Cato left his quarters before dawn with a cup of watered wine in hand.

  The corridors were empty, lit only by oil lamps burning low in their sconces. Most of the House was still sleeping off the feast or recovering from the hangovers. He could hear snoring from one of the guest quarters as he passed — someone else's problem.

  He took a drink. The wine had already gone lukewarm, but it gave his hands something to do.

  The east hall was on the opposite side of the estate from the rooms given to him in the officers' wing. A ten-minute walk if he went directly. He decided to take the long route instead, boots echoing softly on stone as he moved through the main gallery, lost in his thoughts.

  Politics, House councils, this wasn't his arena. Lucia handled estate negotiations, coordinating with other branches, managing the subtle give-and-take that kept Branch Martis prosperous. His brother, Appius, dealt with trade agreements and resource allocations across the northern valleys.

  Cato was a career soldier; his job was to bring troops home.

  But Lucia was already almost back to the Martis estate with their son, having left the night before, and Appius hadn't made the journey. Which meant the family needed someone of rank at the council table.

  He passed a window overlooking the central courtyard. Outside, the festival grounds sat empty in the pre-dawn darkness. Torches had burned down to coals. A few estate workers moved between the abandoned stalls, beginning cleanup.

  Twenty-nine years of service, over a decade of that as Prefect. He'd commanded First Cohort through campaigns that should have killed him. Held lines that should have collapsed. And made the decisions that kept his troops breathing. But he was Forged. The silver dagger inked on his throat said it plainly.

  Not EmberBorn caste. Not the kind who usually wore a Tribune's purple. Field promoting a Forged carried stigma.

  He knew that. Everyone knew that.

  He took another drink to silence the pointless spiraling and kept walking. The corridor opened into the administrative wing. It was quieter here — just stone walls and burned-out lamps. Walking slowly, he reached the east hall and noticed the doors standing open.

  Someone was already inside.

  He paused for a moment at the entrance. Lord Severus Accardi stood near the windows, hands clasped behind his back, looking out over the estate grounds. Wearing the deep colored formal robes of his office, but lacking the armor he wore at the feast, gray hair tied back in a tight knot on his head.

  Cato stepped inside and bowed. "My lord."

  Severus turned. "Prefect Martis. You’re early."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Good." Severus gestured toward the bench along the wall. "Sit. We have a few minutes before the others arrive."

  He moved to the bench and took a seat, setting the cup beside him. Severus stayed by the window for a moment longer, then turned to face him fully.

  "You know why we’re here today."

  It wasn’t a question. "Yes, my lord."

  "My son has vouched for you privately." Severus's tone was even, factual. "He believes you're the right choice to lead the regiment while we’re detained in the capital. And I have to agree."

  The words hung in the air between them. Cato felt his grip tighten on the edge of the bench.

  "Your record speaks for itself," Severus continued. "Falcon-9 should have collapsed our entire position. You sealed it professionally, while Decian handled the second breach. Before that, there have been countless other operations where you kept First Cohort functional when lesser commanders would have let them break. The troops trust you, and your fellow officers respect you." He paused. "That's why I'm backing you as Acting Tribune when the council convenes."

  Cato met his eyes. "My lord, I—"

  "Your caste will carry stigma. Field promoting you to Tribune rank will raise questions. Some in this council will object on principle and tradition alone. But it doesn't matter. You're the right man for the job, and the House needs you."

  The directness of it cut through any response Cato might have prepared. He nodded his head. "I won't disappoint the House."

  "I know." Severus moved toward the door, then stopped. "The council will voice concerns nonetheless. Let them. I'll handle the politics of it all. You just need to be what you are — a competent senior officer who earned his command through service."

  "Yes, my lord."

  Severus studied him for another moment, then nodded and stepped back toward the windows. Not leaving, but giving him space to settle before the others arrived.

  Cato looked down at his weathered hands. Forty-six years old, and leading five thousand House soldiers while the Scion testified before the Senate.

  He'd commanded in worse situations. It wasn’t the same; those had been tactical problems.

  This was the First Testa regiment.

  Voices echoed from the corridor outside.

  Severus straightened slightly. "Here they come."

  Gaius Accardi entered first — Severus's brother, a former Tribune, gray-haired and wearing his service decorations across a polished cuirass. He nodded to Severus, then glanced at Cato with an unreadable expression before taking a seat.

  Lady Valencia Ferro followed, the matriarch of Branch Ferro. She moved with sharp efficiency, taking her seat without ceremony. Behind her came Julius Sulla, Livia Accardi’s husband, an acting Senator and champion duelist who'd likely be fielded for the Blood-Debate.

