Decian sat on a hard bench in a small grove tucked into the interior of the hospital. Around him, the trees showed the early signs of autumn; leaves turning yellow and dropping to the gravel and stone beneath his feet.

  He held Cato’s letter in both hands, scanning it for a third time.

  Governor Ravon has been placed at meetings with Black Hand leadership outside the city…. I've sent the report to Imperator Remenus requesting approval for arrest. Lady Bellona is organizing three thousand reinforcements…

  His leg bounced against the ground as he read. The movement small and unconscious.

  It had been five weeks now. The debate felt like it happened yesterday and a year ago simultaneously. He remembered the weight of the dagger in his hand and Alexander's blood spraying across his cuirass.

  His shoulder ached beneath the bandages wrapped under his linen shirt in response to the memory. He rolled it carefully, testing the range of motion. Better than yesterday; still not good enough.

  He thought about the regiment holding under Cato. Waiting for High Command’s approval. Waiting for reinforcements. Waiting for orders that might not come in time. Sitting in a powder keg on the frontier.

  While he was here, sitting in a fucking garden.

  Decian folded the letter before slipping it into his pocket; his hand absently went up to his hair, pushing it back across his head as he leaned forward and sighed.

  Soft footsteps came from the path.

  The physician walked toward him, carrying a clipboard under one arm and a look of exasperation on his face. Graying hair cropped short, wearing the simple white robes of hospital staff. His eyes were tired in the way that came from years of dealing with soldiers who thought recovery was optional.

  "Tribune Testa."

  Decian stood. The movement pulled at the stitches in his shoulder. "Doctor Riest."

  The older man stopped a few feet away, holding the clipboard up for Decian to see. "I received your clearance request."

  "And?"

  "And I have no issue discharging you to your family's estate for continued recovery. But you do need time to recover before you’re sent back into active duty. You've rushed every stage of this process so far. Your shoulder mobility is still compromised, and the stitches on your face need another week minimum before they should be exposed to field conditions."

  Decian said nothing.

  Reist let out a soft huff, “You're nearly thirty, Tribune. You don't exactly have youth on your side anymore. Your body needs time to heal properly. If you keep up this pace, you’ll be dealing with complications for the rest of your career."

  Silence settled over the grove. A breeze moved through the trees. More leaves drifted down around them.

  Decian continued to look at him.

  Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Reist shifted his weight. His grip on the clipboard tightened slightly. Thirty seconds. A full minute.

  Finally, he exhaled through his nose. "Why do you even want to be released this early?" He gestured toward Decian's face, his shoulder. “I know you can’t move your arm well enough to swing a saber. You're not healed, why continue to push this?"

  "I need to be with my regiment, and they need me. It’s what my burden as Scion of House Testa demands."

  "Being Scion doesn't mean you need to risk your life on a frontier posting without proper recovery—"

  Decian's expression didn't change. He kept that same patient, bored stare.

  Reist's jaw tightened. He looked down at the clipboard, then back up. Another minute of silence passed.

  "Fine." The word came sharply. "Stop at the pharmacy wing before you leave. They'll have antibiotics waiting for you." The physician signed the clearance form with a flourish that looked more like frustration than approval. "Strong ones. Take them as prescribed, I mean it."

  He tore the form from the clipboard and held it out.

  Decian took it.

  "And when you get back to your regiment—" Reist’s voice carried an edge now, "—act like a bloody commander, not a soldier. You're still recovering. Let your men do the fighting." He paused and pointed at Decian’s face. "You'll need those removed in a month. Do you have a competent medical officer?"

  "I do."

  "Good. Make sure they see to it." He tucked the clipboard under his arm. His expression softened slightly. Just tired now. Not angry. "Try not to get yourself killed, Tribune, the Empire needs commanders like yourself."

  Decian folded the clearance form and slipped it into his pocket beside Cato's letter. "Thank you, Doctor Reist."

  The physician shook his head and walked back down the path toward the main hospital building.

  Decian stood there for a moment, feeling something shift in his chest. The ache in his shoulder was still there. The stitches still pulled when he moved wrong. But it all felt distant now. Less important.

  He had direction again.

  He turned and walked toward the path. He'd need to pack. The journey to Alta would take over a week, nine days if the trains ran on schedule.

  Decian pushed through the door into the hospital corridor. The air inside was cooler, sterile. He headed toward the pharmacy wing, clearance form in his pocket, purpose settling into his bones.

  The regiment was waiting.

  Cato was waiting.

  Alta was waiting.

  And he was finally moving again.

  Decian lounged on the windowsill in his father's side room, one boot propped against the frame. His field pack leaned against the wall beside him. He wore his combat trousers and tunic, the purple sash of his rank already tied at his waist. His cuirass waited by the door.

