The summons came at 0600.

  It's an all hands briefing, Artemis reported, her mental voice carrying the crisp edge of official traffic. Fleet Admiral Takanashi requests the presence of all Einherjar squad leaders and designated representatives aboard áIN Fáfnir. Transport departing Draupnir in ninety minutes.

  Ralaen was already awake, pressed against Eirik's warmth in their shared bed, watching the chronometer on the vid screen they'd mounted on the bulkhead. The cabin was small but comfy—a private space carved out of a warship's steel bones.

  "Fleet Admiral," she murmured, more to herself than anyone.

  Frida Takanashi, Artemis supplied. Commanding officer, Sixth Fleet. Forty-three years in service. Seventeen major engagements. The woman who broke the Rilethi's hold over Valdris Prime.

  Eirik stirred beside her, his own AI no doubt feeding him the same data. "Fáfnir," he said, voice rough with sleep. "That's the flagship."

  Ralaen sat up, her fur prickling with something between anticipation and nerves. "We're going aboard a super-dreadnought."

  The next hour was controlled chaos. Wolf Squad assembled in their common room, Anastasia already dressed and reviewing something with Xerxes. Thomas had brought the main firing assembly of his Two-Two-Seven and had taken it apart for cleaning earlier—and was now reassembling it. Captain Clarke met them in the corridor outside Marine country, Major Schneider at her side, the Jaeger commander's face set in its usual expression of professional readiness.

  "Pinnace is waiting in hangar one," Clarke said by way of greeting. "Try not to embarrass my ship."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," Anastasia replied dryly.

  The flight to Fáfnir took twenty minutes. Ralaen spent most of it pressed against the viewport of their shuttle, watching the super-dreadnought grow from a distant speck to an overwhelming presence that filled the entire frame.

  She'd seen the Ragnar?k-class ships from Draupnir's observation blister, and had marveled at them. But that had been at range, reduced to tactical icons and sensor footage. This was different, the sheer size of Fafnir blotted out the space in front of the pinnace as they approached.

  Fáfnir hung in the black like a sleeping leviathan, two kilometers of bone-white battlesteel etched with knotwork patterns that glowed faintly in the light of Skadi's distant star. The patterns were enormous at this scale—rivers of interlocking designs that flowed from the massive wedge of the bow to the twin drive rings at the stern. Those rings alone were larger than most destroyers, dormant now but radiating the faint spatial distortion of gravity drives at standby.

  The massive hexagonal shutters of the leviathan's missile launchers loomed as the pinnace flew along her flank toward the hangars. One of the shutters was open, and Ralaen could see maintenance crews in hard vac-suits swarming around it like ants against the hull.

  Routine maintenance, Artemis said.

  Their shuttle slid into one of Fáfnir's forward hangar bays, a cavernous space that could have swallowed Draupnir's entire small craft complement with room to spare. The deck crews moved with the precision of long practice, mag-clamps securing the shuttle after they had passed through the containment field.

  An escort was waiting. Four Jaegers in dress blacks, their weapons ceremonial but their eyes sharp. They led Wolf Squad, Clarke, and Schneider through corridors that seemed to go on forever—wide enough for armored troops to move four abreast, lined with the same knotwork patterns that covered the hull. Everything felt massive, built to a scale that made even Einherjar feel small.

  This ship carries a crew of six thousand, Artemis noted. Plus three Einherjar squads, a full Jaeger brigade, and enough munitions to wage a small war independently.

  The briefing room was buried deep in Fáfnir's core hull, behind layers of armor that would have made a bunker jealous. It was large—larger than any briefing space Ralaen had seen—but even so, it was packed. Rows of chairs faced a central holo-tank, and nearly every seat was filled.

  Ralaen's gaze swept the room, taking in the sheer density of rank and authority. Task group captains filled one section—she spotted Clarke settling into a seat near the front, Draupnir's TG Six Four now officially part of the fleet roster. The captain of Fáfnir himself, Captain Eriksson, stood near the holo-tank, ready to serve as the fleet admiral's tactical alter ego. Jaeger Marine officers clustered in their own groups, Major Schneider among them, though he was far from the senior Marine present—Fáfnir alone carried a full brigade.

  And then there were the Einherjar.

  She found them scattered throughout the room—clusters of figures who moved with the particular awareness that marked her kind, even out of armor. Each super-dreadnought carried three squads. The battlecruisers carried two. Heavy cruisers carried one. That meant...

  Sixty-seven squads, Artemis confirmed quietly. Two hundred sixty-eight Einherjar. Every squad in Sixth Fleet is here.

  The squad names registered as Artemis tagged them in her awareness: Wolf, Cobra, Raven, Hawk, Viper, Bear, Panther, Lynx, Eagle, Shark, Falcon, Tiger, Mongoose, Serpent—the litany went on, each one an animal, each one a unit forged in the same fires that had created her.

  Wolf Squad took their seats near the front, beside Cobra. Ramirez gave Anastasia a nod of acknowledgment; Susan and Yuno were already settled, Olaf sprawled with the deliberate casualness that marked him even in formal settings.

  Then the room fell silent.

  Fleet Admiral Frida Takanashi entered through a side door, and Ralaen understood immediately why this woman commanded Sixth Fleet.

  She was small—barely taller than Ralaen herself—with iron-gray hair cut short and severe. Her uniform was immaculate, the rank insignia catching the light, but it was her presence that filled the room. She moved like someone who had sent thousands of souls into battle and carried the weight of every one. Her eyes swept the assembled officers and Einherjar with the assessing gaze of a predator deciding which threats to address first.

  Behind her came another figure—a holographic projection that resolved into a woman in flowing robes of deep blue and silver, styled after ancient Japanese court dress. It was a deliberate choice, Ralaen realized—Amaterasu presenting not as a military officer but as something older, a counselor to generals, a presence that transcended rank. The contrast with Takanashi's crisp uniform was striking, and clearly intentional.

  Some of the older AIs prefer classical presentations, Artemis noted. It reminds everyone that they're not just tools.

  Ralaen felt a flicker of something from Artemis—respect, perhaps, or recognition. Every officer of captain and above holding a shipgoing commission was fitted with a derivative version of the Phase VI bio-nano interface, bonded to an AI partner who would follow them through their career. Takanashi and Amaterasu had been together for decades.

  The fleet admiral took her position beside the holo-tank, and Amaterasu's projection moved to the controls with familiar ease.

  "Ladies, gentlemen, Einherjar," Takanashi said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried. "Thank you for coming. I'll keep this brief—we have a war to fight."

  The holo-tank flickered to life, and a star system materialized in the air above it. Two planets were highlighted, one closer to the central star, one further out.

  "The Issharran System," Takanashi continued. "Previously contested Federation territory. Two colony worlds—Isshar, the regional administrative hub, and Velshara, an agri-world that feeds half the sector." She nodded to Amaterasu, and the display zoomed in on the inner planet. "The Rilethi took both six months ago."

  A murmur ran through the room. Ralaen's ears flattened slightly.

  "Our scouts—two destroyers running silent—confirmed the presence of a Rilethi force five days ago." The display shifted, showing tactical overlays. "They've built a fortress in orbit around Isshar. As far as our scans can tell it's a standard Rilethi construction—heavy armor, kinetic batteries, dumb fire missile pods. They're using the system as a staging ground for further strikes into Federation space."

  Silent running means a slow translation down into realspace, Artemis noted privately. And a slow insertion to avoid detection. Those destroyer crews spent days crawling into the system on minimal emissions.

  "The enemy fleet is substantial." Takanashi gestured, and Amaterasu split the display.

  The display shifted, showing tactical overlays. "They've built a fortress in orbit around Isshar," Takanashi said.

  On the holo-tank, the Rilethi fleet materialized in angry red. Rilaen’s eyes flicked over the icons, Artemis instantly feeding her the data. One hundred thirty-five hulls, her AI noted. Twenty-five battleships, forty cruisers, seventy destroyers. They have the numbers.

