The courtyard baked under the afternoon sun.

  Varro stood in formation with Second Battalion, sweat gathering under his cuirass despite the shade from the walls. Forty-five hundred troops packed the space in perfect ranks.

  The galleries above were filled with those House members who remained on the estate. Witnesses to the transfer.

  There was movement at the main hall's entrance. Tribune Accardi emerged, crossing toward the platform at the courtyard's center. Uncle Cato followed a step behind. Varro watched them both — the Tribune moving with mechanical precision, his uncle steady and calm despite the weight about to settle on him.

  The formation snapped to attention. Varro's fist crashed into his collarbone with the others.

  "At ease," Decian said.

  The ranks relaxed. Varro kept his eyes forward, but his attention was locked on the platform.

  The Tribune's voice carried across the courtyard. "As many of you will know by now, I am to be called to the capital for Senate testimony before our regiment marches out. I do not know how long I will be gone. During my absence, command passes to Acting Tribune Cato Martis Testa." Decian gestured toward Cato. "He has served the Empire for nearly three decades, with an exemplary record and strict adherence to the Core Doctrine. Prefect Martis, do you accept this temporary transfer of command?

  A pause. The courtyard was silent, except for the distant sounds of the Accardi estate.

  Uncle Cato stepped forward. His voice was steady, clear. "I accept command, Tribune Accardi."

  "Then it is done." Decian turned back to the regiment. His expression was flat, controlled. "Follow Acting Tribune Martis with the same tenacity you would follow me. He will bring you home."

  The words settled over the formation like iron chains.

  Cato moved to the platform's center as Decian stepped back. "First Testa Regiment. You've earned this rest. Take it, and enjoy it. Common levied citizens will remain billeted on Accardi grounds. House members and vassal-class citizens will disperse to your own estates — you have four weeks home, be prepared to report back to the Accardi estate for final preparations one week before we are due to rotate. When deployment orders arrive, we march.” He gave them a sharp salute.

  The regiment saluted back to their new Acting Tribune.

  "DISMISSED!"

  The formation broke.

  Varro stayed in place for a moment as the courtyard dissolved into movement. Common citizens — those completing levied service terms, drawn from provinces across the Empire — began moving toward the eastern billets. Around twenty-two hundred of them. They'd spend leave here, working light estate duties or simply resting before the next deployment.

  The rest started organizing by branch. House members and the Vassals attached to them formed departure groups based on the estate they were heading to.

  Varro shouldered his pack and scanned the chaos. Other officers were already moving — Ferro heading west, Hadrian south, Sulla east.

  "Martis group, northern corner!" someone called.

  He started walking. His legs felt strange after standing in formation. Lighter. Like his body understood before his mind did that they were actually leaving.

  The Martis contingent was already half-formed when he arrived. Seven other officers — cousins from various branch lines, mostly younger than him. Beyond them, vassal soldiers were loading the supply wagons. Over four hundred of them, career soldiers from various vassal-class Houses who'd earned their elevated status through multiple generations of service and attached themselves to Martis holdings.

  Levius Martis spotted him and waved. One of his younger cousins, a lieutenant in the Fourth Battalion; still bright-eyed despite eight weeks at Falcon. "Centurion! Thought you'd gotten lost."

  "Just taking it all in, Lev."

  "Well, take it in faster. We move in thirty minutes." Levius gestured toward the wagons. "Uncle Cato's staying a few days to coordinate with the command staff. We're the first wave out."

  Varro nodded, looking out through the gates. "Hey," Levius’ grin faded slightly. "You good? You've been quiet since formation."

  "Just thinking about home." Varro glanced back toward the platform. Decian still stood there, watching the dispersal. Alone now. "It’s my First time back in nearly five years."

  "Damn. Your parents are going to lose it." Levius clapped his shoulder. "Come on, let's get loaded before they leave without us."

  Varro followed him toward the wagons. Vassal and branch soldiers moved between the mounts lashed in front of the wagons, checking harnesses and finding spots to tie down gear. One of them — a grizzled woman with gray threading through her dark hair — nodded to him as he passed.

