Cato stood in the shadows of the courtyard, watching the regiment disperse from morning formation. It had been four days since they’d come back from leave. First and Second Cohorts headed toward their respective drill yards. The cavalry wings walked toward the stables beyond the walls, preparing to work their mounts back into order; after a month in the Accardi pastures, the beasts were still half wild. Everyone was ready and waiting for orders they knew would come any day.

  "Acting Tribune Martis."

  He turned. A young woman from the estate staff stood at attention to his left. "Sir, Lady Accardi requests your presence in her study."

  "When?"

  "Now, sir."

  "Tell her I'm coming."

  The runner saluted and hurried off. He looked back at the dispersing regiment a final time and then started walking.

  Morning sun warmed the stone paths as he crossed toward the main compound buildings. He entered through the eastern doors and walked the familiar corridors toward Lady Accardi’s study. Staff moved aside as he passed, bowing slightly — acknowledging his temporary rank and the sash at his waist.

  He reached the study door and knocked.

  "Enter."

  Cato stepped inside.

  The room was smaller than he expected, with wide windows overlooking the mountains dominating the back wall. A variety of potted plants and blooming flowers were arranged along the sides of the room. In the center, a beautifully carved desk with a matching set of cushioned chairs made up the only furniture.

  Lady Bellona stood near the windows, hands held lightly in front of her. She wore multi-shaded burgundy and wine robes, hair braided and pinned with silver.

  On the desk sat a letter sealed in dark wax. The crest — a large phoenix with a saber held in its talons — caught the light as he walked deeper into the study.

  The Inferno's personal seal.

  Cato's chest tightened. He crossed to stand before the desk.

  "My Lady."

  "Acting Tribune." She turned from the window and gestured toward the letter. "High Command's orders. They arrived an hour ago."

  He reached for it, broke the seal, and unfolded the parchment, scanning through it.

  To Acting Tribune Martis-Testa, First Testa Regiment…

  …deployment to Alta Territory. City of Lantis…

  …suppress organized resistance. Coordinate with existing Imperial forces…

  Restore order.

  His eyes moved at a slower pace on the second pass, absorbing details. Imperial rule had controlled Alta Territory for over seventy years. Recently becoming unstable because of a guerrilla resistance known as the Black Hand. Untrusting of the local militia, the Auxiliary cohorts remained in their garrison within the city.

  The mission was clear: inform Alta what true Imperial power looked like.

  He finished reading and looked up. "Why aren’t they sending us back west? The Theocracy has been showing more activity on every front we’re engaged in; we should be contributing to the primary war effort."

  “It seems High Command has differing opinions on what we are worth.” Bellona's voice carried a slight edge. “Alta's been stable for decades. It’s only gotten so bad now because the new generation doesn't remember what happens to rebellion; they can smell the indecisiveness of Governor Ravon. You're being sent to remind them."

  "And the existing forces?”

  "Largely ineffective, as I’m sure you’ve deduced. Ravon’s been trying to manage through negotiations and minimal hostility; it hasn't worked." She paused. "You're going to take command of all Imperial forces in the Territory — by force if necessary."

  Cato absorbed that. Five thousand of his own. A further three thousand demoralized Auxiliaries. With an unknown number of militia that might already be traitors. Against an organized resistance that had spent months learning the terrain and Imperial patterns.

  "What's the timeline?"

  "You’ll march in two days."

  He folded the orders and set them on the desk. Two days. Just enough time to brief officers, finalize logistics, and make sure they were overstocked on everything for the journey south.

  “Isn’t the Black Hand active in other Territories? Why are they suddenly moving into Alta?”

  "Too many reports of them being in places they shouldn’t have been circling out of the Southern Territories; the overall organization still appears to be loose and decentralized, so who truly knows what they’re doing.”

  She moved to stand across the desk from him. “There’s more, the Blood-Debate was granted."

  He looked up sharply.