  Tiberius entered next, the care-free look he usually wore absent from his face. Representing Branch Hadrian in his father's absence. Several senior Accardi cousins followed — Cavia, who managed the Testa agricultural guild, and Quintus, leader of the industrial guild, looking thoroughly annoyed over some other matter.

  Decian was the last to arrive. He moved to stand beside his father near the head of the table, wearing his white dress uniform without the cuirass. When everyone had taken their positions, Severus sat in his seat at the head of the table.

  "This council convenes to address the question of command succession," the Lord of the House said without preamble. "Tribune Accardi will be preoccupied in the capital for Senate testimony regarding the complaint against Legate Kasio. Our regiment deploys in five weeks. We need an Acting Tribune for the march out."

  He looked around the table. "I am recommending Prefect Cato Martis Testa for the position."

  The silence that followed was long and heavy. Lady Valencia’s expression didn't change, but her fingers drummed once against the table. Tiberius's eyes moved between Cato and Severus, thoughtful. Julius leaned back in his chair, considering.

  Quintus spoke first. "A Forged? Commanding the First Testa regiment?"

  "A veteran officer with twenty-nine years of service, one who has spent fourteen years as Prefect. And one who has commanded operations that lesser men would’ve fallen in."

  "His record is exemplary," Lady Valencia said, her tone measured. "That's not the concern here, Severus, and we all know it. The concern is what this communicates to the Senate and the Empire as a whole. House Testa, an ancient and honored Strata House, field-promoting a Forged to Tribune rank. It tells every noble House watching that we don't have anyone of proper standing to fill the role."

  "We have people of proper standing," Julius interjected. "They're either retired, inexperienced, or unavailable. The other senior EmberBorn officers attached to the regiment lack the experience that justifies such a high level of command; those who do have it are deployed elsewhere. Prefect Martis would be the logical choice."

  "Then recall someone," Quintus said. "Pull a Tribune from another posting. Branch Ferro has two serving in the eastern Legions. Branch Sulla has three officers who have the required command experience in the capital; it would take less than a week to complete the transfer and have one travel here. Why is this even a question?"

  "Recalling senior officers takes time, so does integrating one," Gaius retorted. "Time we don't have. The regiment deploys in five weeks. You want someone unfamiliar with our troops, our officers, and the operational rhythms of our regiment, to take command with that timeline?"

  "I want someone who doesn't make us look desperate," Quintus shot back.

  Tiberius spoke for the first time, his voice calm but firm. "I could take it."

  The table turned to him.

  "I’m EmberBorn," Tiberius continued. "I command the Second Cohort. It would be more politically correct to appoint me as Acting Tribune than Prefect Martis." He paused. "But I'm not the right choice."

  Lady Valencia raised an eyebrow. "You're arguing against your own appointment?"

  "I'm arguing for competence." Tiberius looked directly at her. "I've served beside Cato for many years. When I took a head wound during the assault at Falcon, he went into the mud and saved our line. The troops trust him completely. Every man and woman in that regiment would follow an order from Cato Martis as if it came from Tribune Accardi himself. Without question. Without hesitation."

  He paused, looking at the rest of the table. "I'm damn good at my job. But Prefet Martis has been with the regiment longer. He knows it better. The officers respect him more. If you want us to function smoothly while our Scion testifies, you appoint him. Not me."

  "That's remarkably selfless," Julius murmured. There was no irony in his tone — it carried genuine respect.

  "It’s practical, the regiment needs stability. Cato provides that better than I would."

  "The political optics remain," Lady Valencia interjected. "Other Houses will see this. Consular Houses already look for weaknesses in Strata like ourselves. This gives them ammunition."

  "Let them talk," Severus said. "We're not making decisions based on what the bastards of House Kasio think of our internal command structure; they’re cowards. We're making decisions based on what keeps our forces functional and our troops alive."

  "That's idealistic," Quintus muttered.

  "That's logical." Severus's voice came as a growl. "Tribune Accardi is needed to testify. The Blood-Debate has a high precedent to be granted from said testimony. That could take weeks, possibly months, depending on the Senate’s scheduling. We need someone who can lead immediately, who knows the regiment, and who the troops will follow without disruption." He looked at Quintus with malice. "Prefect Martis is that person. His caste is a political inconvenience. His competence is a tactical necessity."

  Lady Valencia studied Cato directly for the first time. "Prefect, you understand what this appointment means? Not just for you, but for how it can reflect on the House as a whole?"

  He met her eyes. "I understand, Lady Valencia. But I also understand that the regiment needs leadership, not political theater. I know what needs to be done. And I know how to do it. I can keep them alive. That matters more than optics."

