A high-velocity coilgun round punched through the ferrocrete inches from Sari’s head, the displaced air whipping past her ear. She flinched back behind cover, the wall of the bombed-out storefront spalling her with fragments. She coughed, the air suddenly thick with the gritty taste of pulverized ferrocrete dust coating her tongue and throat. For a fleeting second, she missed the easy life her parents' money had bought her. But they had disowned her the moment she threw in her lot with humanity and the Jaegers, and as she sat here, fighting for her life, she couldn't deny the truth: she enjoyed her new life quite a lot.

  From the upper window, Maelis cackled like a madwoman, the thunderous roar of the Two-two-seven she and Vorrek had mounted on a tripod drowning out the shriek of incoming fire. Sari felt the deep, grinding vibration of the weapon through the soles of her boots, a constant tremor that vibrated up her spine and set her teeth on edge. Sari had quickly proved herself to her Jaeger company commander and been promoted to sergeant. Now, she was leading this squad, holding this critical street. Her squad—a mixed bag she’d been tasked with turning into a cohesive unit—consisted of herself, Maelis, Vorrek, Hissthar, Asula, two other Felari, and five humans.

  "INCOMING!" one of the humans yelled, laying down suppressing fire with his pulse rifle.

  Sari risked a glance out the window and winced. Two full squads of Rilethi Reavers, at least twenty-four warriors, were bearing down on them, using the wreckage of a burned-out transport as moving cover. The air, thick with the acrid stench of burnt ferrocrete and the sharp, metallic tang of the Rilethi's artificial blood, made her want to gag. More Coilgun rounds punched through the wall to her right, causing her to curse.

  "Vorrek! Maelis! On that transport! Now!" she yelled.

  Upstairs, the Two-two-seven swiveled and roared, a stream of hypervelocity darts that chewed through the transport's armored hide. It exploded in a shower of sparks and shrapnel, sending the Reavers behind it scrambling for new cover. But they were professionals. They didn't panic. Three of them laid down suppressing fire, their rounds impacting the shop's front, chipping away at their defenses, while the others advanced in short, controlled bursts.

  Sari popped up and fired a three-round burst from her pulser, the plasma-tipped darts striking one Reaver in the chest. It stumbled but didn't go down; its cybernetics were too robust. She needed to break their formation. Her gaze fell on Asula. The transfer had been a headache from the start. Sari had heard through scuttlebutt that Asula had tried to lay claim to some alpha title among the Asuari women in the battalion. She’d challenged Ralaen and gotten her arm broken for the trouble. Challenging an Einherjar was arrogance of the highest order, but maybe that same arrogance could be useful now.

  "Asula, on my mark!" she called. "Now!"

  Asula burst from the side door, her Asuari grace a blur as she sprinted along the covered walkway. Sari watched her go, the burning in her own thighs a dull ache from hours of being pressed into cover. She opened up with her rifle, catching the distracted Reavers from the flank. Two went down, their backs smoldering. But it drew their fire. A dozen weapons swung toward her, and the wall behind her exploded. Asula was thrown back into the shop, a gash on her forehead bleeding freely. "I'm good!" she snarled, pressing a hand to it. "Just pissed me off."

  They had been fighting for what felt like an eternity. The most pressing issue was their dwindling ammo. "Hissthar, status!" Sari yelled over the din.

  "Sarge, we're dry on the Mk.3 Plasma Gun! Nothing left! Pulsers are at forty percent! Two-two-seven's gravity projectors are at ninety percent stress! We can't sustain this rate of fire for much longer!"

  "Get on the comms. Ask about that reinforcement again," she ordered, firing another burst that forced a Reaver to duck back behind a burnt-out speeder. A moment later, she got a response from Hissthar. "Sarge, command says reinforcements are incoming, Eta soon."

  Sari swore under her breath. "Eta soon" was military code for "we have no idea." "Suppress them! For as long as you can!" she yelled, her voice lost in the din. Maelis's swearing and mad laughter echoed from above them as the Two-two-seven continued its drumbeat of death.

  Just as it seemed the Rilethi were about to overwhelm their position, a warning banner blared at the top of their HUDs: "INCOMING ORBITAL DROP. STAND CLEAR OF BLAST ZONE." The warning also mapped out the drop zone onto their HUDs. It was in the middle of the street, right where the Reavers were. Sari did a double take. Who the hell would drop into the middle of a firefight? Her mind ground to a halt. Then it struck. A shockwave hammered the shop, and flying shards of ferrocrete sprayed everywhere. Thankfully, they were outside the blast zone and only got the minor strays, which did no damage. Something had dropped right into the middle of the Rilethi force.

