The morning briefing began the same way it had for weeks.

  Cato sat at the head of the field table in the First’s bunker. His battalion commanders were seated across from him — Centurion Lucan Ferro commanding First Battalion, and Varro commanding the Second. Their adjutants stood behind them. The Cohort staff occupied the remaining space: his own adjutant, head of logistics, and head of communications.

  "Status?" He asked, looking at Lucan.

  The Ferro man had the weathered look of someone who'd done this rotation too many times before. He glanced at his notes briefly, then spoke without reading.

  "Seven hundred and three troops operational as of morning formation, sir. Overnight was quiet — sporadic shelling, no probes. One wounded from a shell fragment, already treated and returned to duty. They shelled again during formation, no injuries this time. Equipment status is acceptable. But we need an ammunition resupply by the end of the week — my men are low on .50 Drakon belts and .315 Bront."

  Cato nodded, "Noted,” and looked to his nephew. “How’s the Second doing?"

  Varro straightened slightly under his gaze. He looked different from the way he had when he joined the regiment five weeks ago. The eagerness was gone, replaced by tired competence.

  "Six hundred and eighty-four troops operational, sir. Minor probe at 0300 hours, repelled without issue—two wounded, both stable. Equipment is functional. We're also low on munitions — .276 Vuldra, .225 Spar, and frags primarily."

  Cato absorbed that — sixty-six names taken from the ledger in four weeks. Acceptable attrition for defensive operations, but the weight of it showed on his nephew's face.

  "Understood." He shifted his attention to the logistics officer. "How are we doing on supply?"

  The staff officer consulted the ledgers piled in front of him before responding. "An ammunition resupply is scheduled for tomorrow evening. Rations are adequate through next week, and the water’s still clean. Medical supplies are holding, but we'll need another shipment before the month ends."

  “Once the munitions are logged, inform the battalion commanders.”

  The man scribbled a note in his field booklet before responding. “Roger, sir.”

  "Comms?"

  His communications officer responded immediately. "Our radio and telegraph networks are functional, sir. We're in regular contact with regimental command and the Second Cohort. No issues to report."

  Cato looked between his two Centurions. "What’s it like on the ground? Lucan?"

  "The Theocrats are testing the line. We’ve seen probes every day or two, with small-scale assaults at least once a week. Nothing that can't be handled, but they're persistent. I expect another push within the next seventy-two hours based on current patterns."

  "Varro?"

  "Agreed, sir. They're probing for weak points. My sections have been hit three times in the last week. We've held, but they're learning our positions." He paused. "If they commit to a larger assault in any of our sectors, we’ll need artillery support."

  "You’ll get it."

  He looked up at the gathered officers. "Tribune Accardi has passed word. Relief rotations are scheduled to arrive in four weeks. We’re going home soon; until then, we hold the line.”

  His staff nodded.

  "If they push, you call for artillery immediately — don't wait to see if you can handle it alone." He looked directly at Varro when he said it.

  "Yes, sir.”

  Cato straightened. "Questions?"

  Nothing.

  "Dismissed. Battalion commanders, remain a moment."

  The staff officers filed out. Lucan and Varro stayed, their adjutants stepping back but remaining in the bunker.

  Cato looked between them. "How are your troops?"

  Lucan spoke first. "Tired, but functional. They know the routine now. Morale is acceptable given the circumstances."

  "Varro?"

  The young Centurion hesitated, then answered honestly. "Much the same, sir. They're holding. The veterans are solid. But four weeks of continuous operations are showing in the ranks."

  "It will show more in the next month." Cato’s tone stayed matter-of-fact. "This is the grind, gentleman."

  He paused to clear his throat.

  "You're both doing well. Your battalions are functional, your officers are competent, and you're managing the attrition correctly. But don't let exhaustion make you careless. The dogs will push again. When they do, you respond with Doctrine, not desperation."

  "Yes, sir," they said in unison.

  "Good. Dismissed."

  Lucan saluted and left, his adjutant following. Varro lingered, looking like he wanted to say something, before he saluted and turned to go.

  "Varro," Cato said carefully

  The young officer stopped and looked at him.