  "Sir. Good to be heading home?"

  "Yes, Sergeant."

  "It’s been a long time." She hefted another pack into the wagon. "Lord Martis will be glad to see you."

  Varro wondered if that was true. If his father were to see him, or just see what the last five years had turned him into. Command school. Battalion command at Falcon. Ninety-eight names in his ledger.

  He shook the thought off and grabbed a rope to help secure the load.

  Once it was tied down tight, Varro climbed into the wagon and found a spot near the front. Levius settled in across from him. Two other Martis officers — cousins he recognized but didn't know well — took positions nearby.

  The driver called out on the radio from his seat before the wagon lurched forward.

  They rolled through the northern gate and out onto the estate grounds. Varro looked back once. The main courtyard was still visible through the gate, half-empty now.

  Tribune Accardi was nowhere to be seen.

  The wagon picked up speed as they hit the main road heading north toward the mountain passes. Toward the hidden valleys. Toward home.

  Varro exhaled slowly and let himself lean back against the wagon side. For the first time in months, the weight in his chest started to disappear.

  He thought of his baby sister, born shortly after he departed for his War College posting.

  Four years old. Appia would be four years old now.

  He'd never met his sister.

  "You sure you’re alright, Var?" Levis asked quietly.

  "Yeah." He watched the Accardi estate shrink behind them before turning and smiling at his cousin. "Just ready to go home, Lev."

  The valley opened ahead like a fresco.

  Varro sat forward in the lead wagon as they crested the final pass, seeing the Martis holdings spread below for the first time in five years. Fields stretched across the valley floor in perfect geometric patterns — wheat, barley, various summer vegetables in organized rows that spoke of careful planning and wealth. Beyond them, orchards climbed the hillsides in neat lines, apple and peach trees heavy with late-season fruit.

  The estate itself dominated the valley's center. Stone walls enclosed a compound that rivaled some of the provincial bastions Varro had seen during his mandatory service. Granaries rose above the walls, their copper-sheathed roofs catching the afternoon sun. Processing buildings clustered near the eastern side — mills, warehouses, what looked like new construction since he'd left. And there, visible near the western edge, the distinctive copper stills of the estate brewery.

  "Damn," Levius breathed beside him. "They've expanded."

  Varro nodded. Branch Martis was a trade branch of House Testa — managing supply routes, coordinating agricultural surplus, and negotiating resource agreements across the northern provinces on behalf of the House. The wealth that was generated from their role was on full display. Five years ago, the compound had been impressive. Now it was sprawling.

  The wagon train descended into the valley, passing through fields where workers paused to watch them approach. Common citizens in the Martis colors of deep maroon and black, tending crops that would feed House Testa holdings across the region. Some waved. Others just stared.

  They reached the estate gates twenty minutes later. Iron-bound wood, flanked by guard towers that were decorative more than defensive, this far from any front. The gates stood open, estate guards in polished armor standing at attention as the convoy rolled through.

  Inside, the grounds were immaculate. Cobblestone paths. Manicured gardens. Buildings arranged with the same geometric precision as the fields outside. Servants moved between structures carrying supplies, coordinating duties, and managing the upheaval of four hundred soldiers returning home.

  The convoy turned toward the eastern courtyard. Smaller than the main yard at the Accardi estate, but still large enough to hold the full Martis contingent. As they approached, Varro could see people assembling — senior estate staff, minor line family members, Vassal House representatives.

  And at the center, waiting near the courtyard entrance: his parents.

  The wagon rolled to a stop. Varro grabbed his pack and climbed down, boots hitting stone that felt both familiar and foreign.

  Lord Appius Martis Testa stood with his wife near the front of the assembled group. Early forties, blonde hair tied back in the formal style of Strata nobility. He wore a deep wine tunic with charcoal stripes running down it under a polished half-cuirass — not full military dress, but enough to mark him as EmberBorn caste and a Lord of House Testa. Gold rings glittered on his fingers. A thick chain with the Martis crest hung at his throat.

