Regius stood before the High Lord's desk. He wore his formal heir's tunic, the high collar scratching against his neck, the black leather glove on his left hand tight and restrictive.
Across from him, Magnus sat like a monolith.
The Lord of Astraea did not slouch. Even in his private study, he occupied space with the density of a volcano. He was reviewing a holographic roster projected from the desk's surface, his thick fingers tracing lines of supply and deployment with the grace of tectonic plates shifting.
"The protection detail is concluded," Magnus said. His voice was a low rumble, vibrating in the decanters on the sideboard. "Torian has submitted the transfer orders. Your previous squad is to be reintegrated into the Legion by morning."
Regius blinked. "Reintegrated?"
"They are competent." Magnus swiped a finger, dismissing a logistical report. "Torian needs veterans on the Northern Line. The frost wolves are migrating early this year. Rank 2 combatants with actual blood on their armor are a resource we cannot squander on palace guard duty."
Magnus looked up. His eyes, usually warm brown, were currently hard as granite.
"It is a reward, Regius. They served the House well. They brought you home alive. Now, they get stable pay, a pension track, and honorable service in the main line."
It was a logical decision. It was a benevolent decision. But to Regius, it was also a death sentence.
"You cannot send them to the North," Regius said.
Magnus paused. The air pressure in the room ticked up a notch.
"I am the High Lord of this domain, Regius. I deploy my soldiers wherever they are needed."
"They aren't just soldiers anymore, Father."
Regius stepped forward. He met the pressure with his own stillness.
"House Marius knows their faces," Regius said. "They were with me at River's End. They saw the ambush. If you disperse them into the Legion, they will be targets."
"They can hold their own."
"Can they?" Regius asked. "How hard would it be for a 'training accident' to occur during an expedition? How much would it cost the Bloc to bribe a low-level facilitator to route their patrol into a Rank 4 monster nest?"
Magnus went still. The grinding sound of his thumb rubbing against his index finger stopped.
"They are loose ends. Marius cannot touch me inside these walls. He cannot touch you, so he will hurt them to send a message. He will bleed them to spite us."
Magnus leaned back. The chair groaned under his armored bulk. He looked at his son—really looked at him. He searched for the soft-hearted boy who used to cry over injured birds.
"And what is your alternative?" Magnus asked quietly. "Keep them here? As doormen? They are warriors, Regius. They will rot in the corridors."
"No," Regius said. "I want them transferred to me."
He placed a hand on his chest, over the hidden Star Mark.
"Personal retainers?" Magnus frowned. "That is a significant expense. And a significant responsibility. If they are removed from the chain of command, the House is no longer liable for their conduct. If they break the law, if they cause a diplomatic incident... the blowback lands on you alone."
"I accept the burden."
"They are loyal to the House, Regius. Not to you."
"Let me ask them," Regius said. "If they choose the Legion, I will sign the transfer myself. But if they choose me... let them go."
Magnus studied the boy who had survived the borderlands. He saw the grief for his fallen squad member hardened into a diamond-sharp resolve.
"Very well," Magnus nodded, the movement heavy and final.
———
Regius stood in the center of his private training chamber.
The room was a reinforced cube of black obsidian, designed to absorb high-impact mana discharges.
He was shirtless. Steam rose from his skin, venting the excess heat of his physical body. His muscles trembled and coiled, fighting against the crushing fatigue of channeling his abilities internally.
There were no swords drawn. No starlight blades.
Boom.
Regius took a gauntleted fist to the ribs. The impact knocked the wind out of him, sending him skidding across the black stone floor. He tasted blood.
He pivoted, using the momentum of the skid to launch himself back into the fray.
Libra stood in the center of the room. She was fully manifested in her spectral form of white armor and flowing cape, but the starlight longsword was nowhere to be seen. She stood with her hands raised in a martial stance, her movements fluid and terrifyingly precise.
"Too slow," Libra said, her voice cool and echoic. "Your eyes saw the strike. But your body lagged behind."
"I know," Regius gritted his teeth.
He charged. He channeled his mana strictly into his muscle fibers, reinforcing his bone density.
He threw a right hook aimed at her helm.
Libra didn't dodge. She caught his fist in her open palm.
CRACK.
The sound was like a gunshot. The shockwave of the impact blew the steam away from them. Regius's abnormal density meant he was hitting with the weight of a falling boulder, but Libra stopped him dead.
She twisted her wrist. Regius spun in the air, slamming back-first onto the obsidian.
"You rely on the density of your body to absorb the impact," Libra lectured, looking down at him with silver mirror eyes. "But against a competent opponent, durability is just a delay to defeat."
Regius gasped, staring at the ceiling lights. His lungs burned. "Again."
He skipped up. Sweat flew from his hair.
He threw a flurry of strikes—jabs, kicks, and knees. He moved faster than a standard Rank 2 should be capable of, his limbs blurring.
Libra weaved through the assault. She parried with her forearms, checked his kicks with her shins, and slapped his guard away. It was a lesson in humility. She was teaching him that even without a weapon, her body became one.
Thwack.
A backhand caught him in the chest. He stumbled back, wheezing.
The chamber door hissed open.
Regius froze, his fists still raised, his chest heaving like a bellows.
"Dismiss," he whispered.
Libra nodded once, her silver eyes flashing with approval at his tenacity, before she dissolved into motes of white light.
Regius lowered his hands, grabbing a towel from the bench. He wiped the sweat and blood from his lip, wincing as the leather glove on his left hand creaked.
He turned to the door.
The Iron Swords stood in the entryway.