  "I meant it, nephew, you’re handling this well. Don't second-guess yourself now."

  Varro's expression shifted slightly — acknowledgment, gratitude — but he didn't reply; he simply dipped his head and left.

  Cato stood alone in the command bunker for a heartbeat before taking a seat at the table and grabbing his pen to scribble the morning's report. Outside, the artillery continued its constant percussion.

  Decian lounged in his chair tiredly, the radio-link handset held loosely in his hand.

  "Testa Actual, Legion Command. What’s your status?"

  "Legion Command, Testa actual. My First Cohort is holding defensive positions in sub-sectors Falcon-7 through Falcon-12. My Second Cohort is holding positions in Falcon-13 through Falcon-18. Contact has been minimal, sporadic probes, but no major assaults. Casualties are within acceptable parameters."

  "Copy, Testa Actual. Maintain current posture. Legion Command out."

  "Copy. Testa Actual out."

  He set the handset down and reached for his tea. The small glass vial sat beside the cup; barely any liquid remained in it. All he needed was four drops. He’d taken four drops every morning for two months now. Before that, it had been three. Before that, two.

  He poured the remainder of the vial into his cup, stirred once, and drained it.

  The regimental command post was stationed in a reinforced bunker one hundred and fifty yards behind the secondary trench line. Maps covered one wall — section layouts, unit positions, and supply routes marked in red, blue, and orange. Radio equipment occupied half his desk, chattering with periodic traffic from other units and regiments along the main line. Cassia worked at a second table, processing overnight reports and coordinating logistics.

  He stood and moved to the map wall, studying how the line had moved since they’d deployed. It wasn’t much, not even ten feet. That was the point. Hold the sector. Grind them with attrition. Wait for relief.

  Four weeks down.

  Four more to go.

  Cassia appeared at his shoulder. "Sir, morning reports from both Cohorts."

  She set two folders on the map table. Decian opened the first — First Cohort.

  First Battalion: 703 operational. Second Battalion: 684 operational. Total cohort strength: 1,387. Casualties this week: 8 deceased, 12 wounded. Cumulative casualties since deployment: 113 deceased.

  He set it aside and moved to the next — Second Cohort.

  Third Battalion: 697 operational. Fourth Battalion: 681 operational. Total cohort strength: 1,378. Casualties this week: 11 deceased, 6 wounded. Cumulative casualties since deployment: 122 deceased.

  Decian closed the folders — two hundred and thirty-five casualties across the regiment in four weeks. The numbers aligned with doctrinal projections.

  Acceptable.

  He returned to his desk and pulled the House casualty ledger from the drawer. Marking names, ranks, and causes in each branch's segment. He'd stopped reading them individually after his second year of command. Now he just verified the totals and wrote them down.

  The stimulant sharpened his focus, pushing back the exhaustion that lived at the edges of his vision. He could function. That was sufficient.

  "Sir, Prefect Martis has requested artillery coordination for an anticipated Theocrat assault within seventy-two hours."

  "Approved. Contact the Artillery Corps. They get priority if the assault materializes."

  "Yes, sir."

  She left to handle the coordination. Decian sat for a moment, looking at the map with his head in one hand. The bunker shook.

  Damned artillery.

  He turned his attention back to the casualty ledger, flipping to Branch Accardi’s pages.

  Varro stood on the fire step, watching the sun dip lower in the sky.

  Dusk was coming fast. The light filtered red through the everlasting haze, casting long shadows. His time in Falcon sector had taught him that dusk was dangerous — visibility dropped, spotters lost their angles, and the Theocrats liked to attack as the light failed.

  His battalion held Falcon-10, 11, and 12 — half a mile of trenches stretching along First Cohort's right flank. Spread between firing positions, machine gun nests, and mortar lanes.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Sir."

  Alexia materialized beside him, carrying a radio handset and wearing a focused expression that meant something needed his attention.

  "Yes?"

  "Evening roll is complete. All platoons are reporting combat-ready." She paused. "Prefect Martis sent word — activity has been too quiet again today. He expects them to push soon."

  He nodded. It had been two days without probes. The Theocrats were planning something.