  Lady Zalinia stood beside him in a gown of burgundy silk, red hair braided and pinned with silver. Emeralds at her ears and throat caught the light. She'd married into Branch Martis from Branch Ferro, and she wore that connection proudly. The sharp, assessing look in her eyes was pure Strata.

  Between them, partially hidden behind her mother's skirts, a small girl watched the arriving soldiers sheepishly.

  Appia. His baby sister, completely unknown to him.

  Behind his parents, other Martis family members assembled — uncles, aunts, cousins from minor lines attached to the branch.

  The other officers climbed down from their wagons. The soldiers formed up in loose ranks. Varro moved to stand with Levius and the other Martis officers, straightening his cuirass and adjusting his scarlet sash.

  Appius stepped forward. His voice carried across the courtyard. “Officers and soldiers of Branch Martis. Welcome home."

  He raised his hand in salute — fist to collarbone, the acknowledgment of service. Zalinia matched it. Behind them, the assembled family and staff did the same.

  Varro and the other officers returned it. The troops followed.

  "You have served House Testa with adherence to Doctrine," Appius continued. "Your service honors my family and your own. Rest well. You've earned it."

  The formality held for another moment. Then Appius's expression shifted — still controlled, but warmer. "Dismissed to your quarters. Estate staff will see to your needs."

  The formation broke. Vassal soldiers began dispersing toward their billets, guided by estate staff or the members of their own Houses welcoming them home. Minor line family members moved to greet their own returning relatives in the ranks. The courtyard filled with the sounds of homecoming.

  Appius and Zalinia crossed directly toward Varro.

  His father stopped a pace away, studying him. Five years. Varro could see his father calculating the changes — the way he stood, the controlled precision in his movements, the Centurion's sash, the look in his eyes that came from giving orders men died following.

  "Varro." Appius's voice was steady. "You look well."

  "Father." Varro kept his tone even. "Mother."

  Zalinia stepped forward and pulled him into an embrace. Holding him close. When she released him, her eyes were wet, but her composure held. “My son, you've grown into command."

  "I've tried to, Mother."

  Appius clasped his shoulder. The grip was firm, assessing. "Centurion. Your letters said you commanded at Falcon. You held Battalion strength?"

  "Second Battalion, First Cohort. Under Prefect Martis."

  "Casualties?"

  The question was direct. Military. Varro met his father's eyes. "Ninety-eight over the rotation."

  Appius absorbed that. Something shifted in his expression — approval, acknowledgment. He'd served seven years in the Crucible before transitioning to trade management. He knew what those numbers meant. "Acceptable losses for sustained defensive operations."

  "Yes, sir."

  A small tug at Varro's leg broke the moment. He looked down.

  Appia stood there, one hand still gripping her mother's skirt, the other holding onto his pants tentatively. Big eyes, red hair like their mother's, dressed in a tiny embroidered gown that probably cost more than a common soldier's yearly stipend.

  "Are you my brother?" Her voice was small, uncertain.

  Varro crouched down to her level. "I am, little one. My name is Varro."

  She studied him seriously. "You're big."

  "And you are small."

  "Mama says you were gone fighting."

  "I was." He didn't know what else to say to a four-year-old. "But I'm home now."

  "For how long?"

  The question hit differently than he expected. Zalinia's hand touched Appia's shoulder gently. "A month, sweetheart. Then your brother has to go back."

  Appia absorbed that with the strange acceptance of children. "Okay."

  She let go of her mother's skirt and took a step closer to Varro, reaching down to pick up the Centurion's sash hanging from his cuirass. "This is pretty."

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  "It means I'm an officer in the Empire's Crucible."

  "Like Papa was?"

  "Yes. Like Papa was."

  She seemed satisfied with that and stepped back. Varro straightened, feeling the weight of his parents' eyes on him.

  "Come," Appius said. "Let's get you settled. We kept your rooms, but we've... updated things."

  They walked toward the main compound, leaving the courtyard behind. Varro noticed the staff watching him differently than they had before. Bowing deeper. Making space. One older servant — Cordius, who'd taught him to duel when he was young — saluted as they passed instead of offering the familiar nod he used to give.