  A murmur ran through the room. Ralaen’s ears flattened slightly. They were outnumbered nearly two-to-one in ships.

  Then Takanashi gestured, and the right side of the display filled with blue-green ásveldi icons. Sixth Fleet, Artemis supplied. Four Ragnar?k-class super-dreadnoughts, fifteen battlecruisers, twenty-five heavy cruisers, forty destroyers.

  Ralaen studied the numbers. The Rilethi had more hulls—nearly twice as many guns pointed in twice as many directions. But Sixth Fleet outmassed them by over twenty million tons, and four of those icons on the right were Ragnar?k-class. She thought about the spinal graser apertures, the turret arrays, the sheer concentrated violence those ships represented.

  The Rilethi fleet may outnumber us, Artemis observed privately, but Sixth Fleet outmasses them. The numerical advantage is superficial, especially considering Sixth Fleet has four SD's.

  "Our objective is simple." The display shifted again, highlighting the orbital fortress. "We take this system back. We destroy the fortress, eliminate or scatter the enemy fleet, and restore Issharran to Federation control."

  She paused, letting that sink in.

  "My plan is to use the fortress against them. We'll translate in-system and drive hard for Isshar orbit. The Rilethi fleet will have two choices—defend their fortress or run." Her lips curved in what might have been a smile. "If they defend, they're pinned in place while we gut them. If they run, we take the fortress first and run them down at our leisure."

  Aggressive, Artemis observed. But sound. The fortress is their logistics hub. Without it, any surviving Rilethi ships become orphans—no resupply, no repair, no coordination.

  Captain Eriksson, Fáfnir's captain, spoke up. "Rules of engagement for the fleet action, Admiral?"

  "Standard," Takanashi replied. "No quarter for Rilethi forces. Minimize collateral damage to the colony infrastructure where possible, but mission priority is fleet destruction. I want their ability to operate in this region broken."

  She turned to face the Einherjar directly.

  "Which brings us to you." Her gaze swept the rows of enhanced warriors. "Once we've established orbital superiority, we'll need boots on the ground. Both colony worlds will require clearing—the fortress will need to be taken and held. Therefore I'm requesting Einherjar support for the landing parties."

  Anastasia stirred in her seat, exchanging a glance with Ramirez.

  "Doctrine is one Einherjar per Jaeger company," Takanashi continued. "Distributed deployment. You'll serve as force multipliers and rapid response assets. The fortress assault will be handled by dedicated teams—I'll let your squad leaders sort the assignments."

  A moment of silence. Then Anastasia spoke, her voice carrying across the room.

  "Wolf Squad is in."

  "Cobra, in," Ramirez added.

  One by one, the other squad leaders voiced their agreement. Raven, Hawk, Viper, Bear—the roll call continued until every squad in Sixth Fleet had committed.

  Takanashi nodded, something like satisfaction in her eyes. "Good. Squad leaders, coordinate with Fleet Jaeger Command for company assignments. I want deployment plans finalized within forty-eight hours."

  The meeting continued for another hour—logistics, timing, contingencies. Ralaen absorbed it all, Artemis filing the relevant data for later review. When Takanashi finally dismissed them, the room dissolved into clusters of officers and Einherjar, conversations overlapping as people compared notes and made plans.

  Anastasia caught Ralaen's eye as they filed toward the exit.

  "You're with Bravo Company," she said quietly.

  Ralaen blinked. "Bravo—?"

  "Assigned to Captain Albright. Sari's platoon is part of the assault team." A faint smile crossed Anastasia's face. "I thought you might appreciate working with someone you know."

  She's looking out for you, Artemis observed. Pack dynamics.

  Ralaen felt something warm settle in her chest. "Thank you."

  "Don't thank me yet." Anastasia's expression hardened. "This is going to be ugly. The Rilethi don't give up fortresses easily."

  They made their way back through Fáfnir's endless corridors, past the cavernous hangar bays, back to their waiting shuttle. The super-dreadnought fell away behind them as they returned to Draupnir, but Ralaen could still feel its presence—the sheer, implacable weight of it.

  We're really doing this, she thought to Artemis. A full fleet action. Planetary assault. The whole thing.

  We are, Artemis agreed. This is what we trained for. This is what you chose.

  Ralaen watched the stars wheel past the viewport and thought about the war, about the fortress waiting in orbit around a stolen world, about Sari and her Marines and the Einherjar who would fight beside them.

  Then let's make it count, she thought.

  And somewhere in the back of her mind, Artemis smiled.

  Sixth Fleet dropped into the Issharran system like a hammer blow.

  Crash translation. The maneuver was used to carry as much velocity as possible over the hyperspace wall, trading the gentler deceleration of a standard insertion for raw speed. The entire fleet came across together, eighty-four hulls snapping into realspace in a single coordinated instant, seconds later they were burning hard toward the inner system.

  Toward the fortress. Toward the enemy.

  Ralaen watched the engagement unfold on the vid screen in the morgue, the other members of Wolf Squad were suiting up around her. The tactical feed showed Sixth Fleet as a wedge of blue-green icons driving straight for Isshar orbit, and between them and their objective, the Rilethi fleet scrambled to respond.

  The enemy took position between Sixth Fleet and their fortress—a wall of red icons, one hundred thirty-five ships trying to shield their logistics hub from the oncoming storm. It was the only play they had. Without the fortress, any surviving Rilethi ships would be orphans, cut off from resupply and repair. Their only recourse would then be to withdraw from the system.

  They're committed, Artemis observed. No retreat option. They have to stop us here or push past us.

  "Yeah, no retreat for them now," Ralaen said

  "They can't stop us," Thomas said, his voice muffled as he stepped into his Mk.4. The armor closed around him with the familiar hiss of seals engaging. "They just don't know it yet."

  The range closed. Sixth Fleet's missile batteries spoke first—thousands of weapons spilling from launch tubes, racing ahead of the fleet in a spreading cloud of death. The Rilethi answered with their own salvos, counter-missiles rising to meet the incoming fire, point defense lasers flickering across the black.

  Ralaen stepped into her own armor, feeling the familiar weight settle around her as the suit's systems came online. The HUD flickered to life, status indicators glowing green, and Artemis's presence sharpened in her mind as the suit links fully engaged.

  Missile exchange underway, Artemis reported. Sixth Fleet expended approximately twelve percent of magazine capacity in opening salvo. Rilethi point defense is... inadequate.

  On the screen, Rilethi ships began to die. The ásveldi missiles punched through weakened defenses, laser warheads detonating at standoff range and savaging hulls with focused beams. Contact nukes followed, turning wounded ships into expanding clouds of debris.

  But the Rilethi held. They traded their smaller destroyers to shield their battleships, the lighter hulls throwing themselves into missile paths, absorbing fire meant for larger targets. It was brutal calculus—lives for time, ships for position.

  The range continued to close.

  "Knife range in four minutes," Eirik said, as his own armor sealed. He moved to stand beside Ralaen, his own standard-pattern Mk.4 a sharp contrast beside her Wolf-pattern suit—his broader and more conventionally humanoid, hers sleeker with its digitigrade leg geometry and the articulated tail assembly that mirrored her natural movement.

  The forward elements engaged first. Sixth Fleet's heavy cruisers and destroyers met the Rilethi screen in a storm of graser fire and kinetic impacts. Ships on both sides staggered, armor glowing cherry-red where beams found their mark, hulls crumpling under the hammering of rail cannon rounds.

  Ralaen watched a Rilethi destroyer come apart under concentrated fire from two ásveldi cruisers, its spine breaking, atmosphere venting in glittering plumes. Another Rilethi ship—a cruiser—scored a direct hit on an ásveldi destroyer's drive section, sending the smaller ship tumbling out of formation, crippled but not dead.

  The destroyer Vigilant has lost its primary drive, Artemis noted clinically. Crew casualties estimated at twelve percent. She's combat ineffective but stable.

  "Come on," Thomas muttered, watching the feed. "Come on, show them what happens when the big girls get in range."

