Varro couldn't stop grinning.
The officer's car swayed as the reinforcement train carved its way north through the morning mist, wheels clattering rhythmically against the iron rails. He sat among two dozen officers — Tribunes heading to legionary staff commands, Prefects taking over cohorts, Centurions and Lieutenants spread through the cramped cabin. Some reviewed tactical reports. Others dozed with their heads against wooden walls. A card game occupied the rear corner, coins clinking softly between hands.
He was too excited to do any of it.
Four years. Four years in tactical command school after his mandatory service, studying logistics, command, and Doctrine while the Western Campaigns ground forward without him. Now he finally had his commission. Centurion. Battalion command. Glory was waiting for him at the front, along with a place within the House Testa regiment.
"First command, Centurion?"
The question came from across the aisle. A Prefect — older than he, probably late thirties, with a worn, polished cuirass and the crest of House Cardell stitched to his shoulder — watched him with mild amusement.
Varro straightened slightly. "Yes, sir. House Testa regiment. They just secured Alpha-1-3-7 along the northern front."
"I heard." The Prefect nodded. "Breakthrough operation. Costly, but effective."
"Tribune Decian Accardi commanded it." Varro leaned forward, unable to contain his enthusiasm. "I'm hoping to speak with him — learn from someone who's led successful offensive operations. Branch Martis has high expectations."
A younger officer sitting nearby — another Centurion, maybe a year or two older than Varro, also with the House Cardell crest on his uniform — glanced over. "Martis? A high line of House Testa, correct?"
"Yes." Varro felt the pride straighten his spine further. "My family's served House Testa and the empire for generations. My uncle commands a cohort in the regiment. I want to prove I'm worthy of my name and commission."
The Prefect exchanged a look with the Centurion from his house. Something unreadable passed between them.
"You'll get your chance," the Prefect said quietly.
Varro caught the tone but didn't understand it. He pressed on. "I've been studying the tactical reports from the northern sectors. Combined arms coordination, breakthrough doctrine, and acceptable loss parameters for fortified positions. Command school covered it extensively, but there's no substitute for field experience with officers who've actually executed it."
The other Centurion smiled faintly. "No. No, there isn't."
"Three years of field service taught me how to fight," Varro continued. "My schooling taught me how to lead. Now I get to put both together." He looked between them. "You've both commanded in major operations?"
The Prefect inclined his head. "I have."
"What's it like? Commanding troops in a real offensive?"
The silence stretched longer than Varro expected. The Prefect's expression shifted — something harder settling behind his eyes.
"I am sure you will find out soon enough, Centurion."
The train's whistle screamed. Varro felt the brakes engage, the car shuddering as they decelerated. Officers began gathering their gear, checking weapons, and equipment. The card game broke up. Maps were folded and stowed.
"Northern front officers, disembark at depot Bravo-3," someone called from farther up the car.
Varro stood, adjusting his scarlet Centurion's sash and checking his sidearm. His heart hammered with anticipation.
The reserve depot was organized chaos.
Varro emerged from the train into a staging area that stretched hundreds of yards in every direction. Supply trains unloaded ammunition and rations. Wounded were being transferred to medical transports heading east. Replacement Auxilia troops formed up in neat ranks, awaiting deployment orders. The air smelled of smoke, exhaust, gun oil, and the distant sulfur of artillery strikes.
He found the House Command reinforcement group assembling near the eastern tunnel entrance. Fifteen hundred infantry — fresh cohort strength — standing in formation alongside seven hundred and fifty cavalry troopers with their mounts. Officers moved through the ranks, conducting final equipment checks. Varro spotted a few other lieutenants with the same bright-eyed eagerness he felt, fresh commissions heading to their first real commands.
A Tribune overseeing the assembly gave the order. "Testa reinforcement group, prepare to move. Head for tunnel route 3-5-2 to secondary lines. March formation."
Varro fell in with the other officers as the column began moving toward the tunnel entrance. The infantry went first, boots striking stone in unison. The cavalry followed, their hooves clopping, echoing hollowly through the underground passage. Electric lights hung at intervals, casting harsh shadows that swayed as the column moved deeper.