  "Cordius," Varro acknowledged.

  "Centurion." The old man's voice carried respect that hadn't been there before. "Welcome home, sir."

  Sir. Not 'young lord' or 'Master Varro.' Just sir.

  They entered the family wing through the eastern entrance. The halls were exactly as he remembered — painted with pastoral scenes of trees and fields, the artistic representation of Martis wealth and function. But the furniture was new. Richer. The carpets thicker. Five years of successful trade negotiations showed in every detail.

  "You've done well," Varro said quietly.

  "We have." Appius's tone carried pride. "House Testa's northern trade routes have expanded significantly. We negotiated new agreements with three provincial bastions. The surplus we're generating..." He trailed off, glancing at Varro. "But you don't want to hear about trade logistics right now."

  "It's good to hear, father. Really."

  They reached his quarters. The door opened to reveal rooms that were familiar in layout but transformed in detail. The bed was new, larger. The desk had been replaced with a planning table and cushioned seats made of rosewood. His old training weapons were gone from the wall rack, replaced with silver-enameled ceremonial blades he'd never seen before.

  "We kept your things," Zalinia said softly. "But we thought... given your rank now..."

  "It's perfect, mother. Thank you."

  Appius set Varro's pack down near the door. "Rest. Clean up. We'll have dinner in the family wing tonight. Just us. Tomorrow, you can see the rest of the estate."

  "Yes, sir."

  His father paused at the door. "Varro. I'm..." He stopped, searching for words. "I'm proud of you. Your mother and I both are. You brought your men home. That's... that's good command, son."

  The acknowledgment settled into Varro's chest. "Thank you, father."

  They left. Appia waved at him from the hallway before Zalinia guided her away.

  Varro stood alone in his quarters. The weight that had lifted since the departure ceremony was gone completely now. But something else had settled in its place. It felt… strange.

  He was home. His parents were proud. His sister existed.

  But the Cordius who'd taught him how to swing a blade now called him sir. The rooms were his, but transformed. His father calculated casualties before asking how he felt.

  Everything was right. Everything was different.

  He sat on the edge of the new bed and stared at the painted trees on the walls.

  Five years. He'd left as a soldier heading to command school.

  He'd come back as someone else entirely.

  The family's dining room felt smaller.

  He stood in the doorway, freshly washed and wearing clean robes from his wardrobe. Oil lamps hung from iron brackets, casting warm light across a table set for four.

  His parents were already seated. Appia sat in a high-backed chair between them, legs swinging because her feet didn't reach the floor.

  "Varro," Zalinia said, gesturing to the empty seat across from her. "Sit. Please."

  He crossed to the chair and sat. The table was laid with silver plates and crystal glasses. Estate staff moved quietly along the edges of the room, preparing to serve.

  Appius lifted a decanter and poured dark amber liquid into Varro's glass. "Apple brandy. From last year's harvest."

  Varro took the glass and drank. The liquor burned going down, smooth and sweet with a bite at the end. He could taste the estate in it — the orchards, the copper stills, the wealth that Branch Martis had built through careful trade.

  "Good?" Appius asked.

  "Very, and refreshing, after the rotgut on the front."

  The first course arrived. A delicate soup of vegetables and herbs in a clear broth. Varro ate mechanically at first, still adjusting to the strangeness of sitting at a table with his family instead of in a mess tent with his officers.

  Appia watched him over the rim of her bowl. Her spoon was too big for her hands.

  "Do soldiers eat soup?" she asked suddenly.

  Varro blinked. "Sometimes. Usually it's not this good."

  "What do you eat normally?"

  "Rations, mostly. Bread, dried meat, beans, rice. Things that travel well."

  She wrinkled her nose. "That sounds bad."

  "It’s not the best, but we make do.”

  Zalinia smiled slightly. "Appia, let your brother eat."

  "I'm just asking."

  "I know, dear."

  The second course came. Roasted pork with glazed root vegetables, thick gravy, and fresh bread still warm from the estate ovens. Appius refilled Varro's glass without asking.