  As the dust began to settle, whatever had dropped was already on the move. It was a blur of white battlesteel, weaving in and out of the Rilethi forces, killing one after the other while wielding two Glint axes—the massive, single-headed axes made from hardened battlesteel and sharpened with a monomolecular edge. It took Sari's brain a couple of seconds to catch up with what was happening. But apparently, their reinforcements had turned out to be an Einherjar. He was a tall figure clad in the iconic Mk.4 armor. One of the human super-soldiers.

  He didn't run. He flowed. The first Reaver he met lunged, its cybernetic claws extended. The Einherjar sidestepped, his left axe coming around in a blindingly fast arc that caught the creature at the juncture of neck and shoulder. The monomolecular edge didn't just cut; it severed. The head, still encased in its chrome helmet, sailed through the air in a spray of artificial fluid. He didn't pause. He reversed his grip on the right axe and drove it backward into the chest of the Reaver behind him, the point punching through the armor plate and out its back. He kicked the dying creature off his weapon, a casual act of brutal efficiency, and spun to meet the next threat.

  Two Reavers charged him from opposite sides. He dropped low, letting them pass over him, and came up swinging. The left axe disemboweled one, spilling its guts onto the ferrocrete. The right axe took the other's legs out from under it, slicing through its cybernetic limbs at the knees. It fell, shrieking, and the Einherjar stamped down on its head, crushing the skull like a grape under his armored boot.

  He was a whirlwind of destruction. The axes weren't just weapons; they were extensions of his will. He parried a lunging claw with one axe while using the other to behead another. He threw one axe, spinning it through the air to embed itself in a Reaver's chest twenty meters away, then calmly strode over to retrieve it, pulling it free with a sickening crunch. The Reavers' discipline broke. These were shock troops, but they had never faced anything like this. They were not fighting a soldier; they were being butchered by a force of nature.

  When the dust settled completely, there wasn't a single Rilethi left alive in the street. The Einherjar stood alone in the center of the carnage, his white armor splashed with gore, the two Glint axes dripping. He slowly rotated his head, the impassive helm scanning for more threats. Finding none, he turned his glowing red optics toward their storefront.

  The figure stowed the axes on his back, the weapons locking onto the magnetic plates with a series of solid, satisfying clicks. He walked over to their shop, each step deliberate and heavy, the sound of his armored boots crunching on debris unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. He stopped before their shattered storefront.

  "Sergeant Sari," he said over his external speakers, the calm, synthesized baritone giving no hint of what he might have been thinking.

  The stylized death's head mask of his helmet was meant to inspire terror, but Sari had seen enough real monsters today to be unimpressed by theater. What she did feel was the weight of his attention, a focused pressure that dropped from her face and settled squarely on her very large breasts, prominent even under the bulky plate carrier.

  "Yes," she said, snapping to her feet. She had to suppress the urge to roll her eyes. Typical. It was the same old song, just sung by a two-and-a-half-meter-tall super-soldier. She met the blank face of his helmet with a wry, challenging smirk, her posture radiating a confidence that said, "Take a good long look, big guy. Now, let's talk about why you're here."

  "You wanted reinforcement," the armored man stated, his gaze lingering on her.

  "You got it," he continued. "There's another squad coming in about twenty-seven minutes to reinforce you. Until then, I'm it."

  Breathing out a sigh of relief, Sari sagged a bit. Finally, some good news, she thought to herself.

  It was during their long wait for the reinforcement squad that she learned the Einherjar was named Thomas, one of the Einherjar attached to Ralaen's four-man squad. She had a vague recollection of meeting the man during lunch when they first shipped out. He was tall, even for an Einherjar in armor. He topped over two and a half meters in the Mk.4, easily.

  As they waited, they managed, with Thomas's help, to fortify their position a bit better. Thomas had physically manhandled one of the half-wrecked vehicles over to their side of the street and ripped several thick armor plates from its chassis with his armored hands. He then used the plates to reinforce the walls and windows of the shop. He had also helped them clear the street of vehicles so the Rilethi couldn't use them for cover. The sheer, effortless display of strength was awe-inspiring.

  After clearing the street and reinforcing their position, she had asked Thomas why he hadn't been sent on. It seemed weird to her that a super-soldier like an Einherjar wasn't being sent moving around and clearing out Rilethi forces by Jaeger command.

  Thomas had shrugged, as well as a mountain in armor could shrug. "I'm here to reinforce this position."

