOUNT! DEFENSIVE POSITIONS!"

  The convoy disintegrated into controlled turmoil as his men moved to establish a perimeter in seconds.

  The scout was fifty yards out now. Still firing. His horse stumbled but kept running.

  Varro heard the second warband before he turned his head to see them coming from the south.

  Emerging from the marshland on the opposite side of the highway. Another hundred fighters, probably more. Spreading wide, flanking.

  His attention went back to the scout as he took a third hit to the back. He toppled from the saddle and hit the ground hard, rolling twice before going still. His horse kept running, disappearing into the scrubland.

  Gunfire erupted from both directions.

  Rounds cracked past Varro's head. He dropped behind the nearest truck as bullets punched into metal and shattered glass. Around him, the Testa troops were returning fire — proper discipline shining despite the mayhem. They were spread too thin.

  This was bad.

  He keyed his radio. "All cavalry, respond—"

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The answer came as hoofbeats.

  Lieutenant Corian appeared at the head of the main cavalry body — forty-five riders thundering up from the rear of the convoy. The young officer's face was set, no fear visible — just a cold assessment.

  He saw the warband blocking the northern approach. Saw the infantry trapped on the highway. Saw what needed to happen.

  Corian drew his saber.

  "TESTA CAVALRY ON ME, MAKE THESE FUCKERS BLEED!"

  He spurred his horse into a gallop — directly toward the northern warband. His troopers followed without hesitation; sabers flashing, carbines firing, horses screaming as they thundered into massed rifle fire.

  The Black Hand scattered. Some threw themselves flat. Others tried to hold ground and shoot. The cavalry hit them like a hammer — trampling, slashing, breaking their formation apart through sheer momentum and violence.

  Corian cut down three fighters before a burst tore into his horse. The animal collapsed, throwing him. He rolled to his feet, saber still in hand, and dove into a group of approaching enemies.

  He went down with a bayonet in the neck after claiming another two lives.

  His troops kept fighting around his corpse. Horses falling. Riders dying. Buying the infantry needed seconds.

  Varro didn't waste them.

  "FALL BACK TO THE RIDGE! FAUSTUS, COVERING FIRE!"

  The Eleventh’s lieutenant signaled that he heard and started directing his squads into kill zones.

  Fire teams began pulling back in pairs while the Eleventh laid down suppressive fire, turning the air into a wall of lead.

  Varro saw a soldier take a round through the leg. The man went down screaming. His partner grabbed him under the arms and began dragging. They made it fifteen feet before another torrent of rounds caught them both.

  He sprinted toward the middle of the convoy. Faustus was already there, letting his rifle bark on full-auto.

  "They’re trying to flank!”

  "I know!" Varro looked ahead as the warband started to come around the lead trucks. He keyed his radio, "Abandon trucks one through five! Everyone falls back to the ridge!"

  Drivers bailed from the forward vehicles. Some made it. A woman stumbled as she ran. Varro watched rifle fire stitch across her back. She hit the pavement and didn't move.

  He turned and ran the rest of the distance to the ridge.

  His boots hit dirt and scrub. The rock rose beside him, trucks six through twelve were clustered near the base. Close enough to use.

  "Get these trucks in a line! We need the cover!"

  Engines roared as drivers maneuvered the supply vehicles into a rough crescent against the rockface. His troops didn't wait for orders — they were already taking positions behind wheels, under the chassis, anywhere that offered protection.

  Varro dropped behind truck nine's rear axle. A Black Hand fighter broke from cover two hundred feet out, sprinting forward. Varro put three rounds center mass. The Altian folded and dropped.

  The southern warband wasn't stopping — dozens of them were spreading wide, trying to surround the position.

  The last of the cavalry came back from the north. Eight riders on limping horses. They dismounted without being told and joined the line.

  Sergeant Hario appeared at Varro's elbow, carbine in hand. Blood streaked his face from a gash above his eye.

  "Status?"

  "We’re what's left, sir; more of them are coming." Hario’s voice was heavy with emotion.

  Varro pulled the flare gun from his belt and fired straight up. The red star arced into the sky, trailing smoke as it slowly fell.

  This close to the border, the Xerxian forces would see it. The question was whether they'd get here before the Black Hand overran the fucking position.

  He dropped the flare gun and brought his rifle back up. The warbands were closing in from all sides now. A hundred yards. Then eighty.

  His radio crackled. "Sir, we've got wounded. A lot of wounded, we need to retreat."

  "Hold your position. We're not going anywhere; these bastards need to earn our deaths."

  The Black Hand opened fire with everything they had before he could clip the radio back in, as if they’d heard his challenge.