  "How was the rotation?" his father asked. "Your letters were distant."

  "It was… different. I spent eight weeks in Falcon Sector. Mostly routine — probing attacks, occasional assaults. One major breach that we were able to contain."

  "Your battalion held?"

  "Yes, sir. They fought well and held the line. We integrated reinforcements with the troops that remained from the previous regiment, and our section was maintained without major losses."

  Appius absorbed that. "Ninety-eight casualties over eight weeks. That's..."

  "Acceptable for sustained defensive operations," Varro finished. "I know."

  "I wasn't going to say acceptable." Appius met his eyes. "I was going to say it sits with you."

  Varro paused, fork halfway to his mouth. His father's expression was steady, understanding.

  "It does," he admitted quietly.

  "I commanded a platoon for three years," Appius said. "A hundred and fifty troops. Lost over fifty of them across various tours. I remember every name." He took a drink. "Battalion command is a different scale, but the weight is the same."

  Zalinia leaned forward slightly. "I served as a medical officer for my mandatory service, and even that still sits with me." Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "You brought six hundred and fifty home, Varro. That matters."

  Varro looked between them. His parents. Strata nobility who'd both served their terms and understood at least part of what he'd lived through.

  "It's not what I imagined. Being the one who gives the orders. When I was a soldier, I followed commands. Trusted my superiors to make the right calls. But at Falcon..." He paused, searching for words. "At Falcon, I was the one making those calls. Deciding which platoon goes where. Which breach to seal. Who leads the containment. Who goes into the abyss."

  "And when they don't come back?" Appius asked quietly.

  "Then I write the reports. Add their names to the ledger. And keep commanding."

  The table was silent for a moment. Even Appia had stopped eating, sensing the weight in the conversation without understanding it.

  "That's what separates soldiers from officers," Appius said finally. "Soldiers follow orders and live with what happens. Officers give orders and live with what they cost. Command school teaches you tactics and Doctrine. The Crucible teaches you reality."

  "Yes, sir."

  Zalinia reached across the table and squeezed Varro's hand briefly. "You're home now. For a month. Let yourself rest."

  He smiled at her. "I plan to, Mother."

  The third course arrived. Braised pheasant in berry sauce, more vegetables, and another round of bread. Appius kept refilling Varro's glass. The apple brandy was starting to work — warmth spreading through his chest, the edges of everything softening slightly.

  Appia had finished eating and was now just watching Varro with open curiosity.

  "Do you have a sword?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "A big one?"

  "Just a standard officer's saber. It's in my rooms."

  "Can I see it?"

  "Appia," Zalinia said gently.

  "What? I just want to see it."

  "I’ll show you tomorrow, little one," Varro said. "If Mother says it's alright."

  Appia looked at Zalinia hopefully. Their mother sighed. "We'll see."

  The conversation shifted to lighter topics as the meal continued. His father talked about the new trade agreements with provincial bastions — resource allocations, transport routes, the endless negotiations that kept House Testa supplied and prosperous. While his mother discussed estate management, the expansion of the orchards, and the new copper stills they'd installed at the brewery.

  Varro listened, drinking steadily, feeling the strangeness from earlier fade under the warmth of family and alcohol. This was surreal — sitting here talking about harvest yields and trade contracts after months of casualty reports and trench rotations. But it was also comforting.

  "The peach harvest this year was exceptional," Appius was saying. "We're producing twice the brandy we did last season. The northern bastions are already placing orders for next year."

  "That's good," Varro said. The words felt hollow, but he meant them. His father's pride in the estate's success was real, even if he couldn't quite connect with it yet.

  "It funds the House," His father said, as if reading his thoughts. "Every denarius and aureus we make in trade goes toward supporting the regiment, maintaining the estates, and keeping our banners in the field. It's not the Crucible, but it's how we endure."

  "I apologize, Father."

  Appia had started to drowse in her chair, head nodding forward. Zalinia noticed and stood. "Come on, sweetheart. Time for bed."

  "But I want to stay with Varro," Appia mumbled.