  "But Jaeger command could use you to clear half the sector," she pressed, not understanding. "Why wouldn't they just order you to move on?"

  Thomas had laughed at this, a deep, rumbling sound from his speakers. "Because Jaeger command doesn't give Einherjar orders," he explained. "There are only four people in the entire ásveldi Imperium that can give an Einherjar a direct field order like that." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "The Allfather himself, and the three Norns who serve as his high command."

  "Our squad leader could, I suppose. But she doesn’t like to micromanage. Once we’re on the ground she trusts us to do the job. No second-guessing."

  Their reinforcements finally arrived about ten minutes later. The roar of powerful thrusters echoed off the surrounding buildings as a Jaeger dropship descended, its landing lights cutting through the gloom. It didn't land in the street, instead hovering a dozen meters above the roof of their building, its assault ramp lowering. A fresh squad of Jaegers and a cache of supply crates were disgorged onto the rooftop, their movements swift and efficient.

  Thomas took that as his cue to move on. He turned to Sari, his red optics seeming to soften slightly. "You did good, Sergeant. Hold the line." Then, a hint of something more personal entered his synthesized voice. "Find me on Draupnir sometime when this is over. First round's on me."

  Before Sari could even process the unexpected invitation, he turned and moved off down the street, heading in the direction from which the Rilethi had originally come. She watched him go from the window, his white armored form a solitary beacon of power receding into the haze of the city.

  Maelis's voice crackled over the squad net from her position upstairs at the Two-two-seven. "Hate to see him go," she drawled, "but I love to watch him leave. I wonder if he's cute under all that armor."

  Sari shook her head. Most people thought that she was the crazy one, but during combat, Maelis had her beat, free and clear. The prim and proper Azelari had become infatuated with human war movies and action flicks during their first deployment and had taken on the mannerisms of protagonists from those films. She loved old classics like the Terminator movies, Rambo, and Predator. Though when they weren't deployed, she kept up her appearance of being the model of Azelari decorum.

  Shaking her head again, Sari smiled to herself. Sure, people thought she was a bit of a free spirit, but Maelis on deployment was in a league of her own.

  "Did you hear that, Sarge?" Maelis's voice was a conspiratorial purr over the squad net. "An invitation. From a god-warrior. I bet he looks just like Arnold Braunschweiger from Predator... big, rugged, and just your type, Sarge."

  Sari pinched the bridge of her nose, her eyes closed. "Maelis, your focus is on that Two-two-seven and that Two-two-seven only. The Rilethi aren't going to stop coming just because you're trying to plan your post-war social calendar."

  "Oh, I'm focused, Sarge," Maelis replied, her voice dripping with sugary innocence. A moment later, the Two-two-seven roared to life for a short, controlled burst, tearing apart a piece of cover down the street. "See? Perfect focus. I can multitask. It's a very Azelari trait. Now, are you going to let a perfectly good invitation from a giant of a man go to waste? We should go. I'll be your wingman."

  Down below, Vorrek, cradling his injured arm, just slowly shook his head, his expression a mask of weary resignation. Hissthar, standing nearby, caught his eye and mirrored the gesture with a long-suffering sigh.

  "That's it, Maelis. You're on KP duty for a month when we get back to Draupnir," Sari said, her voice firm but lacking any real heat.

  "You can't threaten me with KP, Sarge. I happen to be an excellent cook. It'll be a culinary delight for the entire squad," Maelis shot back without missing a beat. "But I'll tell you what's not a delight: dying alone. Which I won't, because I'm going to marry that Einherjar. He can carry me over the threshold in his big, strong arms."

  The two human Jaegers, a corporal and a private, who were busy restocking their pulser magazines from the newly arrived supplies, were openly grinning. The corporal elbowed the private, whispering something that made him stifle a laugh.

  Sari's ears flattened in annoyance. "This is an open channel, you two! Keep it professional!"

  "Sorry, Sarge," the corporal said, his voice thick with amusement. "It's just... we've heard this before. Last time it was a dropship pilot. The time before that, it was the human captain with the fancy dress uniform."

  "Hey, that captain had very nice shoulders," Maelis defended herself. "This one, however, is the grand prize. A hero. A legend. And he has a ship. We could live on it! Imagine the honeymoon."

  Sari threw her hands up in defeat, looking to the heavens for a strength she no longer possessed. Vorrek just mouthed the words "help me" to Hissthar, who simply patted him on the good shoulder. The private finally lost his composure and let out a short, sharp bark of laughter, which he quickly tried to cover up with a cough.

