Cato sat at a rounded table near the food stalls with his wife, Lucia, and their youngest son, Lucian. The boy was twelve now, old enough to understand what his father did but still young enough to be excited about the festival. He'd been asking questions all morning — about the jousting, about the duels, about the war.

  "Did you fight in any charges like Uncle Decian?" Lucian asked, watching a group of troopers in their high boots pass by.

  “We do not charge like cavalry, my son," Cato responded. "Infantry holds the line."

  "Is that harder?"

  "It’s… different."

  Lucia gently touched their son's arm. She'd always known when to steer the conversation. "Eat your food before it gets cold, dear."

  Lucian turned back to his plate, still glancing at the passing soldiers. Cato caught his wife's eye and saw her smile — that quiet smile that said she was glad to have him home. He reached over and squeezed her hand briefly.

  "Cato!"

  He looked up and saw Tiberius approaching with two women — one his age in formal dress, the other younger.

  "Tiberius." Cato stood and clasped his forearm. "Join us."

  "We were hoping you'd say that." Tiberius turned to gesture at his family. "My wife, Valeria. And my daughter, Tiberia."

  He inclined his head in their direction. "Ladies. This is my wife Lucia, and my son Lucian."

  Greetings were exchanged. Valeria settled beside Lucia, the two women finding easy conversation. Tiberia took a seat beside Lucian, who immediately started asking her about the fresh Kindled caste mark inked on her neck.

  Tiberius sat across from Cato. The scars around his face puffy.

  "How's the wound?"

  "Healing well. Valeria wasn't pleased when she saw it."

  "I imagine not."

  An estate worker came by with a platter of food and wine. They ate for a while, the conversation moving between the families. Lucia asked Valeria about the Hadrian vineyards. Lucian peppered Tiberia with questions about logistical administration — the boy listened more carefully than Cato had ever seen him listen to much of anything when she responded.

  "When do you head south?"

  "Day after tomorrow. It'll be two days on the roads, but, should go by quickly enough." Tiberius took a drink. "Looking forward to being back in your own holdings?"

  "I am." Cato glanced at Lucia. "She's been managing the orchards alone. I’m glad I can be there to help for a time."

  Tiberius nodded. Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You'll be at the House meeting tomorrow?"

  "Aye, all standing high branch members are expected."

  "The command question."

  "Yes." Cato kept his voice even. "Someone needs to lead the regiment while Decian is away for testimony."

  "They're talking about recalling another Tribune from Crucible service."

  "That's one option."

  Tiberius studied him. "You'd be another."

  He said nothing in response.

  "You know the regiment," Tiberius continued. "The troops trust you. You held the line at Falcon when everything was falling apart. You’d make sense as a choice."

  "It's not about what makes sense. It's about what's proper." Cato set down his cup. "Field promoting a Prefect to Acting Tribune, a Forged at that, carries a stigma. One the House may not want."

  "The House may not have a better choice."

  "We'll see what is decided, my friend; let us save that for tomorrow."

  Tiberius dropped it. The conversation drifted back to lighter things — the feast tonight, plans for leave, what Lucian wanted to learn about saber work.

  "Will you teach me some techniques when we are home?" the boy asked.

  "If there's time."

  "There is time," his wife said. "You have a month, and Lucian leaves back to his ward at the end of the week."

  "Then I will."

  Lucian grinned.

  The sun was lower now, late afternoon bleeding into evening.

  "Uncle."

  Cato looked up. Varro was walking toward them, tunic damp with sweat, a grin on his face.

  "Nephew." He stood. "You look like you've been busy."

  "I have." Varro stopped at the table and nodded to the others. "Prefect Hadrian. Ladies."

  "Centurion," Tiberius said. "What have you been up to?"

  "Dueling and a horse race." Varro pulled a small pouch from his pocket and shook it. The coins clinked inside. "I came out ten denarii richer."

  Cato raised an eyebrow. "Who'd you beat?"