  "Three days ago. The Arbiters granted it without a vote. Legate Kasio made a fool of himself during the proceedings. He had the gall to say Strata nobility are expendable resources in front of the Senate."

  "Fuck."

  "Indeed. The Debate is scheduled for the thirty-first of Ignis. Decian will be detained in Asana for at least six weeks. Possibly longer, depending on how the aftermath plays out politically." She paused. "You'll be holding command for the foreseeable future."

  Six weeks. Probably more. Enough time to stabilize Alta and head back west — if things went cleanly.

  They never went cleanly.

  "The regiment is yours, Acting Tribune," Bellona's voice carried weight now. "I trust you to lead them true."

  Cato met her eyes and nodded. “To the best of my ability.”

  Her expression softened. "Severus vouched for you. So did my son. They believe you'll hold them together as well as Decian would. I believe it, too."

  The weight of his new command settled deeper into his chest.

  "Thank you, my Lady."

  "Brief your officers. And get our regiment ready to move. You have two days." She gestured toward the door. "Dismissed, Acting Tribune."

  He saluted, took the orders from the desk, and turned toward the door.

  "Cato."

  He stopped and looked back.

  Bellona stood by the window again, silhouetted against morning light. "Bring them home. As many as you can."

  "As many as I can, Lady Bellona."

  Cato left the study and walked back through the corridors toward the command wing. The orders felt heavier in his hand than they should have.

  Guerrilla warfare. Demoralized Auxiliaries. An overwhelmed Governor.

  He reached the rooms he had chosen for his command post and pushed open the doors. His adjutant looked up from a desk covered in manifests.

  "Assemble the senior staff, officers' briefing in one hour.”

  "Yes, sir."

  He moved to the map wall and began studying the south of Olympus, finding Alta, finding Lantis — absorbing the terrain into his operational mind.

  Cato leaned in his chair at the table as his senior staff arrived. Prefect Tiberius was first, still wearing his drill cuirass. The four battalion commanders followed: Centurion Lucan Ferro from First Battalion, Varro from Second, then Centurions Nicar Valen and Alevia Ferro from Third and Fourth. The cavalry commanders were last in: Centurion Alexios Hadrian from First Wing, and Centurion Valeria Ferro from Second.

  His adjutant, Castor, stood near the door with the regimental medical officer, communications officer, and quartermaster.

  He waited until they'd all taken positions around the table, then placed the orders in the center.

  "We have our orders. They’re sending us to the Alta. To Lantis specifically, the primary city of the Territory.”

  Tiberius leaned forward to look the orders over. "Why not the Western Campaigns?"

  "High Command seems to believe we are best used in Alta."

  Lucan's expression soured immediately. "More like best used to clean up some Governor's mess in Lantis."

  "That's the operational reality, unfortunately. The Black Hand's been active across the entire southern border for years, including in some of our Territories. Hit-and-run operations and fleeting raids have been the extent of their operations until recently. Within the last nine months, they've made a concentrated push into Alta. We're being sent to end their foothold and remind the populace what happens when they allow resistance to take hold.”

  "Do we know why they're focusing on Alta now? Any idea of numbers?" Alevia asked.

  "No to both, there hasn't been clear intelligence for this rotation. Lady Accardi mentioned reports coming from other Territories, warbands popping up where they shouldn't be. From what can be pieced together, the organization is still loose, centered primarily around warbands of various sizes and loyalties, but they’ve become coordinated enough to make occupation costly."

  Varro spoke up. "Sir, are we actively engaging them, or just holding defensive positions like the forces already there?"

  "It will be active engagement, Centurion." Cato met his nephew's eyes. "We're taking command of all Imperial forces within the Territory and hunting the Black Hand down. No more posturing. No more negotiations."

  Nicar looked at the map mounted on the wall. "The terrain is mainly marshland that far to the south. We’ll be fighting in the city more than not. It’ll differ from the trenches."