The tunnel stretched for miles. Supply routes branched off at intersections, marked with sector designations and arrow signs. Traffic flowed in both directions — ammunition wagons heading forward, wounded being evacuated back. Varro could hear the distant quake of artillery through the rock, a constant low vibration that never stopped.
One of the other officers marching in the tunnel — a woman with a crest unknown to him stitched in her uniform and the dark purple sash of a Tribune around her waist — moved up beside him. "Are you going to Testa's regiment?"
"Yes, sir," Varro said. "You?"
"Different posting. Third Legion, Sector Gamma." She glanced at him. "You look excited."
"I am." He couldn't help the grin. "Branch Martis has trained me for this. My uncle's already with the regiment — a Prefect, holding command of the First Cohort. I'm hoping to get assigned under him."
She nodded but didn't share his enthusiasm. "Good luck to you, centurion."
The tunnel began to slope upward. Repairs became more visible — shored timbers, patched stonework, and fresh concrete reinforcing damaged sections. The artillery grew louder. More traffic pushed past them heading back — medical wagons, exhausted troops rotating off the line, dispatch runners.
The column emerged into the midday sunlight — or what passed for it under the haze.
They came up in a secondary line depot. Fortified positions stretched across the blasted landscape, concrete bunkers and even more supply depots clustered behind earthwork barriers. Troops moved with purpose between positions. Radio antennas bristled from command posts. Artillery batteries sat silent in revetments, waiting for fire missions.
And there — House Testa's banners.
Varro saw the regiment. Formations in drill, troops conducting maintenance, officers moving between squads. Everything looked professional. Disciplined. Functional.
But something was wrong.
The troops moved with mechanical precision, going through the motions without energy. Veterans stood in formation with eyes that didn't focus on anything. Equipment was clean, weapons maintained, but there was a weight hanging over everything — a heaviness Varro couldn't name.
These were the soldiers who'd taken Alpha-1-3-7. The breakthrough. The victory.
They didn't look very victorious to him.
"Reinforcement officers report to regimental command." A Lieutenant with a House Testa crest on his arm pointed toward a fortified command post. "Tribune Accardi will assign postings."
Varro's excitement flickered with uncertainty as he moved toward the bunker. This wasn't what he'd imagined. The regiment was operational, but something fundamental felt... hollow.
He straightened his shoulders and entered the command post.
Tribune Decian Accardi stood behind a field table covered in maps and casualty reports. He didn't look up as Varro entered.
The Tribune was young for his rank, not even into his thirties. EmberBorn, clearly from the mark at his throat, with the sharp features of Strata nobility. But his eyes were distant. Cold. There was no warmth in his expression, no energy. Just efficient detachment.
"Sir." Varro saluted. "Centurion Varro Martis Testa, reporting for assignment."
Decian's gaze flicked over him briefly. "Martis. Good. You'll command Second Battalion, First Cohort."
Varro blinked. "Sir, I— "
"Your uncle, Prefect Cato Martis Testa, commands First Cohort. Report to him. He'll brief you on integration protocols. Your battalion is currently at five hundred and seventy troops. You are receiving one hundred and eighty reinforcements from the column. Standard strength is seven hundred and fifty. Get them integrated and combat-ready within forty-eight hours."
"Yes, sir." Varro hesitated. "Sir, if I may — I wanted to ask about the operation at Alpha-1-3-7. The breakthrough tactics you employed—"
"You will learn through experience, Centurion." Decian's tone was flat. Final. "Dismissed."
Varro stood there for half a second too long, confusion warring with excitement. He had his command — Second Battalion — but the reception was nothing like he'd expected. No discussion. No acknowledgment of Branch Martis. Just cold efficiency.
"Dismissed, Centurion," Decian repeated without looking up.
Varro saluted and left.
Outside the command post, he stood in the courtyard and tried to process what had just happened. Everything he was hoping for had come. Everything should feel perfect.
But Tribune Accardi looked like a man carrying a burden the world could not see.
He turned and began walking toward First Cohort's position, passing glaze-eyed veterans and reformed formations. His battalion — Second Battalion — was built on the losses they'd taken at Alpha-1-3-7.
The glory he'd imagined suddenly felt different.