  "Faustus."

  Tiberius chuckled. "Lieutenant Sulla won't let that stand. Expect a rematch."

  "I'm counting on it."

  Cato shook his head at his nephew. "Go and get cleaned up. The feast starts soon."

  "Yes, Uncle."

  Varro moved off. Lucia stood, touching his arm.

  "We should prepare as well.”

  He nodded and rose from the table, offering his hand to her.

  The feast hall blazed with light.

  Hundreds of oil lamps hung from iron chandeliers, casting the vaulted stone chamber in a warm, golden glow. Long tables stretched the length of the hall, draped in deep maroon cloth and laden with silver platters. House Testa had assembled in full — members from every branch, high and minor, joined by chosen Vassal lines attached to them, each dressed in their finest. Jewelry glittered at throats and wrists. Rings adorned fingers. Silvered armor polished to a mirror finish sat on shoulders beside silk gowns in wine and crimson.

  Decian sat near the head table in his tribune's whites, wearing a silvered cuirass. Gold bracelets circled his wrists, catching the lamp light. A large ruby engraved with the twin-linked sabers of the Accardi crest hung from a thick silver chain at his throat; pink sapphires crowning it in a halo.

  Severus rose from his seat at the center of the head table. The hall fell silent.

  "House Testa," his father's voice carried through the chamber. "We gather here tonight in honor of those who have returned from the front. To celebrate their service. And to remember those who did not march home."

  He lifted his cup.

  "As Strata—” He stopped, looking at those assembled. “—We are not born noble. We must earn it. Every generation proving its worth through service, through sacrifice, and through blood. This is the burden we carry for our nobility. And it is the price we pay for what we hold." He paused. "As the leading line of House Testa, Branch Accardi must prove that worth not just for ourselves, but for the entire House. We must lead. We must bleed. We must endure."

  The hall was silent — every eye on him.

  "Over the years of this campaign, we have lost six hundred and eighty-six of our blood members. Sons and daughters of House Testa. Mothers and Fathers. Among those, thirteen from Branch Accardi." His voice hardened. “ To those who fell, we swear this oath."

  Severus raised his cup higher.

  "Your names are written in our ledgers. Your blood is counted in our debt. You will not be forgotten. And to those who died because of another House's pride — we vow that a blood price will be paid. House Kasio will answer for what was taken from us."

  Cups rose throughout the hall.

  "To the fallen.”

  "To the fallen," the hall answered as one.

  His father sat at the end of the toast. The silence held for a moment longer, heavy with the weight of the oath.

  Then Decian stood.

  He felt the eyes of everyone glued to him — branch heads, officers, family, all of them watching the Scion, waiting.

  "My House, you have trusted me to lead our regiment for four long years, and for that trust I thank you. I will continue to lead it with all of my being, such is my duty as the future of us all." He lifted his cup. "To House Testa. To those who fell. To those who remain."

  "To those who remain," the hall answered.

  He took a long pull from his goblet before taking his seat. The tension broke. Voices rose. Servants began moving between tables with trays of food and pitchers of wine. The feast had begun.

  Decian waded through the chaos as the evening progressed. Greeting branch representatives. Accepting acknowledgments of the campaign and discussing nothing of substance, but saying all the right things. The performance came more easily tonight, being surrounded by his people, by the House, it shifted the weight he carried.

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  He found Cato near one of the side tables with his family. His wife sat beside him in a deep burgundy gown, a silver torque at her throat. Their son stood as Decian approached, eyes wide.

  "Uncle Decian!" The boy's face lit up.

  Decian felt the tension dissipate at the sight of the young man's joy. "Lucian. You've grown since I last saw you."

  "Father says I can learn the saber while he's home."

  "Does he?" Decian glanced at Cato. "Your father is an excellent teacher. Listen to him."

  "I will." Lucian looked up at him with that open curiosity only children seemed to keep. "Did you fight with a saber at Falcon?"

  "Sometimes. When it was needed."