  The first swarm came in hard, trying to overrun the position before it could solidify. Waves of rebels rushed forward, screaming battle chants. Varro burned through three magazines in the first twenty minutes, dropping targets at sixty yards, fifty, forty.

  His rifle clicked empty for the fourth time. He ejected the mag, slapped in a fresh one, and found a new target.

  "CONSERVE YOUR AMMUNITION!"

  Around him, his troops adjusted. The volume of fire dropped, but the accuracy increased. Fighters who broke cover died before they made it ten steps.

  It didn’t seem to matter; more kept appearing.

  Varro dropped behind truck nine to reload again. His hands were steady, but his heart hammered against his ribs. He’d burned through five magazines already. There were five left on his rig.

  The radio crackled. "Sir, our southern flank is getting pressed hard—"

  "Hold it. I’m coming."

  He moved left along the defensive line, staying low. Rounds whistles overhead. The flanking warband had pushed to within fifty yards, using the scrubland for cover. Advancing methodically, suppressing Imperial positions with sustained fire.

  Varro reached the edge of the perimeter. Lieutenant Faustus was there with his command squad, firing from behind truck twelve's engine block.

  "They're trying to push around the cliff." Faustus pointed toward the drop-off behind them. "We can’t let them get back there—"

  "They won't." Varro grabbed two soldiers from the command squad. "You two, reposition at the cliff edge. Kill anyone who tries to climb it, conserve your mags."

  "Yes, sir."

  They moved. Varro stayed with Faustus, scanning the southern approach. A cluster of rebels had taken cover behind a low rise seventy yards out. One stood to fire. Varro's shot caught him in the shoulder, staggering him. Another fighter dragged him back down.

  Movement to the north.

  Varro turned. The other warband was moving on the abandoned trucks.

  "Fuck."

  Fighters swarmed the vehicles. Engines started. One by one, the supply trucks rolled north, driven away by the Black Hand while the rest kept the Imperials pinned.

  Varro keyed his radio. "All positions, they're taking the forward trucks. Hold your fire."

  It hurt to watch. But he couldn't spare the rounds to stop it.

  The minutes stretched on.

  He moved back to his position behind truck nine. Firing on semi-auto as he did a mental assessment of their odds. The Black Hand had dug in now, maintaining pressure. Bleeding his troops and their ammo.

  A scream erupted from the center of the perimeter. Varro looked back. A medic worked on a wounded soldier with a nasty gutshot, trying to keep his insides from spilling out while the man shrieked.

  He turned back to the fight. Faustus appeared at his side, breathing hard.

  "Sir, we’re down two magazines per man."

  "Send teams to grab it from the dead."

  The words felt wrong. Even if they were necessary.

  His own pouches were getting light. Three mags left. Less than a hundred rounds.

  The Black Hand pushed harder — more fighters breaking cover, trying to close the distance. Varro killed three in quick succession. His barrel was hot enough to shimmer.

  Beside him, Sergeant Hario fired his carbine with precision. The cavalry NCO's face was still streaked with blood and dust, but his hands worked the weapon methodically.

  "How many you got left?"

  "I’m down to three." Hadros ejected his magazine, grabbed a fresh one from his bandolier, and slapped it in. "Not enough."

  Never enough.

  Varro dropped down to check his watch; it had been nearly an hour already.

  He came back up and tracked a fighter to twenty yards before shooting him. Another got closer — fifteen yards, diving behind a rock outcrop. Varro couldn't get an angle.

  "Grenade!"

  Someone put a frag in his hand — he sent it flying to the boulder. The explosion turned the rockface into shrapnel. The rebel didn't get back up.

  More were coming. Always more.

  Varro's rifle clicked empty. He reloaded his second-to-last magazine. Around him, the firing had become sporadic. His men were running dry.

  They weren’t going to hold much longer.

  He looked around the perimeter. Pale faces, shaking hands, and hollow eyes looked back at him. His troops were exhausted; their bayonets already fixed, waiting for the order to charge.

  “Give me a sound off!"

  "Ninth Platoon. Down to fifty-two effective, sir."

  "Eleventh platoon. Sixty-one combat-ready, sir."

  A hundred and thirteen left. Out of three hundred.

  The radio stayed silent for a moment. Then: "Sir, if they come again—"

  "They won't take us." Varro's voice was flat. Final. "We hold until relief arrives—” his voice hardened “—or we die in service."

  The roar of engines came from the north.

  Varro raised his head over the bed.

  Six vehicles appeared on the horizon. Military transports — foreign design, unfamiliar markings. A mounted heavy weapon sat on the lead truck, already tracking toward the Black Hand positions surrounding the convoy.