  "To a degree, yes." He looked at the cavalry commanders. "Alexios, Valeria — prepare your wings for heavy dismounted operations. Perimeter sweeps and rapid responses will still be needed, but you'll fight on foot more than in the saddle this rotation."

  Alexios nodded. "Understood, sir."

  Valeria's face hardened, but she didn't object. "We'll adapt."

  "Good," Cato rose from his chair. "I know this isn't what we expected. We all thought we'd be heading back west." He paused, cracking a grin. "But at least it's not another fucking rotation in Falcon, aye?"

  A round of light laughter passed between the officers. The tension broke.

  "We have two days to finalize everything. I want another full regimental inspection tomorrow at dawn. We march the day after. Questions?"

  The quartermaster spoke up. "Sir, supply lines to Lantis will be longer than our western deployments. Is there confirmed depot support?"

  "Yes. We can expect supplements to our resupply from a few provincial depots close to the border. You’ll need to coordinate with their liaison and supply officers." Cato glanced at Castor. "Make sure to see the estate staff today. I want us to have the lines established and excess in all stock before departure."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Anything else?"

  Silence.

  "Dismissed. Brief your troops and get them ready."

  The officers saluted and began filing out. Tiberius lingered briefly. "At least it's not the mud."

  "At least it's not the mud, my friend.”

  He stood alone at the table, looking back at the map, focusing once again on Alta.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The city felt wrong.

  Architecture sprawled low and foreign. Wooden structures on stilts rising above marshy ground — carved facades depicting beasts, giants, and horned men in battle. Canals cut through districts in irregular patterns. Plank streets set above swamps farther ahead, leading to deeper parts of the city fully over water.

  Cato walked near the front of the column as they pushed deeper down the primary boulevard of Lantis. The regiment behind him was already in battle march order.

  The population watched from doorways, silently. Some faces showed fear. Others a quiet hatred.

  Half a mile to the garrison barracks.

  He'd expected an ambush. The question was when.

  A crack split the air.

  An officer thirty yards ahead jerked backward. Helmet spinning off as he collapsed. More shots followed — sharp, precise, targeting officers throughout the column.

  Without warning, the explosives hit.

  The front erupted in fire and debris. More charges detonated along the buildings beside them, cutting the column into segments. Smoke billowed down the street.

  Black Hand fighters emerged from buildings and alleys. Hundreds of them. Rifles barking.

  "SCATTER, DELTA PATTERN!"

  The officers broke in random patterns. Their troops followed, spraying fire as they went — squads dispersing into side streets in movements that looked chaotic but weren't.

  Cato grabbed his shield bearer's shoulder. "Shield. Now, lad."

  Sergeant Maro swung the trench-shield forward, slamming his carbine into the firing slot on the left-hand side and laying down suppressive bursts. Cato dropped behind him, rifle resting on top of the shield. Rounds cracked against tempered steel. He sighted ?a fighter emerging from across the street and fired. The man went down in a cloud of red.

  More poured out. Mixed faces — native Altians and foreigners from other territories. Wearing minimal armor and using a variety of weapons.

  Cato keyed the radio. "All units, Testa Actual. Let's go to work, execute counter-ambush protocols. Watch the damn windows and hunt these bastards down, I want a commander."

  Acknowledgments crackled back.

  Around him, the regiment moved. Shield bearers and spotters forming pairs, advancing in fire teams. One duo moved forward while another covered, then they leapfrogged — squads coordinated systematically, clearing alleys and buildings.

  Cato fired again. Another fighter fell. Maro shifted the shield as more rounds impacted from their right.

  "Move."

  They advanced. Clearing thirty yards before reaching an alley where a squad stacked up on a building entrance. Lieutenant Paulus from the thirteenth platoon nodded as Cato approached.

  "We’ve got at least ten confirmed inside, sir. Maybe more."

  "Clear it.”

  Paulus signaled a fire team up and pointed to the windows.

  The rest of the squad flowed through the door as the frags went off. Gunfire erupted.

  They emerged three minutes later. "It's clear, sir."