  "Does it?" she asked. "If other Houses see weakness, they press. That affects trade agreements, Senate negotiations, alliance structures. Military competence doesn't exist in a vacuum."

  "Neither does military failure," Julius said quietly. "If we appoint someone inexperienced because they have the right caste mark, and the regiment suffers for it, that's a different kind of weakness. One written in the blood of House Testa."

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Quintus shook his head, making an exasperated grunt. "We are Strata; our very nobility is written in the blood of this House. Why are we sacrificing our standing in the Senate for convenience?"

  "We're prioritizing function over appearance," Gaius retorted, his voice cold. "There is a difference, nephew."

  The debate continued for several more minutes. Casia questioned whether the stigma could be mitigated through careful Senate messaging. Julius correctly pointed out that if the Blood-Debate went well, the victory had a high chance to overshadow the command decision entirely.

  Through it all, Severus remained steady, redirecting objections and reinforcing the central argument: the regiment needed someone competent, experienced, and immediately available. They needed Cato.

  Finally, Lady Valencia raised a hand. The table quieted.

  "I don't love this," she said bluntly. "It’ll carry stigma. But I also don't love the alternatives." She looked at Him. "Can you lead the Testa regiment, Prefect?"

  "Yes, Lady."

  "And you'll revert command when Tribune Accardi returns?"

  "Without hesitation."

  She absorbed that. Then nodded once. "Branch Ferro supports the appointment. With the condition that it's temporary and explicit."

  Tiberius spoke next. "Branch Hadrian supports it as well."

  Julius nodded. "Branch Sulla concurs."

  Severus looked at Quintus. "Branch Accardi?"

  Quintus was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed. "I still think we're making a mistake. But I won't attempt to block it."

  "Then it's settled." Severus turned to him. "Prefect Cato Martis Testa, you are hereby appointed Acting Tribune of House Testa's primary regiment, effective immediately. You will lead the regiment through its next rotation and return command to Tribune Accardi upon the conclusion of his Senate testimony. Do you accept?"

  Cato straightened. "I accept, my lord."

  The council dispersed.

  Cato stood near the table as members filed out. Lady Valencia nodded to him once before leaving with Julius, already discussing Blood-Debate strategy. Tiberius clasped his shoulder briefly. "You'll do well, don’t pay them mind, my friend."

  "Thank you."

  Quintus left without looking at him. Gaius paused, studying him, then nodded and walked out.

  Acting Tribune.

  "Cato."

  He turned. Decian was standing near the windows.

  "Sir."

  "Walk with me, please." The Tribune gestured out the door.

  They moved into the corridor outside, boots echoing on stone. Morning light filtered through the high windows along the administrative wing. Estate workers passed carrying supplies for the day's business.

  Decian walked in silence before speaking. "You understand what you're taking on."

  "I do, sir."

  "Five thousand troops. Two infantry cohorts. Two cavalry wings. Support staff, logistics, medical, all of it. Everything falls to you while I'm in the capital."

  "I've been watching you command for years, sir. I know how the regiment functions."

  "Watching isn't doing."

  "No, sir. But I've done it at the cohort level. It’s a larger scale than I’m used to, same principles though."

  “The regiment has held together on more than one occasion because you knew what to do."

  "That's the job, sir."

  "It’s my job. And you did it anyway."

  They reached a junction in the corridor. Decian stopped to face him fully.

  “You were right in there; the regiment trusts you, that matters more than what they’re worried about." He paused. "Don't let their concerns about caste get in your head. You're Acting Tribune because you earned it. Not because we're desperate."

  Cato met his eyes. "I won't let the House down."

  "I know you won’t. Everyone needs to be back here one week before the march to prepare for deployment. I'll brief you on the most current operational needs and command protocols at your estate before I leave."

  "Where are we deploying?"

  "High Command hasn't issued orders yet. Could be anywhere, really, the Empire’s been volatile."

  Cato absorbed that. An unknown deployment with the weight of five thousand troops looking to him for leadership.

  "Bring them home, Cato." Decian's expression was unreadable. "That's all that matters."

  "I will, Decian."

  Decian nodded once. Then he turned and walked back toward the family wing.

  Cato stood alone in the corridor for a moment, processing it all.

  He had four weeks with his family. After that, he would deal with the regiment. He turned and walked toward his own rooms. There was work to prepare for before he had the luxury of going home.

  Decian was reviewing troop manifests when the knock came at his door.

  "Enter."

  A servant stepped through. "My lord, Lord Accardi requests your presence in his planning room."