  The gun opened fire.

  Heavy rounds ripped through scrubland cover, shredding dug-in fighters. The rebels scattered immediately — some sprinting for the marshes, others diving for deeper cover that didn't exist.

  The Xerxian transports rolled closer. Infantry dismounting before the trucks even stopped — disciplined, efficient. Fifty soldiers, spreading into a skirmish line and advancing on the fleeing insurgents.

  They moved through the terrain with purpose. Within minutes, the broken warbands were in full retreat — those who could still run disappearing into the hills.

  The firing tapered off. Then stopped.

  Varro walked toward the lead transport. The mounted gun had gone silent, its crew scanning for targets that were no longer there. A Xerxian officer stepped out of the cab — an older man, with a heavy build and weathered features, wearing a dark green combat uniform. He had a gold insignia on his collar.

  Behind him, two soldiers spoke rapidly to each other in a flowing, musical language Varro didn't recognize. One gestured toward the abandoned Imperial position. The other responded with what sounded like a question.

  The commander turned as Varro approached. His eyes took in the dented Imperial cuirass, the empty magazine pouches, the exhaustion written across Varro's face.

  Varro stopped ten feet away. "Do you speak Script?"

  The commander nodded. "I do." His accent was thick — vowels drawn out, consonants harder than they should be. But understandable. "Captain Tavik, Xerxian Seventh Border Regiment. You called for help, yes?"

  "Centurion Varro Martis Testa, Second Battalion, First Testa Regiment." Varro gestured back toward the half circle of trucks. "We did, much appreciated, two warbands hit us in transport."

  Tavik's expression darkened. "The Black Hand. They cross our border too. Raid our supply lines." He looked past Varro toward the Imperial position. "How many you lose?"

  "The count is still being made. At least half my force. Maybe more."

  "Bad fight." Tavik turned and called out something in his own language. One of his soldiers jogged over. They exchanged rapid words — the flowing speech impossibly fast. The soldier nodded and ran back toward the transports.

  Tavik switched back to Script. "My men will help your wounded. We have medics. Field supplies."

  "Appreciated."

  "You were heading to Xerxes?" Tavik asked.

  "We were. The plan was to hand off at the border and return to Lantis."

  "Not anymore, I think." Tavik gestured toward the battered Imperial convoy. "You have too few trucks left. Many wounded. The Black Hand will maybe not try again today, but tomorrow…" He shrugged. "You should return to your city. We will send word to Xerxes traders. Explain what happen."

  Varro nodded slowly. The mission was fucked. They weren't making it to the border.

  "Do you need to call for support?”

  "I would need a long-range set this far out."

  “This way."

  Tavik led him toward the second Xerxian truck with an antenna array sticking up from it. The back was open, revealing a radio rig mounted inside. The operator sat at the controls, headset on, monitoring frequencies.

  Tavik spoke to him in their language. The operator nodded and gestured to the radio.

  "You can call your garrison from here, tell them—” Tavik stopped for a second, looking for the words “— the situation."

  "Thank you, Captain."

  The commander stepped aside. Varro climbed into the transport and sat at the radio. The operator handed him the headset.

  Varro fixed the frequency and pushed what he thought was the transmit key. "This is Centurion Varro Martis, contact code M-V9A, calling Lantis outpost seven. Do you copy?"

  Static. Then a voice crackled through. "Outpost seven. We copy, Centurion. Go ahead."

  "My convoy was ambushed twenty miles south of Xerxes' border. Two Black Hand warbands led a coordinated assault against us. We took heavy casualties and lost five trucks with cargo to enemy seizure. Xerxian border forces responded to my distress flare and drove them off. We’re returning to Lantis with the remaining vehicles. I’ve got too many wounded. ETA eight hours."

  Silence on the other end. Then: "Copy, Centurion. We'll notify command. Do you require additional support?"

  Varro looked out at the battered Imperial position. Seeing the bodies being lined up near truck twelve.

  "Send forward support to meet us on the road."

  "Copy that. Outpost-Seven out."

  He removed the headset and handed it back to the operator. The man said something in Xerxian — probably condolences, based on his tone.

  Varro climbed out of the transport. Tavik stood nearby, watching his own troops coordinate with the Imperials. Medics worked on the wounded. Soldiers stripped ammunition from the dead.

  "Your people fought well; to hold this place against those numbers…" Tavik shook his head. "The Black Hand does not usually press so hard. This was different."

  "It was." Varro's voice hardened.

  They knew we were coming.

  He didn't say it out loud. But the thought settled in his chest like a stone.

  Someone had tipped them off.