  As if in answer, the super-dreadnoughts fired.

  Fáfnir's main graser discharged—the aperture channeling enough focused energy to core a capital ship from stem to stern. The beam was invisible to the naked eye, but the effect was not. A Rilethi battleship simply ceased to exist along its central axis, the graser punching clean through its polarized armor, through its internal structure, through its reactor spaces. The ship broke apart in an explosion that consumed two nearby destroyers in its death.

  "Gods," Ralaen breathed.

  Three more main graser shots followed in quick succession—Fáfnir's sisters adding their voices to the chorus. Four Rilethi battleships died in as many seconds.

  Main graser cycle time is approximately five minutes, Artemis noted. The main batteries, however...

  The super-dreadnoughts opened up with their turret arrays.

  One hundred eight grasers per ship. Four ships. Four hundred thirty-two emitters firing in coordinated salvos, each beam capable of burning through anything short of a super-dreadnought's main belt.

  The effect was apocalyptic.

  Rilethi ships didn't just die—they melted. Polarized armor, designed to scatter and diffuse energy weapons, simply couldn't handle the saturation. The graviton-pumped lasers broke atomic bonds on contact, slagging plate after plate, boring through compartments, finding reactors and magazines and crew spaces. Ships that tried to roll their intact armor into the fire found themselves attacked from multiple angles simultaneously. Ships that tried to flee were run down and gutted from behind.

  Ralaen watched a Rilethi battleship take hits from at least six different grasers. Its hull glowed white, then began to sag, structural members losing coherence as the beams chewed through them. The ship's reactor let go a moment later, the explosion oddly beautiful against the black—a brief flower of light, a moment it was there and then it was gone.

  "That's it," Thomas said quietly. "That's the moment they understand the futility."

  He was right. The Rilethi formation broke.

  Not all at once—some ships kept fighting, either too brave or too slow to realize the battle was over. But the survivors made a desperate choice. Rather than try to outrun Sixth Fleet which was futile, when Rilethi ships maxed at a hundred fifty gravities and even the ásveldi super-dreadnoughts could manage five hundred. They decided to push through the formation, accepting catastrophic losses for a chance at escape.

  It was a slaughter. Ships that tried to run the gauntlet died by the dozen, grasers tearing them apart as they passed. But Sixth Fleet was committed to its vector, driving hard for the fortress, and reversing course to pursue would cost precious time. Turning that much mass at combat accel wasn’t trivial, even with ásveldi drives. A handful of Rilethi ships—battered, bleeding atmosphere, and drives damaged—made it past and kept burning for the hyperlimit.

  Seventeen survivors, Artemis noted. All damaged. They won't be combat effective for months, assuming they make it home at all.

  Sixth Fleet let them go. The fortress was the priority.

  By the time the fleet reached Isshar orbit, the Rilethi armada had been reduced to a field of drifting wreckage and fading drive signatures. One hundred thirty-five ships had become perhaps two dozen fleeing survivors and a expanding cloud of debris that would take centuries to disperse.

  Sixth Fleet casualties, Artemis reported. Three destroyers lost. Seven destroyers and two heavy cruisers reports as combat ineffective. One battlecruiser reports heavy damage, still operational. Fleet combat effectiveness at ninety-four percent.

  The fortress hung in orbit ahead of them, suddenly alone.

  Ralaen stood in the marine assembly area, her Mk.4 armor making her tower over the Jaeger marines of Bravo Company. The massive space was organized chaos—four companies preparing for the assault, dropships waiting in the launch bays beyond, the air thick with the tension of imminent action.

  She could see Eirik across the bay, his white-armored form standing beside Charlie Company. Anastasia was with Alpha Company, her posture relaxed but alert. Thomas loomed over Delta Company like a battlesteel giant, his heavy weapons mag-locked to his back.

  One Einherjar per company. Four companies. Four points of overwhelming force distributed across the assault.

  Fortress schematics are incomplete, Artemis said, projecting what they had into Ralaen's HUD. Scout data suggests standard Rilethi construction—heavy armor, compartmentalized internal structure, overlapping fields of fire from kinetic batteries. They'll have prepared kill zones.

  Then we'll have to make our own paths, Ralaen thought back.

  Bravo Company's marines moved around her with the practiced efficiency of veterans. These weren't green troops—she could see it in the way they checked their gear, the easy confidence of soldiers who had done this before. Their combat armor was well-maintained, battlesteel inserts gleaming dully under the assembly area's lights.

  Sari was somewhere in the formation, her pink hair hidden under her helmet, her usual energy channeled into professional focus. They'd spoken briefly before the assault briefing—a quick embrace, a promise to watch each other's backs.

  She's assigned to Second Platoon, Artemis noted. Forward assault element. She'll be in the first wave through the breach.

  The Flight-boss's voice echoed across the assembly area, cutting through the noise. "All forces, board your dropships! Repeat, all forces board your dropships and prepare for departure!"

  The marines began moving toward the waiting craft, their boots drumming on the deck plates in rhythm. Ralaen followed Bravo Company up the ramp of their assigned dropship, her armored form filling the space as she walked past the Dropmaster—a grizzled senior NCO who gave her a respectful nod—and into the troop bay.

  The interior was cramped with marines in their drop seats, weapons secured, faces hidden behind helmets. Ralaen moved past them to the rear of the compartment, where a square section of deck was marked with the Einherjar insignia. She stepped onto it and dropped to one knee, feeling the mag-locks engage with a solid clunk that anchored her half-ton of armor to the deck.

  Secure, Artemis confirmed. Tying into Bravo Company tac-net.

  The chatter flooded in immediately—marine officers discussing what to expect, NCOs running final checks on their squads, the low murmur of last-minute coordination. Ralaen filtered it automatically, letting Artemis flag anything relevant while she settled into the familiar rhythm of pre-combat waiting.

  A priority channel opened. Einherjar, this is Bravo Actual. Captain Albright's voice was calm, professional. I appreciate having you along for this. My people are good, but having someone who can punch through a bulkhead if we get bogged down—is reassuring.

  Glad to be here, Captain, Ralaen sent back. I'll do my best to live up to the reputation.

  That's all I can ask for. Bravo Actual out.

  A private channel opened. Ralaen. Eirik's voice, warm despite the circumstances. Charlie Company is loaded. See you on the other side.

  Don't do anything stupid, she sent back.

  How can I? you're taking all the stupid with you.

  She chuckled and smiled inside her helmet. Asshole.

  Captain Albright's voice cut across the tac-net. "Bravo Company, this is Bravo Actual. We're going in hot. First and Second Platoons breach and secure the initial compartments. Third Platoon provides fire support. Fourth Platoon is reserve. Our Einherjar—" he paused, and Ralaen could hear something like dry humor in his tone "—goes wherever she's needed most. Don't get in her way."

  A chorus of acknowledgments rolled through the net.

  The Dropmaster's voice echoed through the bay. "All personnel secure! Ramp coming up!"

  The ramp rose with a hydraulic whine, sealing them in. The interior lights shifted to red, casting everything in shades of blood and shadow.

  Ten minutes passed. The dropship hummed around them, vibrating with the subtle rhythm of engines at standby. Marines fidgeted, checked weapons for the tenth time, exchanged looks that their helmets hid but their body language betrayed.

  Then the Flight-boss's voice crackled across all channels. "All flights, ready and clear. Launch is go. Repeat, launch is go."

  The dropship lurched as it lifted from the deck, and Ralaen felt the familiar surge of acceleration as they cleared Draupnir's hangar bay and plunged into the black.

  Ahead, the fortress waited.

  Here we go, Artemis said.

  Ralaen watched the tactical feed as their dropship—and Eirik's, and dozens of others—arrowed toward the enemy.

  The ride in was rough.

  The dropships weaved and dodged through incoming fire, their heavy shields flaring as they attenuated and deflected rounds that the decoy drones—deployed by Sixth Fleet and racing ahead of the assault craft—hadn't been able to draw away. Ralaen felt each impact as a shudder through her mag-locked armor, the deck vibrating beneath her knee.