  "He'll be here tomorrow. And the day after that." Zalinia lifted her gently. "Say goodnight to your brother."

  Appia raised her head and waved sleepily. "Goodnight, Varro."

  "Goodnight, Appia."

  Zalinia carried her out. Appius refilled both their glasses.

  "She's a good kid," Varro said.

  "She is. Your mother had complications when you were born, as you know. The doctors at the House infirmary said she couldn't have more children." Appius stared into his glass. "Appia was unexpected. A gift."

  "She seems happy."

  "She is. Doesn't understand the world yet. Doesn't know what House Testa is built on." He looked at Varro. "But you do now."

  "Yes, sir."

  They drank in silence for a moment. The apple brandy had reached the point where everything felt slightly distant.

  "How does it feel? Being back?"

  Varro thought about it. "Strange. Good, but strange. Everything's changed. The estate and staff. Appia is here. You and Mother seem... older."

  "We are older. Five years is a long time."

  "I know. But I didn't feel it passing. Command School was so long, and Falcon felt longer. It all just… happened. And now I'm here, and it's like I stepped out of one world into another."

  "That's because you did." Appius leaned back in his chair. "The Crucible is a different world, Varro. Always moving, always fighting, always counting bodies. Coming home feels wrong because it's too still. Too quiet."

  "You took the words out of my head."

  "It gets easier. You remember how to exist here. How to be a son instead of an officer. How to care about harvest yields and trade negotiations instead of casualty reports." He paused. "But it takes time."

  Varro nodded, taking another drink. His head was pleasantly fuzzy now. The strangeness was still there, but muted under alcohol and family warmth.

  "Thank you, Father."

  "For what?"

  "For understanding. For not..." Varro trailed off, searching. "For not expecting me to just be the same."

  Appius' expression softened. "You're not the same, son. You left as a soldier. You came back as an officer who commands them. That changes you. I know it. Your mother knows it. We don't expect you to be the boy who left for command school."

  The door opened. Zalinia returned, settling back into her seat. "She's asleep. Asked if Varro would still be here in the morning."

  "What did you tell her?" Varro asked.

  "That you would be. That you'd be here for a month." Zalinia poured herself more brandy. "She's never had a sibling before. This is all new to her."

  "It's new for me too."

  They sat together as the lamps burned lower, talking about nothing important. Estate gossip, family news, the mundane details of life in the homelands. Varro drank and listened and felt himself relaxing for the first time in months.

  Eventually, Appius stood. "It's late. We should let you rest."

  Varro rose as well, slightly unsteady. The brandy had done its work.

  "Thank you for dinner," he said. "For... all of this."

  Zalinia embraced him again. "You're home, Varro. Let yourself be home."

  "Of course, Mother."

  Appius clasped his shoulder. "Tomorrow, I'll show you the orchards. The new expansion. If you're interested."

  "I would like that."

  They left. Varro stood alone in the dining room for a moment, looking at the painted trees on the walls, the empty plates, the half-full decanter of apple brandy.

  The Crucible felt very far away.

  He walked back to his quarters, thoroughly drunk, and collapsed onto the new bed without bothering to undress.

  Varro woke to sunlight streaming through the windows.

  His head felt thick, foggy from the brandy. He sat up slowly, waiting for the room to settle, then crossed to the wash basin and splashed cold water on his face. Better. Not perfect, but functional.

  He pulled off his clothes from last night and dressed in clean robes, then paused at the weapons rack. The ceremonial blades hung there, silver-enameled and decorative. His actual saber sat propped against the wall near his pack — worn leather scabbard, simple crossguard, the blade he'd carried since earning his commission.

  He strapped it on. The weight settled against his hip, familiar and grounding. Even here, even home, it felt wrong to walk around unarmed.

  The gardens were on the southern side of the family wing, accessible through a set of glass doors that opened onto a stone path. Varro stepped outside into the morning air that smelled like flowers and earth.

  The greenery sprawled before him — manicured beds of roses and lilies, bushes heavy with various late-season berries, paths winding between carefully trimmed hedges. Nothing like the mud and smoke of the frontlines. Just peace. Wealth. The kind of beauty Branch Martis could afford to cultivate.