  "Was it like the duels at the festival?"

  "No, it wasn’t." Decian kept his tone even. “True battle is different."

  Lucian seemed to sense he shouldn't push that line of questioning. Instead, he looked at the saber hanging at Decian's side. "Can I see your blade, Uncle?"

  Decian glanced at Cato, who nodded slightly. He drew the saber — not his combat blade, but the formal ceremonial piece he wore for occasions like this. The steel was polished to a bright finish, engraved with the Accardi crest along the fuller. He held it out flat across his palms.

  "It's beautiful," Lucian breathed.

  "It belonged to one of my forefathers long ago. And has been passed down through the Accardi line to me." Decian tilted it so the engravings on the other side of the blade caught the lamplight. "See here? The mark of Flame, the mark of Attrition, and the mark of Steel. These are the symbols of Doctrine, young one."

  "Will you pass it to your son someday?"

  "If I have one, yes."

  Lucian reached out carefully, not quite touching the blade. "I want to carry a blade like this."

  "Then you'll earn it. Through service." Decian looked at the boy. "The blade doesn't make you Strata. What you do to wield it does."

  "I understand."

  Decian sheathed the saber. Then, on impulse, he reached down and lifted Lucian onto his shoulders. The boy yelped in surprise before laughing.

  "Can you see better now?”

  "Yes!" Lucian looked out across the hall, taking in the feast from this new height. "I can see everyone!"

  Cato was grinning. Lucia smiled warmly. Decian walked a few steps with the boy on his shoulders, letting him see the hall, the gathering, the House assembled.

  "This is what you're part of, all of this. House Testa. This is what we fight for. Remember it well."

  "I will, Uncle."

  Decian set him back down carefully.

  "Thank you, Uncle Decian."

  "You are welcome, Lucian."

  He clasped Cato's forearm briefly. "Your son will do well."

  "I hope so." Cato's expression was thoughtful. "He looks up to you, you know."

  "He should look up to his father."

  "He does. But you are the Scion, Decian." Cato's voice was quiet. "That carries weight with the young-bloods."

  Decian nodded once and moved on. More tables. More faces. More of the performance.

  But that moment with Lucian stayed with him. The boy’s wonder. The simple joy of being lifted. Something innocent in the middle of all this.

  The night wore on. The wine flowed. He smiled when he needed to — laughed when it was expected, said the right things to the right people.

  But after a while, he needed air.

  The balcony overlooked the central valley. Torches flickered along paths sprawling from the small city that was the estate.

  Decian stood at the railing, letting the quiet settle around him.

  Footsteps came from behind him. He didn't turn.

  "Brother."

  Marcus stepped up beside him. His younger brother was dressed in formal attire as well — silvered breastplate, rings on his fingers, the Accardi crest on his chest. Twenty years old. Still young. Still carrying that fire in his eyes, though it burned lower now than it had before Falcon.

  "Marcus." Decian looked at him. "You should be inside. Enjoying the feast."

  "I saw you leave." Marcus leaned against the railing, looking out at the valley. "Wanted to make sure you were well."

  "I am well, brother."

  "Are you?"

  Decian didn't answer.

  They stood in silence for a moment. The sounds of the feast drifted faintly from inside — laughter, music, the murmur of voices.

  "Do you remember when you first took command of the regiment?" Marcus asked. "I had just finished Exustus. I wasn’t much more than a boy back then, preparing for my first deployment."

  Decian glanced at him. "I remember."

  "I watched you march out that day. The whole regiment formed up, and you were at their head, mounted on a massive gelding. Twenty-four years old and already carrying the weight of the House on your shoulders." Marcus's voice was quiet. "I thought... that's what I want to be. That's who I want to serve under."

  "Marcus—"

  "Let me finish." Marcus turned to face him. "When I completed my mandatory service and cleared for the cavalry, I could have requested any posting, any regiment. But I only wanted one thing — to ride under you. To be part of your command. To serve the Empire with my brother."