  TG Six Four is providing fire support, Artemis reported. Draupnir and the destroyers are targeting gun emplacements ahead of our approach vector.

  On the tactical feed, Ralaen watched Draupnir's grasers reach out, delicate fingers of invisible death that blotted out defensive batteries one by one. The destroyers added their own fire, smaller beams but more numerous, working to clear a path through the fortress's point defense network.

  The rest of Sixth Fleet had moved on, pushing toward the two colony worlds to clear them of Rilethi ground forces. TG Six Four had drawn fortress duty—four ships against a station that outmassed them combined.

  The dropship lurched hard to port, throwing marines against their restraints. Someone swore over the tac-net. The shields flared again, brighter this time.

  Then they were down.

  The dropship settled onto the fortress's outer hull with a heavy clunk of magnetic landing gear. Around them, three other craft did the same—Alpha, Charlie, and Delta companies taking their own positions on the station's surface.

  Depressurizing drop compartment, Artemis announced. Mag-locks disengaging in three... two... one.

  The clamps holding Ralaen's armor to the deck released. She stood, servos humming, and reached back to draw her K&B ASG-12 from its mag-lock on her back. The trench gun was a brutal weapon—a semi-automatic shotgun designed for close-quarters, loaded with flechette rounds that could shred unarmored targets or punch through light plating at close range.

  She marched past the marines unbuckling from their drop seats, her armored form forcing them to press back against the bulkheads to let her pass. When she reached the ramp, she paused at the threshold.

  Space stretched before her, black and cold. In the distance, TG Six Four's ships maneuvered against the backdrop of stars, their shields flickering as the fortress's remaining guns continued to hammer at them. Draupnir's familiar silhouette took a hit even as Ralaen watched, the battlecruiser's shields flaring bright before settling back to their normal shimmer.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Captain Clarke's voice cut across the battalion net, dry and pointed. "I would appreciate it if you could convince the Rilethi to stop shooting at my ships."

  The battalion commander—a colonel attached to Alpha Company—responded immediately. "We'll see what we can do about that, Draupnir. Assault teams, move to breach points."

  Ralaen walked down the ramp, her mag-boots anchoring her to the fortress hull with each step. The station's surface was typical Rilethi construction—angular, utilitarian, covered in sensor blisters and weapon mounts. Ahead, she could see Captain Albright and a cluster of marines gathered around what looked like an airlock.

  She crossed the distance in long, loping strides and stopped beside them. "Need a hand with that?"

  Albright looked up from where a tech was working on the airlock's control panel. He considered for a moment, then keyed his comm. "Get the portable airlock up here. Now."

  Five minutes later, they had the temporary structure erected and sealed against the Rilethi airlock—a flexible tube of reinforced material that would let them breach without venting atmosphere into space. The marines cycled back, taking up positions with weapons ready.

  Albright gave Ralaen a nod. "It's all yours, Einherjar."

  She stepped up to the airlock door. Artemis highlighted the weak points in her HUD—structural joints, thinner sections of plating, the spots where Rilethi engineering had prioritized function over durability.

  Ralaen punched her armored fingers through the first weak point, feeling the metal give way like paper. She found a grip, braced herself, and pulled.

  The airlock door came off its frame with a shriek of tearing metal. Air rushed past her, filling the temporary airlock with a howl that faded as pressure equalized. She set the ruined door aside, already moving toward the inner seal.

  This one she didn't bother being delicate with. She drove her fist into the center of the door and twisted, folding the metal inward like a flower blooming in reverse. The inner airlock crumpled, and suddenly they were through.

  The corridor beyond was washed in sickly green emergency lighting, a blaring siren filling the air with its rhythmic wail. Rilethi architecture pressed in around them—walls covered in angular geometric patterns, conduits running along the ceiling in configurations that made no sense to human—or Asuari—eyes.

  Mapping, Artemis said. Collating data from all Wolf Squad elements.

  Somewhere else in the fortress, Eirik and Thomas and Anastasia were doing the same thing—their suits' sensors building a picture of the station's interior, sharing data across the squad link. The tactical map in Ralaen's HUD grew more detailed with each passing second, corridors and compartments resolving out of the fog of war.

  Streaming updated map to Bravo Company tac-net.

  "Appreciated, Einherjar," Albright's voice came over the comm. "That's going to save us a lot of blind corners."

  Ralaen advanced down the corridor, trench gun up, Sari's squad falling in behind her. The other marines cycled through the breached airlock, spreading out to secure the entry point before pushing deeper.

  Contact.

  The warning flashed into her awareness at the same instant Artemis detected it—four Rilethi Corsairs about to cross the intersection ahead, their heat signatures and movement patterns unmistakable.

  Ralaen moved.

  She broke into a dead sprint, her Mk.4's servos launching her forward faster than any unaugmented being could react. The trench gun came up and she fired on the move, the weapon coughing a spread of flechettes into the intersection just as the first Corsair stepped into view.

  The Rilethi had no time to respond. They were still processing the sound of the breach alarm, still turning toward the unexpected threat, when Ralaen hit them like a thunderbolt.

  The first Corsair took a face full of flechettes and went down thrashing. The second tried to raise its weapon—Ralaen punched straight through its skull with her armored fist, the blow cratering scales and bone. The third she kicked into the corridor wall with enough force to buckle its chest armor inward, the wet crunch of breaking ribs audible even over the alarms. The fourth managed to get a shot off—the round sparked off her pauldron—before she put the trench gun's muzzle against its center mass and fired twice.

  Four Corsairs. Four seconds. Four corpses.

  Sari's squad came around the corner a moment later, weapons up, and found Ralaen standing in the middle of the carnage, trench gun still smoking.

  "By the Allfather's beard," one of the humans breathed over the comm. "Remind me never to pick a fight with an Einherjar."

  "Stow it," Sari snapped, her sergeant voice cutting through the chatter. "Secure this intersection. Move."

  The marines spread out, checking corners and covering approaches while Ralaen waited, her breathing barely elevated. Artemis ran a quick diagnostic—no damage, ammunition count still high, all systems green.

  You're enjoying this, Artemis observed.

  Ralaen's heart was pounding, her blood singing with the thrill of the hunt. Four kills in four seconds. The predator in her was alive, gloriously alive, and she felt no shame in it.

  Yes, she admitted, and she was grinning inside her helmet. Yes, I am.

  The ambush came three compartments from the command hub.

  Ralaen was on point, trench gun up, when Artemis screamed a warning directly into her mind—not words, just threat-threat-THREAT—and she was already diving sideways when the shot came.

  She didn't make it.

  The round took her dead center in the chest plate.

  For a frozen instant, the world stopped. Then physics reasserted itself with brutal finality. The impact was like being hit by a shuttle at full burn—her boots left the deck, her body folding around the point of impact, and she was flying backward down the corridor. She hit the deck five meters back, skidding, her armor shrieking damage alerts, and all the air in her lungs vanished in a single explosive gasp.

  She couldn't breathe. She tried to inhale and nothing happened, her diaphragm spasming, her vision sparking at the edges. The HUD swam with red warnings she couldn't focus on.

  Railgun, Artemis reported, her voice cutting through the static in Ralaen's head. Must be an anti-vehicle configuration, using overcharged capacitors. The chest plate's integrity is at eighty-two percent. Ralaen. Ralaen, you need to move.

  She rolled sideways on instinct alone, lungs still burning, and the second shot hit the deck where she'd been lying. Metal vaporizing. Shrapnel pinging off her armor. She kept rolling, got a shoulder against the wall, and finally—finally—sucked in a ragged breath that tasted like blood.

  Ralaen blinked hard, forcing her vision to clear. A barricade blocked the corridor ahead, portable cover set up around a heavy railgun on a pintle mount—the thing that had nearly killed her. The barrel was thick and ugly, capacitor banks glowing an angry red from the overcharge. The Reaver behind it was already racking another round. More Reavers flanked the position with conventional weapons, but that gun was the real threat.