  "Now?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  Decian set down the manifest and stood, thoughtful. His father rarely called private meetings.

  He walked through the estate corridors, passing officers and family members preparing for departure. The regiment would form up in the main courtyard within the hour. Most of those leaving had already said their goodbyes, gathered their gear, and were ready to march back to the trains.

  The planning room sat in the administrative wing, a smaller chamber Severus used for Senate work. Maps covered one wall. Ledgers lined the shelves. A single blackwood desk dominated most of the space, worn smooth from decades of use.

  His father stood near one of the massive bookshelves, looking at the ledgers stacked to the ceiling. Still in his formal robes, hands clasped behind his back.

  "Father."

  Severus turned. "Decian. Sit."

  Decian moved to one of the chairs near the desk but didn't sit immediately. "Is this about the testimony?"

  "No, my son." Severus crossed to the desk and poured two cups of wine from a decanter. He handed one to Decian. "Sit. Please."

  Decian took the cup and sat. His father settled into the chair across from him.

  They drank in silence for a moment. The wine was good — a vintage from deep in the cellar, the kind saved for important occasions. This was something personal.

  "I haven't had time to speak with you properly. Not as your father. Everything has been politics and war since you arrived yesterday."

  He nodded but said nothing.

  "I commanded the regiment for fifteen years before I took my Senate seat," Severus continued. His voice was quieter now, less formal. "I know what it costs. The weight of it. Every decision, every casualty report, every name that doesn't come home." He paused. "I know it better than most."

  "Yes, Father."

  Severus studied him across the desk. Not with the shrewdness of a politician's eyes. With a father's.

  "I see how you're carrying it now," he said quietly. "Different than before. Heavier."

  Decian's grip tightened slightly on the cup. "I'm managing."

  "Are you?"

  The question hung in the air between them. Decian wanted to deflect it, give the practiced answer, maintain the performance. But his father had held command. Had burned friends to ash along the frontlines. Had made the same decisions Decian made every day.

  "I don't know.”

  Severus nodded slowly. "Lucius was my baby brother, the last of my own father's children. I watched him grow up, taught him to fight, saw him take his Exustus trials and earn his caste mark." He exhaled. "Thirteen from Branch Accardi. Thirteen names I've known since they were children. That sits with me, Decian. Every day."

  "I gave the order."

  "You followed the order you were given," Severus said not unkindly. "Legate Kasio wasted Accardi life for pride. That's why we’re bringing this complaint. That's why we're pushing for the Blood-Debate." His voice hardened slightly. "But you — you brought them into battle, and you brought as many as you could home. That's what command is."

  Decian looked down at his wine. "Seventeen out of thirty."

  "Seventeen who would be dead without you." Severus leaned forward. "I'm not telling you the weight goes away. It doesn't. I carried it for most of my service, and I still carry it now. Every name from my campaigns is written in my memory just as clearly as it's written in these ledgers. But what you're doing — letting it consume you, using stimulants just to function, performing instead of living — that's not sustainable."

  "I know."

  "Then why are you still doing it?"

  Decian met his father's eyes. "Because I don't know how to do anything else. I’ve been prepared for this my entire life, and I still feel lost."

  The admission cut deeper than he'd expected.

  "You're my son," Severus responded quietly. "You're the Scion of Branch Accardi — the very future of this House. And I'm proud of you — so much prouder than I can ever properly express. But you’ve been carrying the weight of regimental command around you like a mantel, Decian. Four years is too long without relief."

  "There is no relief, Father. Not for us. Not for Strata."

  "No. There isn't." Severus's expression was grim. "We don't have the luxury of Lineal Houses. We can't fall back on ancient bloodlines as proof of our nobility. Nor do we possess the Senate property and influence of Consular Houses if our banners fail. Everything that we hold — every estate, every foundry, every acre of land — we hold because we’ve bled for it. Generation after generation. If we stop bleeding, we stop being noble."

  He took a drink. "That's the cost of being Strata. Our nobility isn't inherited. It’s proven with every casualty report that’s sent back with our names on it. They buy all that we have."

  "I know that."

  "Then you know why the weight never lifts." Severus's voice carried the weariness of someone who'd lived this truth for decades. "When I commanded the regiment, I lost friends. Brothers-in-arms. Blood relatives. Some of them died because I made the right tactical decision. Others died because I made mistakes. Both felt the same."

  He paused. "But I kept commanding. Because that's what an Accardi does. That’s what a member of House Testa does. That is what we, as Strata, are expected to do. We carry the weight until we can't anymore, and then we hand it to the next generation and hope we've prepared them well enough to bear it."