  He paused.

  "Do you know why?"

  Decian said nothing.

  "Because you're an immovable object, Decian. You've been prepared to carry this burden since before you went into the Ardentis wards. You’ve had four years of command. Led hundreds of operations. Made thousands of life-or-death decisions. And you're still here. Still standing. Still leading." Marcus's expression was fierce now. "That's what I see when I look at you. Not someone tired or breaking. I see the rock that the rest of us build our foundations on."

  The words settled heavily in his chest.

  "At Alpha, when we charged that line, I wasn't afraid." Marcus’ voice had become distant now. "Not really. Because you were leading, and I knew that if anyone could bring us through, it was you. Even knowing death is always a possibility — I’ll follow you into anything, brother, any trench, any breach, any charge."

  "You shouldn't," Decian said quietly.

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'm not what you think I am."

  "You're exactly what I think you are." Marcus gripped his arm. "You brought over half of the win back from a charge that should have killed us all. You held the regiment together at Falcon. You carried us home." His grip tightened. "That's not weakness, brother. That's strength."

  Decian looked at his baby brother — at the absolute certainty in his eyes, the faith that nothing could shake.

  "I don't know how much longer I can carry this, brother.”

  "Then let me help." Marcus' voice was steady. "You don't have to carry it alone. I'm here. Livia's here. The whole House is here. We'll hold the line with you."

  The silence stretched between them.

  "Whatever comes next," Marcus said. “Whatever the House needs for the next campaign. I'm with you. All the way. Because you are my brother."

  Decian held his gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded once.

  "Thank you, Marcus."

  Marcus smiled and pulled him into a brief embrace.

  "Come back inside when you're ready. Father's looking for you."

  He turned and walked back into the hall, leaving Decian alone with his thoughts on the balcony.

  The main hall was louder than the trenches had ever been.

  Varro sat at one of the tables near the front, surrounded by Branch Martis members who'd made the journey for the feast. His parents hadn't come — the Martis lands and accounts still demanded attention — but others had. Cousin Sophia sat to his left, recently returned from her own rotation with the 120th Legion. She was telling a story about a breach she'd sealed at some forsaken sector along the southern fronts, her hands moving as she described the close-quarters fighting.

  "—and then the bastard came at me with a nasty spiked club, we grappled for a sec, but I got my dagger under his guard and took the dog clean through the neck—"

  "Clean?" Uncle Octavius interrupted from across the table, gray-haired and retired but still wearing his armor with the service decorations he’d earned in his career. "We both know nothing about a trench fight is clean, girl."

  "Clean enough," Sophia shot back with a grin.

  Aunt Valera laughed from beside him, emeralds glittering at her throat. "Leave her be, Octavius. Let the young-bloods have their war stories."

  Octavius snorted into his drink. He looked at Varro. "And you, nephew? Any feats worth telling at Falcon?"

  Varro thought about the breach. About Tenth Platoon. The thirty-two names erased. He kept his tone light. "Nothing much to speak of, uncle. I sealed a breach and held the line. Standard work."

  "Standard," Sophia scoffed. "Uncle Cato wrote to Father, he said you led the counter yourself when one of your lieutenants went down. That's not standard work, cousin."

  "It needed doing."

  "Still counts as a feat," she said, raising her cup. "To holding the line."

  They drank. The table settled into easier conversation — comparing sectors, discussing which legions had the worst rotations, debating whether the northern or southern fronts were more brutal.

  "Northern front's colder," one of the younger cousins said. A boy of only eighteen, on leave from his mandatory service. "But the south has those damned supply issues."

  "Cold can be dealt with," Sophia said. "Try fighting in mud so thick it swallows horses whole."

  "I did," Octavius responded flatly. "Sixteen years ago. We lost an entire cavalry wing in one engagement because the ground gave out beneath them."

