Book Three - Chapter Twelve

The commandant’s quarters had been Alarion’s for over a year, and though he had spent as much time in the field as he had in the fortress, they were still the closest thing he’d had to a stable bedroom since childhood. But not anymore.

In the day since their early arrival, Anastacia’s household had transformed the room. His few personal effects—his small collection of novels, his copy of the Structures, his study guide for the VLST, and his collection of loot box lids—had all been packed away, moved to whatever drab corner of the fortress had room for him. In their place, the room had become hers. 

Gauzy curtains let the last rays of sunlight stream across expensive new furniture: a writing desk of pale ashwood inlaid with mother-of-pearl, its surface bare but for a single stack of papers so well ordered that they felt performative. There were couches now, plush and leather, draped in the ash-grey and dull gold of her house colors, and extra seating besides that made it clear she planned to entertain guests far more often than he ever had.

Anastacia sat at the center of it like she belonged there—because she did now. Her auburn hair was loose for once, sapphire blue eyes smiling warmly up at him as they turned away from her other guest, Lily. She had a steaming cup in one hand, a saucer in the other, and a beatific expression. “Orphan! We were just talking about—”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Alarion shouted.

The cup slipped from Anastacia’s fingers, shattering against the stone floor as surely as her composure in the face of his unbridled anger. She gawped openly, unable to process the sudden shift in tone as he slammed the door behind him.

“I am... sorry?”

“Not yet, you’re not!”

“Alarion!” Lily interrupted, nearly dropping her own cup in her haste to intercede. 

She wasn’t the only one. Anastacia’s mountainous bodyguard, Cyiar, had started walking toward Alarion before he had said so much as a word. One look at his expression had been enough to signal that trouble was afoot.

“When were you planning on telling me? Or was I always meant to hear it from a lunatic?” Alarion demanded. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know, because we both—”

“Back off, boy,” Cyiar demanded, punctuating his words with a one-handed shove that barely even jostled the much smaller man. “Before I make you.”

Alarion squared his shoulders, seemingly happy to test that threat despite the difference in Rank, but Anastacia’s quiet voice cut through the bravado asking, “Who told you?”

“Does it matter?”

“It is a state secret, so yes, Master Sergeant, it very much matters.” Anastacia’s once rosy face had become as ashen as her house colors, her hands balled into fists at her side as she repeated. “Who. Told. You?”

“Centre,” Alarion spat.

“The seditionist? The one in your cells?” Anastacia’s tone was incredulous. “What kind of jail are you running?”

“Don’t deflect.”

“You think I am deflecting?” she shot back. “Someone is feeding your prisoner classified military intelligence, and you think—”

“You’re more than welcome to do better,” he snarled, moving a half step to the side so that he could meet Anastacia’s eyes past her bodyguard. “I’ve cycled a dozen different guards, updated the wards, and moved him to different cells. Nothing changes. He just seems to know things, and I don’t know how. The Governor is more than aware. Now answer my question.”

“What are you two even talking about?” Lily demanded, perhaps hoping that voicing the dispute might lower the temperature.

There was a pause, each waiting for the other to say it. It was Anastacia who blinked first. “Blue Ex.”

“The... training exercise?” Lily asked, no more enlightened than she’d been a moment earlier.

“They’re holding it here. With us,” said Alarion.

“That is... good? Is it not?” Lily looked back and forth between the fuming pair, confused as ever. “What am I missing?”

“They held the first Blue Ex after we bloodied their nose in the First Ashadi—”

“That is an oversimplification,” Anastacia protested. Her body remained tense, expecting an angry rebuttal, but Alarion’s only response was a sarcastic wave, as if to say ‘it’s all yours’. “The Empire recognized critical failures after the First Ashadi War. There was not a realistic understanding of our own capabilities, or those of the prov—of our opposition. The Curia passed resolution 2396, and we started holding joint exercises with local forces.”

Alarion snorted in derision. “What she means is that the Empire started picking a few disposable Auxilia units to beat half to death.”

“That is not—”

“What was the Auxilia casualty rate for the last Blue Ex?”

“Orphan, I—”

“More or less than twenty percent?” he demanded.

Anastacia drew a deep breath and straightened her posture before she said, “Less. But it was a quiet year.”

“That—you must be joking,” Lily said, her eyes boring into Anastacia. “It is not news I follow, but these are training exercises. Someone would have—”

“Accidents happen with live combat training.” Anastacia’s words were cold, but the way she spoke made it clear that they were not her own. “And everything about the results, save the broad strokes, is a military secret.”

“An open secret. For anyone who cares.” Alarion frowned. He’d spent so much of his rage in those first few moments that he just felt tired. He stepped slowly around Cyiar to find a perch on the edge of one couch, though the Systemborn hardly relaxed. “The 238th will abstain.”

“You know it is not optional.” Anastacia’s voice was softer now, apologetic. “I came here because—”

“Don’t,” Alarion stopped her. He’d had enough of the woman’s good intent. “We kill fiends, not people.”

“No one is asking you to kill anyone.”

“Williams and I had an agreement.”

Anastacia sighed.

“Williams is the Governor of Ashad, not the Imperator of Vitria. He does not have the power to make such an arrangement. Frankly, I am not certain even the Imperator has the legal power to—”

“Blue Ex will take months. That is months spent on playfighting instead of subjugation. People will die. Soldiers. Civilians.”

“I know. Just like you know that you are killing the messenger.” Anastacia looked away, the thumb of one hand running soothing circles across the forefinger of the other. “I understand why you are angry—”

Alarion scoffed. “No, you don’t.” 

“I can understand a wound without being stabbed,” she retorted, a bit more fire in her voice. “I am committed to leading the 238th through this as safely as I am able. And I would have told you.”

“Eventually.”

“I cannot leak secrets just to make you feel better.” There was acid in her voice, and she paused to drain it before she continued. “It starts a month from now. Plenty of time to find a new normal and conduct some refreshers on battlefield methods and tactics.”

That was the moment that Alarion decided that he hated her.

It wasn’t any one thing, but a culmination of them. She was everything he hated about the Empire. Men like Dar or Williams, he could understand. They were greedy, vain, and lacking in empathy. In another life, they’d be thieves, brutes, or disreputable merchants, leveraging whatever advantages life had given them with their complete lack of moral compass. They were bad people, and even when they acted superficially benevolent, the mask never held for long.

Anastacia was a good person at heart, but in practice, that was so much worse. She knew better. She knew that what the Empire was doing was wrong, and she seemed genuine in her desire to right the wrongs within her power.

But only so long as it didn’t come with a personal cost.

She’d give the troops a day off to make them like her; she’d fight alongside them when she had two bodyguards at her back, but she would never walk away from her life of privilege, never denounce the Houses as the butchers that they were. He’d rather have a new officer who called him a slur than one who played at being his friend to soothe a guilty conscience.

“May I be excused, Madam?”

“I think we have a lot to discuss.”

“I will be happy to set a meeting,” he said stiffly. “But I have unpacking to do, an appraisal in the morning, and two new recruits to induct afterward. May I be excused, Madam?”

She studied him for a moment, and the hurt in her eyes almost looked genuine as she said, “Of course, Master Sergeant.”