  The room was small. Comfortable. A low table sat in the center with a half-empty decanter of wine and his drained glass on it. A single lamp burned on a shelf, casting warm light across the space. Beyond the window, the lower districts of Asana spread below — lights scattered across the city like stars reflected on dark water.

  Severus sat at the table wearing old uniform trousers and a faded tunic. His hair was pulled back in a loose knot, more relaxed than Decian had seen him in weeks. He swirled wine in his glass, looking at nothing in particular.

  Livia sat across from him in a light sleeping gown, her own glass held loosely in one hand. She'd be leaving in a few days to accept her new rank and take command of the reinforcement cohorts. Four months of sitting idle had left her restless. She was even more eager than he was to be back in the field.

  They wouldn't see a night like this again for months, years maybe.

  Severus took a drink and set his glass down. "Nexia's been seeing more activity. The border skirmishes near Alta are spilling farther and farther into the province."

  Decian shifted slightly on the windowsill, facing his father directly. The wine had left him warm but clear-headed. "What about Menav and Poros?"

  "They’re faring better than Alta but following a similar pattern. Unrest is building at an alarming rate. The Black Hands created a presence in all of them." Severus picked up the decanter and refilled his glass. "The Territories are interconnected. What happens to one affects the others. Eventually, it transfers to the border provinces like Nexia."

  Livia leaned back in her chair. "How bad is it getting?"

  "Bad enough that Imperator Remenus is paying attention. Not bad enough for full mobilization of the southern armies yet." Severus looked at both of them. His expression carried something beneath the tactical assessment. Care. "But it's coming, I can feel it. Alta's just the spark."

  "You think it'll spread beyond the south?" Decian asked.

  "It already has. We just haven't seen the full scope yet." His father's voice was quiet. Certain. "Be careful down there. Alta's not the only area you need to watch. The whole region's volatile."

  Decian nodded. The gravity of that settled between them.

  Severus refilled Livia's glass, then his own. The silence stretched — comfortable, familiar. Just the three of them in lamplight while the city continued below.

  Decian looked out the window. Lights flickered in the distance.

  He checked his watch. The movement pulled slightly at the stitches in his shoulder. "My train leaves in an hour."

  He stood, shouldering his pack. Livia rose and crossed to him, hugging him carefully. Mindful of the bandages beneath his tunic. "See you on the frontier, brother."

  "March well, Prefect.” He smiled at her.

  She stepped back. Severus stood and gripped Decian's forearm. His hand moved to Decian's shoulder — steady, firm. A moment of understanding passed between them without words.

  Severus released him and stepped back.

  Decian moved to the door and picked up his cuirass with his free hand. He paused at the threshold and looked back.

  His father and sister stood together in the lamplight — Severus with his arm around Livia's shoulders.

  Something tightened in his chest. He was eager to return to his world — to the regiment, to purpose and motion and the clarity of command. But these weeks away had given him something he hadn't realized he'd needed; moments like this.

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

  He'd miss it.

  "The House endures," Severus said quietly.

  "The House endures."

  Decian turned and walked into the hall.

  The door closed behind him with an audible click.

  He stood there for a moment in the corridor, adjusting his pack, feeling the weight of the cuirass in his hand. Then he turned toward the main entrance and began walking.

  Central Station wasn't far. He had time.

  The corridors were quiet as Decian walked.

  Most of the electric lights had been turned down for the night, leaving candles burning in iron stands along the walls at periodic intervals. The Emberhall felt like it was sleeping — not silent, but muted. A door closed somewhere in the distance. Voices murmured from inside a private office, too low to make out words.

  He passed a pair of clerks walking in the opposite direction. They kept their heads down, speaking to each other in hushed tones. Neither looked up as he went by.

  The main entrance was close now. Another five minutes.

  Footsteps echoed behind him.

  Two sets. Sharp and rhythmic. Making the distinct sound of hobnailed boots striking marble.

  Decian stopped and turned around.

  Mars emerged from a side corridor with two figures trailing behind him — both in black combat gear, silver half-masks covering the lower halves of their faces, assault rifles held across their chests. Mars wore his usual silver death mask and long black leather coat. The blacked-out flame mark was visible at his neck, where the coat didn't quite meet the edge of the mask.

  He approached without hesitation and fell into step beside Decian like they'd planned to meet here. "Your train leaves at midnight, Tribune. We should walk as we converse."

  The two bodyguards stayed back about ten feet, eyes scanning the corridors as they followed.

  Decian adjusted his grip on the cuirass and kept walking. "How do you know when my train leaves?"

  "I make it a habit to know everything of importance about those under my purview." Mars' voice came through the mask clinically. Even. "Your schedule qualifies."

  They walked in silence for a moment. Decian glanced at him, trying to read anything from the mask. Impossible.

  "So, my House is still being held responsible for what happened," his voice carried an edge he didn't bother hiding. "While Kasio gets to file an appeal with the Inferno. And for why?"