  This was a prepared position. Purpose-built to stop armor. To stop her.

  The third shot caught her as she tried to rise.

  It hit her chest plate again—same spot, or close enough—and she went down hard, her back slamming into the deck, fresh damage alerts cascading across her vision. The breath she'd just recovered exploded out of her again. Something in her chest hurt in a way that went beyond bruising.

  Chest plate integrity at sixty-one percent, Artemis said, and there was something tight in her voice now. Ralaen, you cannot take another hit to that location.

  Behind her, Sari's squad had hit the deck, pressing flat against the corridor walls. Marines were shouting, returning fire, but their weapons couldn't punch through the Reaver barricades. Every time someone leaned out, the supporting Reavers drove them back.

  "Einherjar!" Sari's voice, tight with concern. "Talk to me!"

  Ralaen dragged herself behind a structural support, her breath coming in short, painful gasps. Her ribs ached. Her chest plate had a divot in it she could feel through the armor's feedback—a depression in the battlesteel where the rounds had hit. She checked her HUD, blinked sweat out of her eyes, and read the damage report.

  Two impacts. Same location. But the armor held. For now.

  "Still here," she managed. "Give me a second."

  The railgun cracked again, the round sparking off her cover and gouging a chunk out of the wall behind her. The Reaver gunner was patient. It knew she had to move eventually.

  The maintenance access, Artemis urged. Two meters to your left. You can flank them.

  Ralaen looked. The access panel was there—but two meters meant crossing open ground, exposed to that gun.

  I can make it.

  You'll take at least one more hit.

  She bared her teeth inside her helmet. Then I take one more hit.

  "Sari. Everything you have. Now."

  To her credit, Sari didn't hesitate. "Squad, suppressing fire! All weapons, continuous!"

  The corridor erupted. Every marine in Sari's squad leaned out and opened up, pouring fire into the Reaver position. It wasn't enough to kill them—not through those barricades—but it was enough to make the gunner flinch, duck, lose sight of its target for half a second.

  Ralaen moved.

  She lunged from cover, sprinting for the access panel, her damaged armor screaming protest. The Reaver gunner recovered faster than she'd hoped—the railgun tracked, capacitors whining—

  The fourth shot took her in the side.

  Not the chest plate. The flank, just below her left arm, spinning her half around. She stumbled, caught herself, and kept going, slamming into the wall beside the access panel. Her left side was a symphony of damage alerts. Something was cracked—Loss of Structural Integrity: Moderate—but she was still moving, still fighting, still alive.

  She ripped the panel off its hinges and threw herself into the maintenance corridor.

  The space was too small. Far too small for a Mk.4 to move comfortably. She dropped to all fours and crawled, armor scraping against the walls, servos whining at the awkward angles. Every movement sent pain lancing through her side. Cables and conduits dragged across her back. The walls pressed in, claustrophobic and tight.

  Behind her, muffled by metal and distance, the firefight continued—Sari's squad keeping the Reavers occupied, buying her time.

  Ten meters. Five meters. You're past them.

  Another access panel. Ralaen didn't slow down—she punched through it with her good arm and exploded into the corridor behind the Reaver position.

  The gunner tried to spin the railgun around. Too slow. Far too slow.

  Ralaen's trench gun took its head off at the neck.

  The other Reavers turned, weapons coming up, and she was already among them. She couldn't move the way she wanted—her left side screamed every time she twisted—so she fought ugly instead. Close. Brutal. An armored fist caved in a Reaver's chest. A boot crushed another's skull against the deck. She grabbed a third by the throat and used it as a shield when the fourth opened fire, then threw the corpse into the shooter and closed the distance before it could recover.

  The last Reaver died with her gauntlet around its face, the chitin crumpling like wet paper.

  Silence. Just the settling of bodies and the wail of distant alarms.

  Ralaen stood in the middle of the carnage, breathing in short, sharp gasps that sent pain spiking through her ribs. Her armor was a mess—gouges and scoring across the chest plate, a crack in the left flank plating, the pauldron on that side slightly askew. She looked down at her chest and saw it: a hairline fracture running across the center of the plate, a thin dark line in the bone-white battlesteel where the repeated impacts had finally found the armor's limit.

  Chest plate integrity at forty-four percent, Artemis reported quietly. That fracture is structural. One more solid hit to that location and the plate fails.

  Ralaen touched the crack with one armored finger, tracing its length. An inch to the left, an inch deeper, and the next shot would have found her heart.

  I know, she thought.

  Sari's squad came around the barricade a moment later, weapons up. They stopped when they saw her—standing in the middle of five dead Reavers, armor cracked and scarred, the railgun still smoking on its mount behind her.

  "Clear," Ralaen said. Her voice was rougher than she wanted it to be.

  Sari approached slowly, her eyes moving from the bodies to Ralaen's damaged armor to the fracture across her chest plate. "By the spirits," she breathed. "Are you—"

  "I'm fine."

  "You have a crack in your armor I could fit my finger into."

  "It's a hairline fracture." Ralaen rolled her shoulder, wincing as her left side protested. "I've had worse."

  "Have you?"

  You have not, Artemis observed privately. This is the most significant armor damage you have sustained in combat.

  She doesn't need to know that.

  Sari stared at her for a long moment, then shook her head. "You crawled through a maintenance duct with broken armor to flank a gun emplacement that was about to kill you."

  "It was that or die in the corridor."

  "...Fair point." Something flickered in Sari's expression—respect, maybe. "Can you keep moving?"

  Ralaen checked her systems. Her left side was damaged. Her chest plate was compromised. The pain was manageable. Ammunition was still adequate. She'd fought through worse in training.

  You have not, Artemis said, chidingly.

  Quiet.

  "I can keep moving," Ralaen said.

  They pushed on toward the command hub.

  They cleared their assigned section and pushed toward the central command hub, the tactical map guiding them through the maze of Rilethi corridors. Ralaen moved more carefully now, favoring her left side, the hairline fracture in her chest plate a constant presence in her awareness. Every breath reminded her it was there.

  Suits structural integrity is holding, Artemis reported. But I'm not happy about the noises the left side is making.

  You've mentioned.

  I'll keep mentioning it until we're back in the morgue and Chief Magnus is yelling at you for damaging your armor.

  At the hub's entrance, they found Charlie and Delta companies already waiting. Ralaen scanned for Eirik automatically, found his white armor among the marines—and saw him already moving toward her, his posture shifting from professional to concerned in the space of a heartbeat.

  He stopped in front of her. His helmet tilted down, taking in the damage—the divot in her chest plate, the dark fracture line running through the battlesteel, the scoring along her left flank, the askew pauldron.

  "Ralaen." His voice was carefully controlled over the private channel, but she could hear the tension underneath. "What happened?"

  "They had an anti-vehicle emplacement. Some type of overcharged railgun." She tried to shrug and regretting it immediately, Pain shooting through her ribs. "I'm fine."

  "You have a crack in your chest plate."

  "It's cosmetic."

  It is not cosmetic, Artemis interjected on the squad channel, and Ralaen could have strangled her. Her chest plate integrity is at forty-four percent. One more significant impact to that location and the plate would have failed.

  Eirik went very still.

  "I handled it," Ralaen said firmly. "The gun crew is dead. I'm not. That's what matters."

  For a long moment, he just looked at her. Then his hand came up—gentle despite the armored gauntlet—and his fingers brushed across the fracture line in her chest plate. The touch was light, almost reverent, tracing the crack that had nearly killed her.

  "Don't do that again," he said quietly.

  "I'll try."

  Thomas's voice cut across the squad channel, gruff but warm. "Glad you're still with us, maeja. Was starting to think you'd gotten lost."

  "Just took the scenic route." Ralaen turned to look at him—and stopped.

  Thomas was looming over a cluster of marines like a protective giant, his armor scorched but intact. Nothing unusual there. But beyond him, through the hatch to the command hub, she could see—

  She stepped past Eirik, past Thomas, and through the entrance.