Varro found First Cohort's command area tucked between supply depots and a fortified bunker. The banner of Branch Martis flew above the entrance, weathered but clean. Troops moved between positions with practiced efficiency, maintaining equipment and conducting drills under the watch of their sergeants.
He spotted his uncle immediately.
Prefect Cato Martis stood near a field table, reviewing reports with two other officers; the scarlet sash of his rank, with a deep purple stripe down the center, hung loose around his cuirass. He was older than Varro remembered — mid-forties now, with gray threading through his dark hair and lines carved deep around his cheerful eyes. But when he looked up and saw Varro approaching, his expression warmed.
"Varro." Cato crossed to him and clasped his shoulder firmly. "Congratulations on your commission. You honor the family and your name with your service."
"Thank you, Uncle." Varro felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders. "I'm assigned to the Second Battalion under your command."
"I know." Cato gestured toward the command tent. "Come. We'll get you oriented."
Inside, another officer stood waiting — a woman some years older than Varro, with the crest of House Testa stitched to her shoulder. Her cuirass was worn but well-maintained, and she carried herself with quiet professionalism.
"This is Lieutenant Alexia Valen Testa," Cato said. "She'll be your adjutant. Alexia, this is Centurion Varro Martis, my nephew."
Alexia saluted. "Sir."
Varro returned it, slightly awkward. "Lieutenant."
Cato moved to the field table and pulled out a folder. "Second Battalion took heavy casualties at Alpha-1-3-7, including losing their Centurion. You are to take command and integrate them with the reinforcement troops from the column that arrived today. Get them combat-ready within forty-eight hours. We are expected to move in a week."
Varro nodded, processing the numbers. Five hundred seventy survivors. One hundred eighty dead or critically wounded.
"Uncle," he said carefully. "When I reported to Tribune Accardi, he was... formal. Cold. I thought—"
"The weight of command does that to a man." Cato's tone was matter-of-fact, not unkind. "The Tribune personally led the operation that secured Alpha-1-3-7. He lost blood from his branch while doing it. That changes you."
Varro wanted to ask more, but Cato was already shifting back to business. "Alexia will brief you on integration protocols and personnel status. Your battalion is staged in billet Charlie-9. Report there for an introduction to your men."
"Yes, sir."
Cato clasped his shoulder again, briefly. "You'll do well, Varro. Just remember — command isn't about rank. It's about proving yourself worthy of it."
Then he was gone, moving toward another group of officers near the entrance.
Alexia stepped forward. "Sir, if you'll follow me."
The staging area for Second Battalion was organized but worn. Troops sat in loose clusters, cleaning weapons and repairing equipment. Some slept in the shade of supply crates. Others stared at nothing in particular while puffing on cardus-leaf cigars.
Alexia led him to a raised platform near the center. "The battalion will form up for your introduction in ten minutes. I've already passed the word."
"Thank you, Lieutenant."
She hesitated, then spoke quietly. "Sir, most of these troops are multi-tour veterans. They've been through a dozen operations like Alpha-1-3-7. They've seen officers make mistakes that cost lives. You'll need to earn their respect."
Varro frowned. "I have the rank."
"Rank gives you authority. Not respect." Her tone was calm, professional. "Just be aware."
He didn't respond. After some time, his troops began forming up. Seven hundred and fifty soldiers — veterans and reinforcements — assembling in closed ranks. The fresh troops looked nervous. The survivors looked exhausted.
Varro stepped onto the platform.
"Second Battalion," he called, projecting his voice across the formation. "I am Centurion Varro Martis Testa. As of today, I command this battalion. We will be integrating reinforcements over the next forty-eight hours and preparing for forward rotation. I expect discipline, efficiency, and adherence to Doctrine. I know there were heavy losses at Alpha-1-3-7, losses that can not be filled with new troops. Know this from me, you've all served with distinction. I intend to uphold that standard."
The response was mechanical. "Yes, sir."
But there was no energy behind it. The veterans responded out of habit, not conviction. The fresh troops echoed them uncertainly.
Varro scanned the faces. Some met his eyes. Most didn't.
"Dismissed," he said. "Platoon and squad leaders report to me for an integration briefing in one hour."