  "Keep the line alert through dusk. And double the watch rotation."

  "Yes, sir."

  She left the way she came. Varro stayed on the step, scanning no-man’s-land through the fading light. Cratered earth stretched for two hundred yards before disappearing into smoke. Nothing moved out there.

  He dropped back into the trench and began walking toward Falcon-12, checking positions as he moved. He stopped his trek near a gun nest momentarily, watching the crew work over their autocannon.

  Without warning, the artillery pattern changed.

  The distant rumble intensified. Its rhythm shifted from sporadic background fire to concentrated saturation.

  Varro stopped, recognizing the distinct thumping of guns from the Theocrat’s line, and feeling the vibrations intensifying as the shells slammed into the sectors to the left of his.

  Along the line, troops began grabbing helmets and loading weapons.

  "All positions, stand ready!" someone shouted down the trench.

  The light was almost gone now; he could see the full moon rising in the east as the sun dipped over the horizon in the west.

  A radio screeched nearby. Then another. Voices calling in contact across the network.

  Alexia ran toward him from a communications trench, handset in hand.

  "Centurion Ferro is being hit with the worst of the barrage and is heavily engaged at Falcon-9. The Second Cohort is also reporting assaults at Falcon-13 through 16! We’ve got breaches forming on both sides, sir."

  "Are they moving on our positions?"

  "Yes.”

  Varro grabbed the handset. "All squads, battle stations! Gun crews get targets! Mortar teams stand by for coordinates! Fire teams on the step! Double time! Let’s go, let’s go."

  He turned to Alexia, “Get the artillery on standby for Lucan.”

  She nodded and sprinted back towards the section command post.

  The barrage continued its endless walk farther west into Lucan’s sections. Through the smoke and setting darkness, shapes began to emerge — dark masses moving in waves — thousands of them.

  "We’ve got bogeys advancing!" a spotter called from farther down the line.

  Varro climbed back onto the step, rifle in hand. The Theocrats were closing fast, using the haze and craters for cover. Two hundred yards. One-fifty.

  "Hold fire!" he called. "Wait for range!"

  They kept materializing. Disciplined. Organized. The assault had come.

  One hundred yards.

  "OPEN FIRE!"

  His battle line erupted. Autocannons and machine guns spat in bursts. Rifles and carbines cracked from firing positions between sandbags. Mortars wailed overhead, impacting among the advancing Theocrats. Their formations slowed under the blistering fire but kept coming, relentlessly, screaming repeated oaths in their guttural tongue.

  Varro coordinated fire through his handset between shots with his rifle.

  "Mortar teams, adjust fire two hundred yards!

  He spotted a trench raider peeking his head above a foxhole forty yards away. The Theocrat sprinted out with a grenade in each hand, before he could toss them, Varro put two rounds into his pelvis and a final one in his head.

  “Gun crews, concentrate on the center! Let's drown these dogs out."

  The advancing forces were taking heavy casualties, bodies falling in droves, but the waves never stopped pushing forward.

  Fucking fantatics.

  Beside him, his troops fired in controlled patterns. The Drakon autocannon to his left thundered continuously, the crew working it in sweeping bursts with ruthless efficiency. Brass casings piled at their feet.

  "Sir!" Alexia sprinted to his side again, moving low and shouting over the gunfire. "Radio from Prefect Martis — First Battalion is reporting a full breach at Falcon-9! Enemy through the line!"

  Varro's mind calculated instantly. Falcon-9 was two positions over; if the Theocrats broke through there—

  A shell screamed as it fell toward them, impacting behind the trench. Dirt and debris rained down. Varro ducked, came back up, and shouted to Alexia.

  "Keep focus on our sectors! Tell the Sixth Platoon to watch our flank in case the breach spreads.”

  "Yes, sir!"

  The enemy had pushed to fifty yards. Close enough to see individual soldiers through from no-man’s-land. Varro raised his rifle and fired. Once. Twice. A Theocrat went down. Another took his place.

  Cato stood in the First Cohort's command bunker, listening to his radio-link flooding with reports faster than he could process.