  The command hub looked like someone had gone through it with a blender. Consoles sparked and smoked, their screens shattered. Rilethi bodies lay scattered across the deck—some shot, some cut, some bearing wounds that could only have come from armored fists. Scorch marks climbed the walls. Blood—Rilethi blood, dark and viscous—was everywhere.

  Anastasia sat on a console in the center of it all.

  Her armor was scorched and splattered with gore. There was a dent in her right pauldron—a deep crease in the metal where something had hit her hard enough to deform battlesteel. Scoring ran across her chest plate in parallel lines, like claws had raked across it. One of her knee guards was cracked.

  She looked like she'd fought through hell and barely made it out the other side.

  "The guns are down," Anastasia said, her voice flat. "Fortress is ours."

  Ralaen stared at her squad leader, then around at the carnage, then back at Anastasia. She thought about the railgun emplacement. Four shots. The desperate crawl through the maintenance duct. The fight at the end with her armor failing around her.

  Anastasia had faced something like that—maybe worse—and she was sitting there like it was nothing.

  "What happened to you?" Ralaen asked.

  Anastasia glanced down at the dent in her pauldron, then back up. Her eyes moved to Ralaen's chest plate—to the hairline fracture—and something flickered in her expression. Recognition, maybe. Understanding.

  "They had a heavy weapons team," she said. "I handled it."

  She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to.

  Looks like you're not the only one who likes to gamble with her life, Artemis sniffed

  Ralaen met Anastasia's eyes through their helmets, and something passed between them—an acknowledgment that needed no words. They'd both walked right into kill zones today. But they'd both walked out.

  Thomas moved up beside Ralaen, his bulk reassuring despite everything. "Alpha Company said she went on ahead of them. Didn't wait for them to provide support." He shook his head slowly. "They found her like this when they caught up. Standing in the middle of it, reloading."

  "Crazy woman," Eirik said, shaking his head.

  Ralaen looked at her squad leader—at the woman who had thrown herself into the teeth of the enemy's defenses alone and come out victorious.

  You held your own today, Artemis said gently. Don't compare yourself to someone with twenty more years of experience.

  I know, it's just… Ralaen said her voice trailing off.

  The battalion's tech specialists moved in, pulling data from whatever Rilethi systems were still functional. The tactical feed showed the fortress's weapons going dark one by one, TG Six Four's ships finally able to maneuver without taking constant fire.

  Captain Clarke's voice came over the command net, noticeably more relaxed. "Nice work down there. I appreciate not having my ship being shot at."

  "Anytime, Captain," the battalion commander replied. "We're pulling what intel we can and preparing for extraction."

  They gathered their casualties as the techs worked. Bravo Company had gotten off light—a handful of wounded, scrapes and burns mostly, nothing that wouldn't heal. But Delta Company had taken losses.

  Four dead.

  They had encountered a Rilethi ambush—through a hidden corridor that sprung just as the company passed by. Thomas had responded quickly, his heavy frame filling the corridor, his twin axes cutting down the ambushers. But not before they killed four of Deltas marines and injured several more.

  Ralaen watched the bodies being loaded onto stretchers, their armor scarred and broken. Four people who had been alive an hour ago. Four empty spaces in a formation that would never quite fill them.

  You've seen casualties before, Artemis said quietly. It's unfortunate but we can't be everywhere all the time.

  I know. Ralaen said. I know.

  Artemis didn't say anything else. She didn't need to. She was just there, a steady presence in the back of Ralaen's mind.

  The walk back to the dropships was quiet.

  Ralaen fell into step beside Sari, their armored forms moving in sync through the fortress's corridors—now secured, just another piece of conquered ground. Every step sent a dull ache through her left side, and she could feel the hairline fracture in her chest plate like a weight against her heart.

  She opened a private channel. "Sari."

  "Yeah?"

  "Maelis." Ralaen hesitated, looking for the right words. "How long has she been so..."

  She trailed off, not sure how to describe it. Theatrical seemed too mild. Unhinged was too harsh.

  Sari laughed, the sound bright even over the comm. "You mean her whole action-hero thing? About halfway through our first rotation. There was this frontier world—human colony, nothing special. We got sent in to deal with some local fauna that had been attacking settlements."

  "And?"

  "And it was basically the plot of Predator. Big things. Fast. Smart enough to set ambushes. Maelis got separated from her fire team, spent about six hours alone in the bush with those things hunting her." Sari's voice took on an amused tone. "She came back covered in mud, carrying a makeshift spear, and quoting Arnold Braunschweiger. She's been like that on deployment ever since."

  Ralaen blinked inside her helmet. "So she's not..."

  "Crazy? No. Well, not more than the rest of us." Sari snorted. "Off-duty she's the perfect picture of Azelari decorum. Wouldn't know she'd spent the morning cackling like a madwoman behind a heavy machinegun. It's her thing. We've learned to roll with it."

  "Huh." Ralaen considered that. "I think I like her more now."

  "Yeah, me too."

  They walked the rest of the way in silence.

  The dropships waited where they'd left them, ramps down, engines cycling. Bravo Company filed aboard in the loose, tired formation of soldiers coming down from combat. Ralaen followed them up, nodded to the Dropmaster, and took her place on the Einherjar square. The mag-locks engaged with a familiar clunk.

  The ramp whined shut. The interior lights shifted to red. Marines settled into their seats, the post-combat quiet settling over them like a blanket.

  Departure in five, Artemis said. TG Six Four is holding station.

  A pause. Something in Artemis's mental voice shifted.

  Ralaen. There's something you should know.

  The dropship lifted, and Ralaen felt the gentle pull of acceleration as they climbed away from the conquered fortress.

  What is it?

  Draupnir took damage during the assault. The fortress scored several hits before we silenced its weapons.

  Ralaen's stomach tightened. How bad?

  Significant. I'm pulling the damage report now.

  The dropship banked, angling toward Draupnir's position, and Ralaen switched her HUD to an external feed. The view rotated as they came around the battlecruiser's bow, and—

  She stopped breathing.

  Draupnir hung in the black, her bone-white hull scarred and blackened along the forward and port aspects. Three massive impact craters marred the armor right behind the prow ram—places where the fortress' railgun rounds had punched into the battlesteel and detonated, leaving wounds the size of shuttle bays. The port side was worse. A long, ugly gouge ran from just aft of the forward hangar bay to nearly amidships, the armor had peeled back like torn flesh, leaving internal structure visible beneath. Venting atmosphere had frozen into glittering clouds of ice crystals around the wound, catching the light of Skadi's star.

  Draupnir's emergency crews crawled over the damaged sections, their work lights tiny pinpricks against the vast canvas of destruction. Repair drones swarmed the worst of the breaches, working on sealing compartments, stopping leaks, doing what they could with what they had.

  Forward impacts penetrated to the third deck, Artemis reported quietly. Seventeen crew confirmed dead. Forty-three wounded. The port-side damage is worse—it breached two of the primary compartments and severed a main power conduit. Engineering has since rerouted. Runa's assessed Draupnir is sixty-three percent combat operational.

  Ralaen stared at the wounds in her ship's hull. Draupnir had taken those hits while they were inside the fortress. While she was crawling through a maintenance duct. While Sari's squad was laying down suppressing fire. The fortress had been shooting at their home, and they hadn't even known.

  Captain Clarke held station, Artemis continued. She could have pulled back, reduced the ship's exposure. She stayed to provide fire support for the landing teams.

  Sixty-three percent, Ralaen thought. That's...

  That means shipyard time. Weeks, at minimum. Possibly months depending on the extent of the structural damage. Artemis paused. It's likely we're going to be sent home. Back to Earth.

  The dropship passed over Draupnir's wounded flank, close enough that Ralaen could see individual armor plates buckled and torn. She thought about the corridors she walked every day, the mess hall, the tavern, the common room where they watched movies. Some of those spaces might be open to vacuum now. Some of those corridors were probably filled with emergency bulkheads and damage control teams working to clear the damaged sections.