  Decian felt something crack in his chest. The numbness he'd carried since Alpha was still there, but underneath it, he could feel something else. Grief. Exhaustion. The human cost of being what his House needed him to be.

  "How did you do it?" he asked tiredly. "Fifteen years. How did you possibly carry it for so long?"

  His father looked at him for a long moment. "I found things worth fighting for beyond just survival. When my blood died — when any under my command died for something pointless — I made sure their deaths meant something. That House Testa advanced. That we gained ground, secured resources, or strengthened our position." He leaned back in his chair. "I turned the weight into purpose. Made their sacrifice part of something larger than just one operation."

  "And when the purpose wasn't enough?"

  "Then I drank." Severus's smile was bitter. "Or I drilled. Or I threw myself into Senate politics, so I didn't have time to think about it. The mechanisms are irrelevant, Decian. What matters is that you keep functioning, keep moving forward, no matter what. Because the alternative — breaking under the weight — that's not an option for us."

  Decian absorbed that. The brutal honesty of it. His father wasn't offering comfort or reassurance. He was offering the truth of what it meant to be Strata nobility. To carry a burden that never lifted, using whatever methods kept you upright long enough to pass it on.

  "The stimulants?"

  "I used them too. Differing reasons, but same purpose. They're a tool. Like any other. But tools can become crutches. And crutches can become chains."

  "I know."

  "Do you?" Severus's voice sharpened as he met his eyes. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're using them to avoid dealing with what command has done to you. You're performing instead of actually functioning. And that works for a while, my son. But eventually, the cracks show. Eventually, you break."

  "I can't afford to break."

  "No. You cannot." Severus stood and moved to the map wall, pointing at Alpha Sector along the northern front. "Which is why you need something to focus on beyond just enduring. Something that gives the weight meaning."

  He turned back to Decian. "The Blood-Debate will happen. We have precedent, we have standing, and we have testimony that will strip House Kasio bare in front of the Senate. When we win — and we will win — they will pay a blood price for what they took from us. Property. Resources. Coin. Something substantial that says Accardi life has value."

  Severus's voice hardened. "That's what you need to focus on now. Not the weight. Not the cost. Avenging the members of the Accardi line who bled out in the trenches of Alpha. Making House Kasio answer for wasting our blood. Turning thirteen deaths into something that strengthens this House for the next generation."

  Decian stood slowly. "And after that?"

  "After that, we endure, and you find something else to help direct you." Severus crossed to him. "But first, we make them pay. For Lucius. For all thirteen. For every drop of Accardi blood they wasted because a seatborn Legate wanted to show off his tactical brilliance."

  The fire in his father's voice cut through the numbness further.

  "The Senate will try to minimize it," Decian said. "Call it acceptable losses. Standard operational casualties."

  "Let them try." Severus's smile was cold as he gripped Decian's shoulder. "You're not testifying as a Tribune filing reports. You're testifying as a son who lost family. As a brother who watched his sister nearly die. As a Scion who had to write letters to families of his House telling them their loved ones who rode into that charge did not ride out. The Senate needs to see what this costs us. What it has cost you."

  Decian felt something shift inside him. Purpose. Direction. Not healing — he wasn't naive enough to think that was possible yet. But something to channel the weight into beyond just carrying it.

  "Yes, Father."

  Severus pulled him into an embrace. Long and solid. When he released him, his expression had softened.

  "You're stronger than you think, Decian. Stronger than I was at your age. You've kept the regiment together through operations that should have destroyed it. You've maintained Doctrinal alignment under conditions that would have caused drift in lesser commanders." He paused. "But strength isn't the same as invincibility. Accepting that makes you human."

  "Strata aren't allowed to be human. We are supposed to be the flame of Doctrine that never goes out."

  "We are human. We just don't have the luxury of showing it publicly. But here, in this room, with your father, you don't have to perform. The weight is real. The cost is real. And admitting that doesn't diminish what you've accomplished."

  Decian nodded slowly. He wanted to believe that. Wanted to think that acknowledging the cracks didn't mean he was failing. But four years of command had taught him that showing weakness — even privately — felt like betraying the troops who depended on him.

  "The regiment is forming up," Severus said, moving toward the door. "You should be there for the departure. Cato will do well, but they need to see you transfer command properly."

  His father paused at the door, looking back. "You are the future, my son, and the House will stand behind you as that future.”

  "Thank you, Father."

  He left. Decian stood alone in the planning room, looking at the maps on the wall.

  Focusing on Alpha Sector. The trenches where Lucius died. Where thirteen names were erased from the ledger.

  He finished his wine and set the cup down.

  The regiment was waiting.