The formation broke. Troops returned to their positions, talking quietly among themselves. Varro caught fragments—"fresh commission," "four years at college," "let's see how long he lasts."
Alexia stepped up beside him. "They'll come around, sir. Give it time."
Varro wasn't sure he believed her.
The week that followed was brutal.
Varro threw himself into integration — drilling with the troops, inspecting equipment, coordinating with his officers. He reviewed every personnel file, memorized every name. He was present at every formation, every work detail, every briefing.
But the veterans resisted. Not openly, of course — they followed orders, maintained discipline, performed their duties. But there was no trust. No cohesion. They followed his commands while watching him with skeptical eyes.
The fresh reinforcements looked to him for confidence. The survivors looked through him.
By the third day, Varro realized he was losing control. The battalion functioned, but it didn't feel like his. It felt like he was a temporary inconvenience they were waiting out.
On the fourth night, Alexia found him reviewing reports in his tent.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Granted."
She sat straight-backed across from him, her expression serious. "You're working hard. The troops see that. But it's not enough."
"What am I missing?"
"You're trying to command from authority." She leaned forward slightly. "This regiment is made up of career soldiers. They've watched friends die, and commanders send another wave afterward. They don't care that you went to command school or that you're Branch Martis. They care whether you can keep them alive."
"I know tactics. I know Doctrine—"
"That's not what I mean." Alexia cut him off, not unkindly. "If you want their respect, you need to show them you're willing to do what they do. Drill better than they drill. Push yourself above them. Prove you're not just another officer who'll get them killed because you think rank is enough."
Varro stared at her. "You're saying I need to earn it."
"Yes, sir."
He thought about Uncle Cato's words. Command isn't about rank. It's about proving yourself worthy of it.
"Thank you, Lieutenant, you've given me a lot to think on."
She stood and saluted. "Good night, sir."
The next morning, Varro was the first one on the drill field.
He ran every formation, outpacing nearly all his troops while doing it. When the battalion dug latrine pits, he was in the trench with them, moving earth until his hands bled through his gloves.
He didn't give orders from a distance. He gave them from the mud.
The veterans watched. At first, with skepticism. Then, with something closer to grudging acknowledgment.
By the end of the week, when he called formation, the response was sharper. When he gave orders, they were executed with focus. The fresh troops looked at him with confidence. The survivors still watched him — but now it was with calculation, not dismissal.
He wasn't there yet. But he was closer.
The regiment formed up in the wide staging area the next morning. Five thousand troops stood in disciplined ranks beneath House Testa's banners. Varro stood with his Second Battalion, Alexia beside him, watching Tribune Accardi climb onto the command platform.
The Tribune looked the same as always. Distant. Cold. Efficient.
"Testa Regiment," Decian's voice boomed across the formation. "We are now at full strength. Orders have come from House Command. We deploy back to the northern front, now at Falcon Sector. The Theocrats have been hammering that section of the line for two months without pause. Last week, a denial operation performed by multiple Axullia regiments left gaps in the defensive line. We are to integrate with the legion stationed there and fill those gaps."
A pause.
"This is a defensive operation. Standard rotational protocols. First and Second Cohorts will take primary trench positions. First and Second Cavalry Wings will maintain reserve and support readiness. Prepare for deployment at dawn tomorrow."
The wind rushed by, blowing the banners into wide arcs.
"Dismissed."
The regiment saluted and broke formation.
Varro turned to Alexia. "Falcon Sector. Have you been there before?"
"No, sir." Her expression was unreadable. "But I've heard about it."
"What have you heard?"
"That it doesn't stop."
They marched the next day.
The column moved up farther north through the secondary lines, past reserve depots and supply networks, deeper into the operational zone. The landscape grew more devastated with every mile. Trees became carbon skeletons. Craters overlapped craters. The air thickened with the smell of smoke, sulfur, and cordite from the constant screaming of artillery.
Falcon Sector sat in a shallow valley between two ridgelines. The Imperial trenches carved through the broken earth in jagged lines, reinforced with trench-crete and timber supports. Machine gun nests bristled at intervals. Communication trenches connected forward positions to rear command posts. Radio antennas jutted from bunkers.
Alexia was right, the shelling never stopped.