  Cato keyed the radio. "All units, current status."

  "First Battalion advancing down the western blocks. Resistance moderate."

  "Second Battalion clearing central avenue. Enemy withdrawing."

  Gunfire drowned out the Fourth Battalion's response. Cato turned toward the sound. Fire pinned their lead squad down from a second-story window across the avenue. He moved toward them, Maro keeping pace.

  "Suppressive fire, hit that window!"

  Paulus’ squad opened up a barrage on the second story. Cato saw figures running for cover and fired. Three rounds. Four. The enemy fire began to slacken.

  He signaled to the other squad, "Get up there!”

  Making his way across with Maro. Cato followed through the doorway as he reached the other side of the avenue. Bodies were on the ground floor. Boots pounded stairs above. More gunfire. Screaming. Silence.

  "Clear!"

  Back in the street, Varro appeared with a fire team. His cuirass splattered with blood that wasn't his.

  "We pushed them out of the central blocks, sir. It looks like most are falling back east."

  "Good. Keep up the pressure. Don't let them regroup."

  "Yes, sir."

  Varro moved off. Cato keyed the radio. "All units, the enemy is withdrawing east. Maintain pursuit. I want a damn warband leader. Kill the rest."

  The fighting continued for another fifteen minutes. Brutal close-quarters combat that left more bodies in the streets and blood on the walls. The Black Hand fought hard in some positions, desperately in others. Some melted away entirely into the maze of canals.

  Cato moved with Maro through the cleared areas, checking positions as his troops consolidated. Another squad from Second Battalion was stacking dead fighters against a wall — twelve of them, faces covered in ash and blood. A separate team dragged wounded Imperials toward a makeshift aid station being set up in a secured building. The regimental medical staff worked quickly, triaging casualties with practiced efficiency.

  He stopped at one aid station. A young trooper sat against the wall, field dressing wrapped around his thigh, already soaked red. The soldier looked up as Cato approached.

  "Sir?"

  "You'll live, trooper. Stay off that leg till you can get it dressed again."

  "Yes, sir."

  He kept moving. The streets were clearing now. It was refreshing to see that the two-man shield teams had worked as planned — the mobility they allowed in the trenches translated well to urban combat. Reaching a junction where the First Battalion had set up a checkpoint, he came across Centurion Lucan coordinating with his lieutenants, setting fields of fire and marking cleared sectors on a map.

  "Status?"

  "Sector secure, sir. We're establishing over-watch positions on the rooftops. No movement detected in our zone for the last ten minutes."

  "Good. Keep it tight."

  "Yes, sir."

  The radio crackled. "Testa Actual, Fourth Battalion. We’ve got something you should see. High-value target captured. Grid position Gamma-7."

  Four blocks away. "On my way."

  Cato moved through the streets with Maro and two fire teams. The fighting was fading — sporadic gunfire went off in the distance as the regiment finished hunting stragglers.

  They reached the building. Another two-story structure, this one partially collapsed. Imperial troops at the entrance. Inside, more surrounded a man kneeling in the center.

  Clearly a Black Hand warband leader. He wore proper tactical gear, unlike most of the fighters they’d seen. A good chest rig and armor vest, with a quality battle rifle kicked off beside him. His face was bloodied, but his eyes remained clear. Defiant.

  Centurion Alevia stepped forward. "Sir. We cornered him and his vanguard as they retreated. They fought damned hard to keep. His troops tried to extract him twice during the firefight. Nearly succeeded at it, too. Fuckers would’ve fought to the last, but he told them something in their own tongue, and they left. We only took him alive."

  Cato studied the prisoner. The man stared back.

  "Are any others captured?"

  "Yes, sir. Fifteen total across the engagement. Lower ranks mostly."

  "Good. Secure him. We'll handle interrogation shortly."

  "Yes, sir."

  Outside, Cato keyed the radio. "All units, call off."

  Reports came in. First Battalion: clear. Second: clear. Third: mopping up. Cavalry: rear secured.