  "—Falcon-9 breached, Fourth Platoon falling back to containment positions—"

  "—Falcon-7 holding but under heavy pressure—"

  "—Second Battalion engaged across all sectors, holding—"

  Cato grabbed the attached handset. "Testa Actual, First Cohort. Falcon-9 has breached. First Battalion is reorganizing platoons to containment positions. Requesting immediate support."

  Decian’s voice came through the static: "First Cohort, hold position. Infantry reserves are being mobilized. Stand by."

  He set down the handset and grabbed his rifle from the wall, racking a round in with his off hand. His cohort adjutant looked up sharply.

  "Sir?"

  "I’m going in.”

  "Sir, the Tribune said—"

  "Decian will give the order when he's ready. And I’ll be dammned ready to execute it, those are my boys dying out there." Cato grabbed a bandolier and strapped his rebreather mask into place. "How many reserves do we have?"

  "Over three hundred, sir."

  "Stay here to keep communications open, get the artillery on the link, and have them start containment on that fucking breach."

  Stepping outside the bunker, Cato could hear the distant crackle of small arms fire. The battle was spreading.

  Decian paced the bunker with a red marker clamped tight in his hand.

  Field reports came in rapid succession:

  “—Falcon-9 breached—"

  "Second Cohort is engaged in Falcon-13 through Falcon-16—"

  “—Platoons One through Five falling back—"

  "Artillery corps notified of breach—"

  “Containment barrage started for Fal—”

  He marked the breach on the map and checked the latest field reports. Based on the latest estimates, he had seventeen thousand Theocrats pushing his regiment. They were outnumbered by over three to one.

  "Sir," Cassia was at the door. "Prefect Hadrian is down. He took a head wound from some shrapnel. He’s stable, but command has temporarily transferred to his senior Centurion. Falcon-13 is starting to crack; enemy troops are rotating towards that direction; it looks like another breach preparation."

  Decian's grip tightened on the marker. Tiberius.

  He grabbed the handset. "First Cohort, Testa Actual. Take our infantry reserves and seal Falcon-9. Move now."

  "Testa Actual, confirmed. Moving reserves to Falcon-9." Cato's voice barked back.

  Decian switched frequencies. "Testa Cavalry, Testa Actual. Stand by for deployment orders. Prepare for dismounted infantry operations. I’ll lead."

  "Cavalry standing by.” Alexios’ voice responded.

  The machine was under pressure. But it was holding.

  For now.

  Cato heard the radio come to life on his belt.

  "First Cohort, Testa Actual. Take our infantry reserves and seal Falcon-9. Move now."

  "Testa Actual, confirmed. Moving reserves to Falcon-9."

  Assembled in front of the bunker, three hundred Testa soldiers stood in formation with breach kits already donned — some held Lezia or Spar pattern SMGs, others held Veyra pattern scatter-guns with trench shields.

  Veterans mostly, with a scattering of recent reinforcements. Organized into two platoons of one hundred and fifty each, led by their Lieutenants. They were silent and ready; each one knew what a breach meant.

  Cato exhaled deeply through the rebreather mask and did a final check on his weapons. Flicking off the safety on the Vuldra assault rifle and checking the seated magazine. His sidearm — a Lezia pattern revolver in a cross-draw holster — rode under his right arm already loaded as well.

  He wasn't commanding this from a radio.

  The two reserve Lieutenants stood at attention — both seasoned officers and veterans of previous rotations. One was Branch Ferro, the other Branch Sulla.

  "We’re going into Falcon-9 for clean up. You know what to do."

  "Yes, sir," they said in unison.

  "Move out."

  Cato led them into a communication trench, boots finding purchase on worn duckboards. The Artillery continued its chorus overhead — outgoing Imperial fire trying to contain the breach, mixing with more incoming Theocrat shells looking to widen it. The narrow trench amplified the sound, turning it into a constant thunder that rolled through his bones.

  They moved fast. Three hundred troops in a single file, weapons ready, advancing toward the breach half a mile ahead. He could hear the fighting growing louder as they closed the distance — rifle fire, machine gun chatter, the sharp concussion of grenades, men shouting.

  A runner appeared from the forward trench, moving fast. Blood streaked her uniform and face. She pressed herself against the trench wall as they passed.