Varro's battalion integrated into the eastern section of the line. Seven hundred and fifty infantry spread across half a mile of trenches. Squads took positions in forward firing lines. Machine gun crews set up in reinforced nests. Mortar teams dug into their positions.
Varro established his command post in a reinforced bunker fifty yards behind the forward positions. Maps covered one wall. Radio equipment crackled with traffic from other sections. Alexia coordinated with squad leaders while Varro studied the sector layout.
"Sir," the Lieutenant of his second platoon— a veteran named Faustus — appeared at the entrance. "First Platoon is positioned for you, Lieutenant Kira has command. Second platoon is integrated, as well as Fourth. Third Platoon is still integrating its squads with the other relief units. Fifth platoon has its squads waiting in the reserves."
"Good. Make sure they understand the communication protocols. I want reports every two hours."
"Yes, sir."
Faustus saluted and left. Varro turned back to the map.
The artillery continued. Outgoing fire from Imperial batteries behind their lines. Incoming shells from Theocrat positions across no-mans-land. The rhythm never changed. A constant, grinding beat against the land.
The second day was routine.
Shelling. Sporadic small-arms fire. Occasional probing attacks from the Theocrats that dissolved under machine gun fire. Casualties were light — three wounded from shrapnel, one dead when a shell landed directly in a forward trench.
Routine.
Varro moved between positions, checking on fire teams, inspecting equipment, and speaking with squad leaders. The troops were professional. Disciplined. They'd done this before.
On the third day, he saw a familiar face.
Two sections to his left, another battalion held the line — part of a different Auxilia regiment that had arrived the same week as House Testa. Varro recognized one of the officers. The Centurion from House Cardell, who had spoken to him on the train.
During a Theocrat probe, the Centurion left a gap in his firing line. The enemy pushed through with concentrated probing assaults. Half a squad was cut down before the gap closed.
Varro saw it from his command post. Saw the Centurion freeze for a second, processing the lives he just lost.
It could have been him.
If he hadn't earned his battalion's respect. If his troops didn't trust him. If his platoon leaders weren't veterans who knew their jobs.
That could have been the Second Battalion taking those casualties.
Alexia appeared beside him. "Sir, squad seventeen reports movement in no-mans-land. Theocrat scouts, probably."
"Tell them to hold fire unless engaged. I don't want to give away our positions."
"Yes, sir."
She left. Varro kept watching the other sections. Kept seeing what failure looked like.
The artillery never stopped.
The assault came on the sixth day of deployment.
Dawn broke in a blaze of cold red. The usual morning shelling intensified — Imperial batteries firing preparation barrages, Theocrat guns responding. Then the enemy fire shifted. Concentrated. Walking toward his position in methodical patterns.
Varro was in his command post when the radio link crackled.
"All units of trench section Delta, Theocrat infantry advancing across no-mans-land. Estimate two thousand troops. Prepare for contact."
He grabbed his battle rifle and moved to the fire step on the forward line. Through the faint light and smoke, he could see them — dark shapes moving through the haze, advancing in waves toward the Imperial trenches.
"Second Battalion, stand ready," Varro called into his handset. "Mortar teams wait for spotter call-outs. Gun crews acquire targets. Fire teams on the step. Hold fire until they're in range."
The enemy closed. Three hundred yards. Two hundred.
"Open fire."
The Imperial line erupted. Machine guns hammered in synchronized bursts. Rifles cracked from firing positions. Mortars screamed overhead, impacting among the advancing Theocrats. The enemy formations slowed but kept coming.
Varro watched from his step, coordinating fire, calling adjustments to machine gun crews. His battalion held. Professional. Disciplined.
Without warning, the breach opened.
To his right, where First Platoon held the line, a Theocrat assault group hit hard. Concentrated automatic fire, smoke grenades, and close-quarters combat. The forward trench fell. Troops retreated. The enemy poured through.
"First Platoon is breached, sir," Alexia's voice cut through the chaos. "Lieutenant Kira is down. They're falling back to secondary positions."
Varro's mind calculated instantly. The breach would collapse his entire line if it wasn't sealed. His reserves — Fifth Platoon — were the only unit available.
"Call the Fifth forward. Tell them to seal the breach."