  "Casualties?"

  "First Battalion: one dead, seven wounded."

  "Second Battalion: two dead, three wounded."

  "Third Battalion: six dead, five wounded."

  “One dead, two wounded for Fourth,” Alevia said from behind him.

  "Make sure all positions are clear. We'll coordinate with the garrison once everything is locked down here."

  "Yes, sir."

  Cato stood looking at bodies scattered across the thoroughfare.

  They’d been too organized for this. Someone tipped them off.

  Castor appeared beside him. "Sir, the garrison commander is requesting contact."

  "Tell him I’ll speak to him shortly. First, get the prisoners to a central location. Somewhere visible."

  "Yes, sir."

  Cato looked back at the building where the commander waited under guard.

  Time to send a message.

  It reeked of blood and piss.

  He stepped through the doorway into what had been a storage room before they'd cleared it. Now it served a different purpose. The Black Hand commander sat bound to a chair in the center, wrists tied behind him, ankles secured to the legs. A specialist from First Battalion stood beside him — Corporal Andren, a man who'd done this work before on other deployments.

  The Altian was already roughed from the initial beating. Blood ran from his nose and split lip. But his eyes were still defiant.

  Cato crossed to stand in front of him, switching into the dialect of Common Tongue spoken in the south. "I need numbers. How many fighters does the Black Hand have in Lantis?"

  The commander spat blood onto the floor. Saying nothing.

  Cato nodded to Andren.

  The specialist's fist drove into the prisoner's ribs. Once. Twice. A third time that cracked something. The man grunted but didn't scream.

  "Numbers," Cato repeated — in the same even tone.

  Still nothing.

  Andren moved behind the chair and cut the bindings around the commander's wrists. Before the Altian could react, he yanked the right arm forward and slammed it flat against the chair's armrest. Another soldier stepped forward, holding the arm in place.

  Andren grabbed his rifle and reversed it, gripping the barrel.

  The stock came down on the commander's hand. Once. The sound of bone breaking. Again. Fingers crumpling under the impact — a third time, fourth, fifth — methodical, crushing. By the time Andren stopped, the hand was a ruined mess of shattered bone and torn flesh.

  The warband leader was breathing hard through his teeth now, sweat pouring down his face.

  "Where are you getting your supplies?"

  The officer looked up at him. Then spat directly into Cato's face.

  "I've killed dozens of you Imperial Fucks. Over a hundred. You think breaking my han—"

  Cato's fist caught him across the jaw with the power of his entire body behind it. The chair tipped sideways, crashing to the floor. The commander's head bounced off stone.

  Andren righted the chair. The Altian’s eyes were unfocused now, blood running freely from his mouth.

  Cato wiped the spit from his face with his sleeve. "Again. Where are your supplies coming from?"

  Nothing.

  He nodded to Andren.

  The specialist grabbed the commander's left arm — the one still intact — and forced it flat against the opposite armrest. Drawing a thin blade from his belt and placing the edge against the top of the hand.

  "Wait—"

  The blade cut. A strip of skin peeled back from the knuckles — the man screamed.

  Andren worked methodically. Another strip along the back of the hand. Then another, moving toward the wrist. The screaming turned to sobbing. Blood ran down the shaking arm in steady streams.

  The blade kept moving. Up past the wrist now, onto the forearm. Long strips of skin coming away, exposing muscle and sinew beneath. The commander shrieked with each cut.

  "Numbers,” Cato quietly.

  "Fi— Five thousand," he gasped between sobs. “Maybe four, across the city. Different warbands. We're not— we're not unified— there are more outside the city—"

  The blade cut deeper into the forearm. Another strip peeling back.

  "Supplies."

  "They come from provincial depots. We hit your convoys. Some— some come from sympathizers in the local population."

  "Who tipped you off about our arrival?"

  The blade paused. The commander's eyes widened.

  "I don't—"

  Andren cut again. Higher up the forearm. The raw flesh beneath glistened bright red.