  Seventeen dead. Crew members she might have passed in the corridors, nodded to in the mess, never thought about twice. Gone now, because the fortress had gotten lucky and Draupnir had refused to pull back.

  The dropship slid into Draupnir's hangar bay—the starboard bay, she noted distantly, because the port-side hangars were probably compromised—and settled onto the deck with a heavy clunk of magnetic locks.

  Ralaen disengaged her mag-locks and rose, her damaged armor protesting the movement. Around her, marines were unbuckling, gathering their gear, the quiet murmur of post-combat conversation filling the bay.

  She walked down the ramp and stopped at the bottom, looking around the hangar. It looked the same as always—deck crews moving with purpose, equipment in its proper place, the controlled chaos of a working warship. But she could feel the difference. A tension in the air, a tightness in the way people moved. The ship had been hurt, and everyone knew it.

  Morgue first, Artemis said gently. Get out of that armor. Let the techs assess the damage.

  Ralaen nodded inside her helmet and started walking.

  The corridor outside the hangar bay was busier than usual—damage control teams moving with purpose, repair crews hauling equipment, medical personnel escorting wounded toward the ship's hospital. She passed a section of bulkhead that had been hastily patched, the metal still warm to the touch, and slowed.

  Seventeen people had died keeping this ship in the fight.

  She didn't know their names. She probably never would. But they'd held the line.

  The morgue was quiet when she arrived, the other members of Wolf Squad already at various stages of extraction.

  Ralaen stepped onto her armor's rack and initiated the release sequence, feeling the familiar series of clicks and hisses as the Mk.4 opened behind her. The cool air hit her sweat-damp bodyglove as she stepped back and out—and immediately hissed through her teeth as her ribs reminded her exactly what she'd put them through.

  Bruising across the left thoracic region, Artemis reported. No fractures in the skeletal structure—your reinforced bones held—but the soft tissue took a beating. I'd recommend limited physical activity for the next forty-eight hours.

  Define "limited."

  No combat. No sparring. No athletic intimacy with your mate.

  Ralaen's ears flattened. That seems excessive.

  Your soft tissue took repeated trauma from a weapon designed to kill vehicles. I'm being conservative.

  You're being a mother hen.

  Big sister hen. Thank you very much.

  Chief Magnus was waiting.

  The gruff tech took one look at her chest plate—at the hairline fracture running through the battlesteel—and his expression shifted from professional interest to something closer to personal offense.

  "What," he said flatly, "did you do to my suit?"

  "They had a railgun."

  "A railgun." He stepped closer, running a diagnostic tool along the fracture line, his weathered fingers tracing the damage with the care of a surgeon examining a wound. "An anti-vehicle railgun, from the look of this. You took multiple hits from an anti-vehicle railgun."

  "Three."

  Magnus stopped. Looked at her. "Three."

  "They had an overcharged emplacement. I couldn't get to cover fast enough."

  He was quiet for a long moment, studying the fracture, the scoring on the flank plating, the dent in the pauldron. Then he shook his head slowly. "You’re lucky it was only three hits, another hit and the chest plate likely would have failed." He tapped the fracture with one calloused finger. "The Allfather was watching you today, Einherjar."

  Ralaen didn't have an answer for that.

  "This requires the forges of Nidavillier," Magnus continued, his voice gruff again—back to business. "I can patch the flank, make it functional. But this—" he rapped his knuckles on the chest plate"—needs a full reforge. The molecular structure is compromised. One more solid impact and it shatters."

  "How long?"

  "Doesn't matter. Word is we're heading back to Nidavillier anyway. The ship needs yard time worse than your armor does." He jerked his chin toward the door. "Get out of here. Medical bay first—get those ribs looked at. Then shower. Eat. I'll have a full damage assessment by morning."

  "I don't need medical—"

  "That wasn't a suggestion." Magnus fixed her with a look that reminded her uncomfortably of her father. "You took three anti-vehicle rounds to the chest. You're going to medical, or I'm calling your squad leader and telling her you're refusing treatment."

  Ralaen went to medical.

  The ship's hospital was busier than she'd ever seen it.

  Wounded crew filled the beds and lined the corridors with burns, shrapnel wounds, and broken bones—the aftermath of the hits Draupnir had taken while holding station. Medical staff moved between them with tired efficiency, triaging and treating as best they could. The air smelled of antiseptic and blood.

  Ralaen found a corner and waited, watching the organized chaos. These were the survivors—the ones who'd survived when others hadn't. Some of them had probably been standing next to people who died. Some of them had probably pulled bodies out of compartments opened to vacuum.

  A harried medic got to her eventually, ran a scanner over her torso, and confirmed what Artemis had already said: severe bruising, no fractures, rest and time. He handed her a packet of something for the pain, told her to come back if she started coughing blood, and moved on to the next patient before she could ask any questions.

  She didn't take the pills. The pain was a reminder she wanted to keep for a while.

  The locker room was empty when she arrived, and she was grateful for it.

  Ralaen stripped out of her bodyglove slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at her ribs. The mirror showed her what the armor had hidden: a massive bruise spreading across her left side, purple-black against her dark fur, roughly the size and shape of a railgun impact. She touched it gingerly and hissed.

  It looks worse than it is, Artemis offered.

  It looks like someone hit me with a shuttle.

  That's... not inaccurate.

  The shower helped. Hot water sluiced through her fur, carrying away sweat and tension and the phantom smell of Rilethi blood. She kept her left arm close to her body, moving carefully, letting the heat work into the bruised tissue. It hurt, but it was a clean hurt—the kind that meant healing, not damage.

  She stayed under the water longer than she needed to, letting herself feel the steam and warmth. going over the fortress assault. The railgun emplacement. The crawl through the maintenance duct. The crack in her armor that could have been her death.

  Three hits. One more and the chestplate would have failed—Magnus had said it plainly. She'd been one shot away from dying in that corridor, and she was standing here complaining about bruises.

  You're quiet, Artemis observed. Not pushing.

  I'm thinking.

  About?

  Ralaen traced the edge of the bruise with her fingers, watching the water run purple-black down her fur. I should be dead. One more hit and the plate would have shattered.

  But it didn't.

  But it didn't. She leaned her forehead against the cool tile, letting the hot water pound against her back. I keep waiting to feel something. Relief, maybe. Or scared. I almost died, Artemis. I should feel... something.

  What do you feel?

  She searched for the right word. The water drummed. Steam curled.

  Hollow, she admitted finally. Like after Kryssar. Like there should be more inside me, but there's just... this empty space where the fear was supposed to go.

  Artemis was quiet for a moment. Then, gently: You were scared. I felt it. When that second shot hit, when you couldn't breathe—you were terrified.

  I know. I remember. Ralaen closed her eyes. But now it's just... gone. Like it happened to someone else.

  That's not wrong, Ralaen. That's just how our minds work. The fear was real. The danger was real. And now you're safe, and your brain is trying to put distance between you and the thing that almost killed you.

  Is that healthy?

  I don't know, Artemis admitted, and there was something soft in her voice. But I don't think you're broken, if that's what you're asking. I think you're simply dealing. And I think you're allowed to not have it all figured out yet.

  Ralaen huffed something that was almost a laugh. When did you get so wise?

  I've always been wise. You just don't listen.

  Liar.

  Big sister's prerogative.

  The warmth of the exchange settled into her chest, loosening something she hadn't realized was tight. She wasn't okay—not yet, not entirely—but she wasn't alone, either.

  By the time she stepped out and reached for a towel, the worst of the tension had bled away. The bruise still throbbed, but it was manageable now. Background noise.

  She dressed carefully. Sweatpants that sat loose enough not to press against the bruising, and Eirik's hoodie—the one she'd stolen weeks ago and never returned. It was soft and warm and smelled faintly of him.

  Eirik was waiting for her outside the locker room.