  His mother and sister were already there, walking along one of the paths. Appia spotted him first.

  "Varro!" She broke away from Zalinia and ran toward him, stopping short when she noticed the saber hanging from his belt. "You brought it!"

  "I did."

  "You said you'd show me."

  "I did indeed say that." Varro glanced at his mother. Zalinia smiled slightly and nodded.

  He drew the blade. Steel whispered against leather as it cleared the scabbard. Morning light caught the edge, sharp and clean. Thirty inches of folded steel, curved slightly for cavalry work, weighted for quick strikes. The fuller ran down the center of the blade, etched with the Martis family crest. An apple tree in full bloom, roots spreading beneath.

  Appia's eyes went wide. "It's so shiny."

  "It was sharpened not too long ago."

  "Can I hold it?"

  "Not yet, little one." Varro knelt to her level, keeping the blade angled away. "This isn't a toy. It's part of my duty."

  "What does it do?"

  "It marks me as an officer in the Crucible, just like my sash. It's how I help my troops come home."

  She studied the blade seriously, reaching out but stopping short of touching it. "Mama says you fight in battles."

  "I do."

  "What's it like? War?"

  Varro glanced up at Zalinia. His mother watched with that same calm expression she'd worn last night — understanding what he was navigating without stepping in.

  "It's..." He searched for words a four-year-old could understand. "It's loud. And hard. And sometimes people get hurt. But it's my job to make sure as many of my soldiers as possible come home safe."

  "Why were you gone so long?"

  "Because the Empire needs soldiers to protect it. And House Testa sends its officers to command those soldiers. That's what our family does."

  Appia absorbed that with her simple logic. "Oh. Okay."

  She leaned closer, looking at the crest etched into the fuller. "What's that?"

  "The Martis family crest. See the tree? That's an apple tree, like the ones in our orchards. It means I am part of Branch Martis."

  "We have lots of trees."

  "We do. And that's important. The estate produces food and trade goods that help fund the House. Our father manages those trade routes. That's his duty. Mine is commanding troops."

  "And the sword helps?"

  "Yes, it does."

  "Can I hold it now?"

  "Not yet. You're far too young."

  She pouted but didn't push. Varro stood, sheathing the blade.

  Zalinia stepped closer, studying him with a mother's eye. "You're wearing it even on leave."

  "Feels strange not to."

  "Every new officer feels more at home with their blade on their hip than without it." She touched his arm lightly. "I remember seeing your father after his first command rotation. He wore his saber everywhere for weeks. To dinner, to bed, probably would've worn it in the bath if I'd let him."

  Varro smiled slightly. "I'm not that bad."

  "Give it time."

  Appia tugged at his robes. "Will you show me how to use it someday?"

  "Only when you're older. Much older."

  "How much older?"

  "At least ten more years, Appia."

  She wrinkled her nose. "That's forever."

  "It'll come faster than you think, you won't even notice it go by."

  Zalinia took Appia's hand gently. "Come on, sweetheart. Let your brother have some peace. We'll see him at the midday meal."

  "But I want to stay with him."

  "He'll still be here later. I promise."

  Appia looked up at Varro. "You promise too?"

  "I promise too."

  She seemed satisfied with that and let Zalinia lead her back toward the main compound. Varro watched them go — his mother's red hair braided and pinned, his sister's matching but loose and wild.

  He stood alone in the garden, hand resting on the pommel of his saber.

  He had a few more weeks of this.

  Walking the gardens with his mother. Showing his sister a blade she was too young to understand. Drinking his father's brandy and talking about harvest yields instead of battle.

  Then he'd go back. Back to the mud and the smoke and the names in his ledger.

  But for now — just for now — he could stand in a garden and let himself be Varro. Not Centurion Martis. Just Varro, son of Appius, brother to a little girl who wanted to hold his sword.

  He turned and walked deeper into the garden, boots crunching on gravel paths, morning sun warm on his shoulders.

  The saber swayed against his hip with every step.