  "House Kasio won't be appealing anything."

  Decian looked at him. "What do you mean?"

  "Their fate has been decided before the process could begin." Mars kept his pace steady, boots quietly stepping in rhythm with Decian's. "The plan was for you to die in the third duel, Tribune. That was their intention from the start."

  The words settled like ice in Decian's chest. His jaw tightened. The stitches on his face pulled. "What are you talking about?"

  Mars sighed, "Seven branch heads within House Kasio coordinated Legate Alexander’s substitution into the Debate." Mars's head tilted slightly — that odd, birdlike motion. "The conspirators wanted your death to salvage their House’s reputation."

  They passed an intersection. Another office sat to the left, light spilling from under the door. Raised voices carried through — multiple Senators arguing in a dialect Decian couldn't fully make out.

  "They were wrong.”

  "Yes. And when the Legate fell, the conspiracy fell apart rather quickly." Mars gestured vaguely with one gloved hand. "Six of them have been arrested. The seventh took his own life before we could reach him. House Kasio is being erased as we speak. Their assets were seized. And their remaining branches will be absorbed into other Consular Houses or demoted to Vassal status."

  Decian processed that as they walked. The bodyguards' boots echoed behind them — a constant, steady rhythm.

  "So it's over?”

  "For Kasio, yes." Mars paused at a window overlooking the southern Asana. Mask catching the candlelight as he looked out at the city. "But your House demonstrated what Strata nobility can accomplish when provoked. That's had a… cascading effect within the Senate. Other Houses are watching. Taking notes."

  Decian stopped beside him. "And?"

  "And you’re the cause of this." Mars turned from the window and started walking again. “Your House will be used to right the imbalance."

  "What does that mean?" Decian fell into step beside him. "Exactly?"

  Mars was quiet for a moment as they kept walking. Then: "The Empire is weaker internally than it appears, Tribune. The Theodosian Dynasty has ruled for three centuries and has grown complacent, comfortable even. That weakness is accelerating this situation." He paused. "Civil war is more possible now than it's been since the last interregnum period."

  Decian's hand tightened on his cuirass. "And if it comes to that?"

  "You'll have an active part to play." Mars looked at him. Those blue eyes visible through the mask's openings. Bright. Focused. “House Testa is under my purview now, as I stated. You are under my direct command, and you may receive orders with a blank signee — those come from me personally. You'll execute them without question."

  Decian understood immediately.

  They kept walking. The entrance hall was getting closer now.

  "If you and the Order knew this could spiral to such a degree—" his voice carried frustration "—why didn't you step in sooner? Why let the Debate proceed at all?"

  Mars stopped walking.

  Decian stopped with him.

  The mask turned toward him slowly. Those blue eyes locked onto his. "I have said it before, Tribune. That is not your concern."

  The dismissal was absolute — leaving no room for argument.

  Mars started walking again without another word.

  Decian stood there for a moment, jaw working beneath the stitches, then followed.

  They reached the entrance hall — marble half-columns ending in busts of past Infernos marking the main corridor.

  Mars stopped at the base of the steps leading down to the entrance. His bodyguards stopped with him, rifles still held across their chests.

  Decian walked past them, down the steps, and out the doors.

  He came out into the cool night air. The plaza stretched before him, mostly empty at this hour. A few figures moved between buildings in the distance. Central Station sat beyond the western edge, lights burning bright against the darkness.

  Decian adjusted his pack and headed off toward the station.

  He was more confused now than before.

  What role did the BurnWrights intend for him? What would "righting the imbalance" actually mean when the Empire was teetering on the edge of civil war?

  But he was also more certain.

  Killing the Legate was the right choice. The only choice he could have made in that moment.

  Whatever came next — whatever orders arrived with blank signees, whatever part he was meant to play — he'd face it.

  He glanced back once.

  The Emberhall rose behind him, massive and dark. Mars was somewhere in there. Or already gone. Watching. Regulating.

  Decian turned back toward the station and kept walking.

  Heading to his regiment, to Alta.

  The military cab rolled to a stop outside the garrison gates.

  Decian climbed out, shoulders stiff from nine days on trains and an unpleasant morning on the road. The driver leaned out the window. "Good luck out here, sir."

  "Thank you, safe travels."

  He pulled his field pack from the back seat and shouldered it. The car pulled away, kicking up dust as it turned around, heading back to the provincial fort on the Nexia Border.

  Decian stood there for a moment, looking at the compound.

  Twelve-foot stone walls. Iron gates at the front. A gun nest positioned near the entrance with three soldiers manning it. Standard Imperial fortifications. He'd seen hundreds like it across the Empire.

  This one was his.

  He walked toward the gates. Two sentries stood at attention in front — garrison troops wearing worn cuirasses and carrying Strix bolt-action rifles. They straightened as he approached.