  The table went quiet for a moment. Then Aunt Valera refilled the cups. "Enough of that. You are home. You are alive. Eat, drink, and let the Empire’s wars go on without us for a time."

  Varro ate. The food was delicious — roasted pork, fresh sweet rolls, sautéed potatoes and carrots in a thick cream sauce, with cheese that wasn't from a ration tin.

  Around him, the wealth of House Testa was on full display. Silver platters catching lamplight. Fine silks and embroidered lace on the skin of every participant. Aunt Valera had emeralds at her throat — stones that could feed a common family for years on end. Uncle Otavius wore a thick gold torque across his chest, polished armor decorated with campaign medals earned over three decades in the Crucible, and a ruby set on a platinum ring that was worth a common House's entire combined property. Sophia’s bracelet alone was more wealth than most commoners would see in a lifetime.

  But every piece of jewelry, silk, and silver had been earned. Sophia's fresh scar across her forearm. Octavius’ limp from an old wound. Valera's husband, dead for fifteen years now in the Glavian wars.

  Two edges of the sword. The wealth they held. The blood they paid for it.

  Varro looked down the table at his family. Branch Martis. Generations of service. His father managed trade routes now, but before that, he'd served seven years in the Crucible. His grandfather had led a Legionary regiment in the same Glavian campaigns in which Valera’s husband perished. The wealth came after. The service came first.

  He felt the pride of it settle in his chest. It had been tempered by the ninety-eight names in his ledger. And the bodies he had burned. But being here, seeing what they fought for — the people, the House, the legacy — it made sense.

  "You're quiet," Sophia said, nudging him.

  "Just taking it in."

  "First time back from a real rotation?"

  "First one where I commanded."

  She studied him for a moment. "It's different, isn't it? When they're your men."

  "Yes."

  "You get used to it," she said quietly. "Not the weight. But carrying it."

  Varro nodded. He wasn't sure he believed her, but he appreciated the sentiment.

  Across the hall, he could see other branches celebrating. Branch Ferro, Branch Hadrian, Branch Sulla, Branch Accardi. The regiment had bled together at Falcon. Now they feasted together at home.

  A toast was called from the head table. The hall rose as one. Cups lifted.

  "To House Testa!"

  "To House Testa!"

  They drank. The noise resumed. Varro felt the warmth of it — wine and food and family. The weight he'd carried for eight weeks was still there, but lighter now. Shared among the House.

  "Come on," Sophia said, standing. "Let's go bother the Ferro table. I want to hear if their war stories are better than mine."

  Varro stood, following her. Uncle Octavius called after them. "Don't start any duels, girl. You just got home."

  "No promises, father!"

  They moved through the hall, weaving between tables. The celebration was in full swing now. Laughter echoed off stone walls. Music drifted from somewhere. The formality of the earlier ceremony had dissolved into something warmer.

  Varro stopped near the center of the hall. Noticing a group of veteran officers gathering, cups raised. He moved to stand near the edge, looking for Uncle Cato.

  He spotted him across the crowd, standing with Prefect Hadrian. Varro made his way over.

  "Uncle."

  Cato turned, clasping his shoulder. "Nephew. Enjoying the feast?"

  "I am."

  "Good. You've earned it."

  Prefect Hadrian nodded in agreement. "Your uncle speaks highly of how you’ve handled the Second Battalion."

  "Thank you, sir."

  A separate toast was called from the center of the group. They raised their cups together, voices joining into one.

  Varro turned back to his uncle. "I should get back to my table. Sophia’s probably fought someone by now."

  Cato smiled. "Go. Enjoy yourself, we’ll see one another back at the family's estate."

  Varro nodded and moved back through the crowd. He found Sophia arguing with a Ferro officer about who'd killed more Theocrats in a single engagement. The debate was loud, good-natured, and completely pointless.

  He grabbed her and sat back down at the Branch Martis table. Pouring himself more wine, he settled in and listened to the war stories and the boasting and the pride.

  This was what they fought for. This was what made the trenches worth going back to.