"Sir, Lieutenant Kira was their commander. She took over First platoon in your pla—"
"Then I'll lead them myself."
He pulled on his rebreather mask, checked his rifle, and ran.
Fifth Platoon was already forming up in the communication trench — fifteen fire teams, mostly reinforcements from the column, led by their corporals and sergeants. They looked at Varro as he appeared.
"Fifth Platoon, with me. We're sealing that fucking breach. Standard containment formation. MOVE."
They followed.
Varro led them through the communication trench toward the breach. Thick choking smoke covered the air. Shells impacted nearby. He could hear the fighting ahead — automatic fire, shouting, the crash of melee.
They emerged into the forward trench fifty yards from the breach. Theocrat troops were pushing through, trying to widen the gap. Imperial soldiers fought in close quarters, killing with bayonets and trench clubs.
"ON ME, FORWARD! DRIVE THESE DOGS BACK!"
Varro moved into the fight. His rifle barked twice, dropping a Theocrat heavy. A soldier lunged at him with a bayonet — he sidestepped, drove his rifle butt into the man's helmet, and finished him with a shot to the face. Around him, Fifth Platoon crashed into the breach like a hammer.
The fighting was brutal. Close. Personal. Varro fired till his magazine was empty, reloaded, and fired again. His troops pushed forward, step by step, reclaiming the trench. Bodies piled in the mud. Blood slicked the duckboards.
With a piercing shriek, a Theocrat mortar round landed in front of him.
The impact slammed Varro against the trench wall. His ears rang. Dust filled the air. He pushed himself up, saw troops scattered around him — some moving, some not.
A corporal from Fifth Platoon lay three feet away, eyes open, staring at nothing. Fresh from the train. Only nineteen years old. Not even finished with his mandatory service.
Dead.
Varro forced himself to focus. "Fifth Platoon, reform! PUSH THEM OUT!"
After a further hour of fighting. The breach was sealed. The Theocrats fell back across no-mans-land under withering fire.
The line held.
Night fell. The shelling continued, but the intensity dropped. Routine fire patterns. Background noise.
Varro sat in his command post, staring at the casualty report Alexia had compiled.
Second Battalion: Eleven dead, twenty-three wounded. All of the losses were from Fifth Platoon.
Eleven names. Eleven soldiers who'd followed him into the breach. Most of them were reinforcements — fresh troops who'd arrived on the same train he had. Young. Eager. Ready to prove themselves.
Dead now.
He heard voices outside. His platoon leaders gathered near the command post entrance. Someone had found a bottle.
Varro stood and stepped outside.
Faustus was there, Lieutenant Kira as well — alive, her left cheek torn open by a Theocrat's bullet, hastily bandaged. She was trying to smoke a cardus-leaf cigar, wincing every time she inhaled.
"Sir," Faustus said, offering the bottle.
Varro took it. The homebrew liquor burned going down. He passed it back.
They stood in silence for a moment. Exhausted, but alive.
"Fifth Platoon held," Kira said quietly, her words slurred by the bandage. "You led them well, sir."
Varro thought about the corporal. The young soldier with open eyes.
"Eleven didn't make it back."
"No, sir." Faustus' voice was steady. "But seven hundred and thirty-nine did. Because you took the breach."
Someone passed Varro a cigar. He lit it, letting the smoke fill his lungs, feeling the intoxicating pull of the leaf on the exhale.
"They're counting on us," he said finally. "All of them."
"We know, sir," Alexia said from the entrance. "That's why we follow you."
Varro looked at his officers. Veteran Lieutenants who'd survived a hundred operations between them.
The moment brought a strange feeling upon him. Not the glory he'd expected. Just a new weight settling around his shoulders.
But he'd carry it.
The artillery roared louder in the distance. Somewhere along the line, another section was taking fire. The war didn't stop. The front didn't rest.
"Get some sleep," Varro said. "We hold this section for another week until rotation."
"Yes, sir," they said in unison, snapping salutes.
They dispersed. Varro stood alone for a moment more, looking out across the darkened trenches. Seven hundred and thirty-nine troops still depended on him. Eleven fresh graves were dug behind the lines because of him.
The cost of glory.
He finished the cigar and went back inside.