  Decian stopped a few feet away.

  The sentries saluted at the sight of his sash — fists to chest. One stepped forward. "Sir. Flame-Stamp and purpose, please."

  Decian reached into his pocket and pulled out the small crimson booklet. He handed it over.

  "Tribune Decian Accardi Testa. Commander of the First Testa Regiment stationed here."

  The sentry opened it, checked the identification page against Decian's face. His eyes lingered on the stitches running across Decian's right cheek and jaw. Curiosity plain in his expression. But he didn't ask.

  He handed the booklet back. "Welcome to the frontier, sir."

  Decian pocketed the Flame-Stamp. The sentry turned and signaled. The gates began to swing open — iron hinges groaning slightly under the weight.

  He walked through.

  The compound spread before him. Barracks buildings arranged in orderly rows. The armory sitting near the western wall with visible repairs to one section — recent, from the look of it. And at the center, the command post.

  A call went up from the walls. "Tribune approaching!"

  Heads turned. Soldiers stopped what they were doing and looked toward the gates.

  Decian kept walking, boots striking packed earth as he crossed toward the command post. His pack settled against his back — the cuirass he'd been carrying in Asana now strapped properly across his body.

  Cato appeared from around the eastern side of the building.

  The grizzled officer walked toward him — purple sash at his waist, cuirass dusty from the field, face carrying the weight of weeks in command. But when his eyes found Decian, something shifted. Relief showed, genuine and plain.

  They met about twenty yards from the command post entrance.

  Cato gripped his forearm firmly. "Welcome back to the field, Tribune."

  "It’s good to be back."

  The grip tightened briefly before releasing. "Come on. They've been waiting."

  Cato turned and led him around the side of the building. Decian followed, adjusting his pack as they walked.

  They rounded the corner.

  The parade ground opened behind the command post, and there, arranged in loose formation, stood his regiment.

  Not at full strength. There were gaps. People on duty. Losses from the fighting. But still impressive in their might. Thousands of Testa soldiers in combat gear, rifles held across their chests, standing at attention.

  Prefect Hadrian stood at the front. Centurion Martis beside him. The cavalry commanders — Centurions Alexios and Valeria — flanked the formation. And spreading back through the ranks, the faces of men and women he'd led for years.

  His people.

  Cato stopped and turned to face him. Decian stopped a few feet away from him.

  The Acting Tribune reached up and untied the purple sash from his waist — the temporary rank he'd worn for weeks. He held it in one hand, then dropped to a knee.

  "By the authority vested in me as Acting Tribune, I formally transfer command of the First Testa Regiment back to Tribune Decian Accardi Testa."

  Decian stepped forward and gripped his shoulder. "Get out of the dirt, my friend."

  Cato rose. Decian didn't take the sash from his hand.

  Instead, he reached into his pack and pulled out a fresh scarlet sash with a purple stripe running through it — the mark of a Prefect. "Picked this up in Nexia before I left this morning. Thought you'd appreciate some fresh threads."

  Cato's expression shifted. Surprise. Then something warmer. He chuckled and took the new sash, tucking the old one into his pocket. "Appreciated, Tribune."

  Decian turned to face the regiment.

  Thousands of eyes watched him. Waiting.

  He raised his voice to carry across the parade ground. "You have honored me with your service under Prefect Martis' command."

  The regiment erupted.

  Fists crashed against cuirasses in thunderous rhythm. Cheers rolled across the compound — hooting, hollering, the sound building and building as soldiers released weeks of tension. The noise echoed off the stone walls, filling the space with raw, unfiltered energy.

  Decian stood there, absorbing it.

  Pride settled into his chest, mixing with anticipation. Whatever came next in Alta, he'd face it with them. His regiment. His family.

  The cheering continued for a full minute before he raised his hand.

  Silence fell across the parade ground, the cheering cutting out as abruptly as it had started.

  "I know the weeks I've been away have been difficult. But you held together. And you did your duty." He paused. "Thank you."

  He brought his left hand up in a sharp, formal parade salute — fist to collar bone, arm held at a perfect forty-five degree angle, off hand tucked behind his back.

  The regiment responded as one. Heels clicked. Fists struck armor. The salute was returned with precision from everyone present.

  Decian held it for five heartbeats, then dropped his hand.

  The formation relaxed slightly. Still at attention, but the formality eased.

  He stood there for a moment longer, looking out at the assembled troops. At the gaps in the ranks. At the faces he recognized, and the new ones he didn't. Feeling the weight of command settling back onto his shoulders where it belonged.

  Then he turned and gestured with one hand. "Prefect Martis. Prefect Hadrian. Please join me in the command post."

  Cato and Tiberius moved immediately, falling into step beside him as he walked toward the building. Behind them, the regiment dispersed

  He was home.