  He straightened when he saw her, his eyes moving over her with the kind of attention that had nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with concern. Looking for signs of injuries. Making sure that she was okay.

  "Medical cleared you?"

  "Nothings broken. I got a couple of bruised ribs though. " She managed a small smile. "Artemis says no athletic intimacy for forty-eight hours."

  His mouth twitched, but the humor didn't quite reach his eyes. "She would."

  He reached out, and she stepped into him, letting his arms fold around her. He was careful—she felt him adjust his grip to avoid her left side—and that care said more than words could. She pressed her face into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him, letting herself just... be held.

  They stood like that for a while. The corridor was quiet around them, the distant hum of the ship the only sound.

  "I saw chief Magnus damage report," he said eventually, his voice low. "Your armor took three hits."

  "I know."

  "Forty-four percent integrity on the chest plate. Magnus said one more hit and it would have failed."

  "I know."

  His arms tightened, just slightly, still mindful of her ribs. She felt something in his chest—a breath he'd been holding, maybe, or something he wasn't saying.

  "Eirik."

  "I'm fine."

  "You're not."

  He was quiet. His hand moved to the back of her head, fingers threading through her damp hair and fur, holding her close.

  "I watched your icon on the tac-feed," he said, and his voice was rougher now. "During the assault. I saw you go static for almost a full minute. No movement. No comms. Just... nothing." His grip tightened again. "I thought—"

  He stopped.

  Ralaen pulled back just enough to look up at him. His jaw was tight, his grey-blue eyes darker than usual. He looked like a man who'd spent an hour imagining the worst and was only now letting himself believe it hadn't happened.

  "I'm here," she said softly.

  "I know."

  "I'm not going anywhere."

  "I know." He exhaled, something loosening in his shoulders. His thumb traced along her cheekbone, a gentle touch. "I just... need a minute."

  She understood. She'd felt the same hollow distance in the shower—the gap between almost being dead and still breathing. It took time to process.

  "Take all the time you need," she said.

  He huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, some of the tension bleeding out of him. "When did you get so wise?"

  "I think Artemis is rubbing off on me." she chuckled "ow"

  I resent that, Artemis said. I am a wonderful influence.

  Ralaen smiled. She leaned up and kissed him—brief and gentle.

  "Come on," she said, taking his hand. "I'm starving, and you look like you need to sit down."

  "I'm fine."

  "You look terrible. And I know you're lying." She tugged him toward the mess hall. "Food first. You can fall apart later."

  He let himself be led, his fingers lacing through hers. "That's not how that saying goes."

  "What saying?"

  The mess hall was quieter than usual.

  The post-operation energy was there. Relief, satisfaction, the high of having survived. But it was muted. Draupnir had lost people today, and everyone knew it. Conversations were softer. Nobody was joking. The crew moved through the food line with tired efficiency.

  Ralaen grabbed a tray and loaded it with everything that looked good. Her body was screaming for calories, a call that she intended to fulfill. She loaded up her tray: pancakes with cream. Bacon with onion sauce. Potato pancakes. And a slice of chocolate cake that was probably meant for three people.

  She found a table in the corner, settled in across from Eirik, and took her first bite.

  The pancake was perfect. Sweet, fluffy, the cream melting against the warmth. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy it, let the simple pleasure push back against everything else. For just a moment, the bruised ribs and the cracked armor and the seventeen dead didn't exist. There was just this—sugar and comfort and the man sitting across from her.

  "You have cream on your nose," Eirik said.

  "Don't care."

  He smiled, soft and fond, and went back to his own food.

  Anastasia and Thomas joined them a few minutes later, sliding into seats with their own loaded trays. Anastasia looked just as tired as Ralaen felt. Thomas just looked like Thomas.

  "You know," Anastasia said, "I have never seen someone enjoy their food quite as much as you."

  "Growing girls need their food," Thomas added, grinning. "Isn't that right, maeja?"

  Ralaen gave him a side-eye without pausing her assault on the pancakes. The teasing was a familiar and comfortable escape. A form of pack behavior, the gentle ribbing that said you're one of us.

  "Chief Magnus says your armor needs a full reforge," Anastasia said, shifting to business. "Forge work. It'll have to wait until we reach Nidavillier."

  "He mentioned I could have died but I lucked out."

  "You took three hits from an anti-vehicle weapon." Anastasia's voice was flat, but something flickered beneath it. "So yes. You should have been."

  The table was quiet for a moment.

  "Learn from it," Anastasia added. "That's all any of us can do."

  Ralaen nodded slowly.

  Thomas cleared his throat. "So we're heading back to Nidavillier? For real?"

  "Once Sixth Fleet confirms the system is secure. The ship needs yard time—weeks, minimum. Forward hull is compromised, and we lost a main power conduit." Anastasia paused. "Seventeen crew dead. Forty-three wounded."

  "Captain Clarke held station," Ralaen said quietly. "She could have pulled back."

  "She could have. She didn't." Anastasia said returning to her food.

  They ate in silence for a while after that, the weight of the day settling around them. The comfortable quiet of people who'd been through the wringer together and come out the other side, bruised but alive.

  After dinner—or lunch, or whatever meal it was; shipboard time had a way of blurring such distinctions—Wolf Squad retreated to their common room.

  The space was quiet after the noise of the mess hall, the amber lighting and familiar furniture settling around them like a comfortable blanket. Ralaen claimed her usual spot on the couch, sliding in next to Eirik and leaning against his right shoulder, keeping her bruised side free. His arm came up around her automatically, careful and warm.

  Thomas commandeered the vid screen and put on an old Western—something with horses and gunfights and men in dusty hats squinting at each other across sun-baked streets. Not Ralaen's usual choice, but there was something soothing about the simple morality of it. Good guys, bad guys, a showdown at high noon.

  She was half-dozing against Eirik's shoulder when the door chimed.

  Sari's squad piled in without waiting for an invitation, bearing snacks and drinks like offerings to the gods. The Felari sergeant grinned at them from behind an armload of chip bags, her pink hair slightly mussed, her twin tails swishing with energy.

  "We heard there was a movie party," Sari announced. "We brought tribute."

  "You brought yourselves," Anastasia said dryly. "The snacks are just an excuse."

  "As I said tribute" Sari said waving her bags of chips around.

  The common room got crowded fast. Four Einherjar plus a full Jaeger squad meant every seat in the common room was full. People perched on armrests and sprawled on the floor. Thomas produced bottles of beer. Sari and her squad divvied out their snack tributes. The Western continued to play, largely ignored now in favor of conversation and companionship.

  Eirik's breath was warm against Ralaen's ear. "Thomas keeps looking at Sari when he thinks no one's watching."

  She smiled, tilting her head to whisper back. "Sari clocked him the moment she walked in. Her tails flicked and her ears went back, then forward. Classic Felari tell."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning she noticed him noticing. And she doesn't mind."

  Eirik huffed a quiet laugh. "Should we do something about that?"

  "Absolutely not." Ralaen settled deeper into his side, watching the two of them not watching each other from across the room. "This is much more entertaining."

  The evening stretched on, one movie bleeding into another. Someone switched the Western for an action film. Then a comedy. Then something with explosions that Maelis quoted along with under her breath, earning groans from everyone within earshot.

  People drifted off one by one as the hours wore on. Sari's squad left first, citing early duty shifts. Though Ralaen noticed Sari lingered at the door, throwing one last glance back toward Thomas before she disappeared into the corridor. Thomas, for his part, was staring very intently at the vid screen and fooling absolutely no one.

  Anastasia excused herself not long after, claiming she had reports to file.

  Eventually it was just Ralaen and Eirik, tangled together on the couch, the vid screen playing something neither of them was watching anymore.

  "We should go to bed," Ralaen murmured, not moving.

  "Probably," Eirik agreed, also not moving.

  She smiled against his chest. "In a minute."

  "In a minute," he echoed.

  They stayed like that a while longer, warm and comfortable and alive, while the wounded ship carried them toward home and the war waited patiently for their return.