  "Someone in the garrison," the man was screaming now. "I don't know who. That's all I know. I swear on the goddess— PLEASE—"

  The last word came as a screech. Andren looked up at him, stopping. Cato studied the native man’s face. Terror. Pain. Truth.

  "Keep going."

  "No— no, please— I told you everything—"

  The blade kept working. They needed to verify. Needed to make sure he wasn't just saying what they wanted to hear. The commander broke completely after the blade reached his elbow, sobbing answers to questions they hadn't asked yet. Locations. Safe houses. Supply caches. Names of other warband leaders.

  Cato absorbed it all. Committing it to memory.

  When they were done, the prisoner hung limp in his chair, barely conscious and babbling. His right hand was a crushed ruin. His left arm was flayed from knuckles to elbow, raw meat exposed to air.

  "Bring him to the square.”

  The public square sat three blocks from where they'd captured the warband leader.

  Cato stood near the center as Imperial troops assembled the prisoners in a line. Fifteen Black Hand fighters, hands bound behind them; forced to their knees in groups of five. The captured commander was dragged out last, barely able to stand. They shoved him to his knees, apart from the others.

  Civilians had gathered at the square's edges. Not forced. Just drawn by the commotion. His troops kept them at a distance, rifles held level but not quite aimed.

  A fire team of five soldiers stood ready. Rifles loaded. Faces blank.

  Cato walked along the line of kneeling prisoners. Some stared straight ahead. Others looked down. One was crying.

  He gestured to the fire team. "First group."

  The soldiers raised their rifles.

  One of the prisoners in the second group lurched to his feet suddenly, hands still bound, and sprinted toward an alley twenty yards away.

  A rifle barked from a marksman stationed on the rooftops.

  The runner collapsed mid-stride, tumbling forward into the dirt. The body twitched as blood pooled under it. The remaining prisoners went perfectly still.

  "First group.”

  The team stepped forward, moving into position behind the kneeling prisoners. Their rifles came up.

  "Fire."

  Five shots rang out as one. The prisoners pitched forward. Blood pooling beneath them.

  "Second group."

  The next four knelt where they were, some shaking. The fire team repositioned.

  "Fire."

  Four more bodies dropped.

  "Third group."

  The last five. One was praying quietly. Another had gone silent, eyes closed as he rocked back and forth.

  "Fire."

  The square fell silent except for the distant sounds of the city and the shallow breathing of the commander still kneeling away from the carnage.

  He walked to stand in front of him.

  The man's eyes were hollow. His flayed hand hung uselessly off to the side, wrapped hastily to stop the bleeding: the smashed one was curled to his chest in a primal gesture. He stared at the bodies of his fellow rebels without seeing them.

  Cato looked down at him and then at the rest of those assembled. "This is how the Dominion of Flame deals with rebellion."

  He drew his revolver, pressed the barrel against the Altian’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.

  The body collapsed backward. Blood spreading across stone.

  He holstered the revolver and turned to his troops. "Clear the square. Collect the bodies and dispose of them in the nearest bog."

  "Yes, sir."

  The civilians at the edges had already started dispersing. The brutality had shocked them into motion before he’d even given the order. They fled back into the city's narrow streets, leaving the square empty except for Imperial soldiers and corpses.

  He walked away from the bodies, Castor falling into step beside him.

  "Sir, the garrison commander is still requesting—"

  "Tell him I'll meet him within the hour."

  "Yes, sir."

  Cato moved through the streets back toward where the regiment had established its position. Around him, his troops maintained the perimeter, coordinating with the supply staff beginning to arrive from the convoy.

  They hadn't even been in the city for five minutes before everything went to shit.

  He'd expected resistance. Expected the Black Hand to test them.

  But this — an organized ambush the moment they entered Lantis, someone in the garrison feeding them intelligence — this was more than scattered guerrilla harassment.

  This was going to be messy.

  They'd come here to send a message.

  The message had been sent.