  "Sir, Falcon-9 is overrun!" the runner called. "Centruion Ferro fell back to secondary positions. The enemy's pushing deeper!"

  "I know," Cato called back without stopping.

  They emerged into the secondary trench line fifty yards behind Falcon-9. The remaining soldiers of First Battalion were already there — close to five hundred troops pulled back from the breach, trying to reorganize. Their Centurion stood near a collapsed section of trench, coordinating with his officers.

  Cato moved to him. "Status?"

  Lucan's face was streaked with ash, his cuirass dented with blood spattered over it. "Breach opened thirty minutes ago, sir. We held for ten, but the fucking dogs broke through in force. I didn't want to risk my men, so I drew them back. We lost the forward trench completely.” His tone dropped in shame. “I’ve got Second Platoon keeping suppressive fire, and the arty is containing them to just Falcon-9 for now, but they're consolidating. I think they want to push into the supports and flood the rest of our line."

  Cato looked toward the fallen sector. Through the smoke, he could see Theocrat infantry moving throughout captured positions — dark shapes in Imperial trenches, fortifying, pushing outward.

  "Pull your platoon back to this line, send the rest of your men back into the other subsectors, and provide covering fire till we are through. I’m ending this with the reserves."

  Lucan nodded sharply. "Yes, sir."

  Cato turned to his two reserve Lieutenants. "You—” He pointed to the Ferro woman. “— Take the left flank. You—” He pointed to the Sulla man. “—Take the right. We’ll hit them from both sides and drive them out."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Move."

  He faced Lucan again, “Wait till we hit them and bring your freshest troops around to push the dogs out completely.”

  “Sir.”

  The platoons split, moving through parallel communication trenches toward their respective positions. Cato went left, one hundred and fifty troops behind him, advancing through the narrow passage in a hunch.

  They emerged into chaos.

  Theocrat infantry were everywhere — hundreds of troops dug in among the fortifications, exchanging fire with First Battalion's survivors. Bodies littered the trench, blood slicked the duckboards. The westerners were flooding in by the minute, looking to cripple this part of the line.

  "FORWARD!" Cato shouted.

  The platoon surged into the flank of the enemy position. The Theocrats turned, caught off-guard by the counter-assault. Cato fired a burst, dropping one as soon as he was clear of the communication trench, adjusted his aim, and fired till his mag was empty, popping a fresh one in with the ease of experience.

  The fighting collapsed into close quarters. Brutal and immediate. SMGs began barking fully automatic from the reserve forces, laying down waves of fire, while those holding scatter guns shredded anyone too close with their 12-gauge shells. Cato drove his bayonet into a Theocrat's neck, ripped it free, and fired point-blank into another. A soldier lunged at him with an already bloodied dagger — he sidestepped, brought his rifle around, and smashed the stock into the man's helmet. He crumpled.

  Around Cato, the reserves pushed forward step by step, reclaiming the trench one yard at a time.

  From the opposite flank, the second reserve platoon hit. The Theocrats were compressed between them, unable to maneuver in the chaos of the trenches.

  "PUSH THESE BASTARDS OUT!"

  He saw Lucan leading the Third Platoon from their secondary positions, his troops running into the melee with bayonets fixed. They hit the front of the assault force with a wave of warsteel. Stabbing into armor gaps and using rifle butts to crumple armor.

  The enemy began falling back, retreating toward no-man’s-land under fire. Some made it across. Most didn't. Imperial gun nests roared to life as they cleared out, cutting them down in droves.

  Thirty minutes after the containment began, Falcon-9 was secured.

  Cato stood in the reclaimed trench, breathing hard through his rebreather. Bodies were everywhere.

  His adjutant appeared through the smoke. "Sir, Falcon-9 is sealed. Centurion Hadrian is reintegrating the First Battalion into forward positions."

  "Good. Get me the casualty counts."

  "Yes, sir."

  The radio crackled. Decian’s voice cut through: "First Cohort, status on Falcon-9?"

  Cato grabbed the handset. "Testa Actual, Falcon-9 sealed. Enemy pushed back. Position secure."