  A flash message pulsed through Ralaen's consciousness, not as sound, but as a silent priority alert in her mind. Incoming from Anastasia, her AI, Artemis, communicated calmly. Two pickup coordinates. Transmitting to your HUD now.

  A tactical map flickered to life across Ralaen's vision, overlaying the ruined cityscape. Two green icons blinked steadily. One was Anastasia's, located in a geographically isolated region on the other side of the continent. The other was Thomas's, several klicks away.

  Linking to Assault Pinnace VI, Artemis announced. A low hum vibrated through the ferrocrete beneath their feet as the pinnace's countergrav drives spooled up nearby. Dust-off in ninety seconds.

  Ralaen turned to the small group of Asuari civilians huddled nearby. "We have to go," she said, her voice firm but kind. "Stay safe. Help is on the way." The old navyman who had spoken to her earlier gave her a grateful, solemn nod.

  She and Eirik turned from the civilians and broke into a jog toward the waiting pinnace. As they crossed the threshold, the sounds of the dying city—the distant crackle of fire, the cries of the wounded—were cut off by the familiar hydraulic hiss of the ramp sealing behind them. The sudden silence was a physical presence, replaced by the low, clean hum of the pinnace's idling systems.

  They didn't break stride, moving directly to the open drop bay.

  Artemis, take us out, Ralaen thought, flicking the message across the interface.

  On it! Artemis replied. Spooling countergrav. Ascending in five, four, three...

  Ralaen felt a subtle shift in gravity, a gentle but inexorable lift that made the ferrocrete outside fall away. There was no lurch, no roar of engines—just the smooth, confident rise of a machine that defied the planet's pull. Through the forward viewports, the ruined city shrank below them, the details of the firefight blurring into a mosaic of destruction.

  Clearing city limits. Engaging primary drive. Prepare for acceleration.

  A deep thrum vibrated through the deck plates as the engines roared to life. The pinnace nosed down, and the world outside dissolved. The landscape of ruined buildings and shattered streets became a uniform, featureless smear of grey and brown. The craft was a silver spear hurtling through the air, a blur of violent motion above a world that was nothing but a blur itself.

  Their first destination was Thomas's location, a smoking ruin that had once been a spaceport. As they descended, the scale of the destruction became clear. The skeletal remains of Rilethi dropships were scattered like broken toys, their hulls breached and torn. Intermixed with them were the civilian vessels of the Asuari, destroyed during the initial invasion, their graceful lines now warped and melted.

  Thomas was sitting on a crate of ammunition in the middle of the carnage, his white armor stark against the devastation. The pinnace didn't land; it hovered a meter off the ground. As it did, the assault ramp lowered with a hydraulic hiss. Eirik was already moving, leaning out into the open air. He grabbed Thomas's forearm in a warrior's handshake, bracing his feet and hauling the larger Einherjar up onto the ramp with a grunt of effort.

  "Appreciate the ride," Thomas's synthesized voice rumbled as he stepped inside.

  "Anytime," Eirik replied.

  The ramp sealed shut behind them, and the pinnace banked hard and climbed. Artemis displayed the updated flight plan. "Next stop is Anastasia's position," Ralaen informed him.

  Thomas glanced at the map on his own HUD. "Bum-fuck nowhere," he grunted, his synthesized voice dripping with dry amusement. "Figures."

  The flight was long, the landscape below a blur of rock and dust. Finally, Artemis switched the pinnace to silent running, the engines fading to a near-silent whine as they glided in on countergrav alone. They settled onto the dusty ground with barely a whisper.

  Anastasia was waiting for them, her Mk.4 armor gleaming under the harsh light of an alien sun. She boarded without a word, moving directly to the tactical map table in the drop bay. "Xerxes, if you would," she requested.

  Xerxes calm voice filled the bay. "Of course, Anastasia." A holographic map of the surrounding area shimmered to life, showing a dense forest valley below them.

  "The CIC flagged this but couldn't task a Jaeger company to hit it without more intel," Anastasia began, her voice all business. "They were prepared to KV strike it, but sent the data to me first for a closer look. The Rilethi have dug in down there. A forward operating base, built into the valley floor."

  She gestured, and the view zoomed in, revealing a fortified structure nestled in the dense canopy. "They've cleared a large perimeter, but the surrounding forest is thick. It'll cover our approach, but it's also perfect ground for an ambush. The bastion itself is protected by four heavy coilgun emplacements on the corners, with overlapping fields of fire." She pointed to icons on the map. "We've got confirmed armor—two companies of their Kryl tanks. And this..." The view shifted to a holo-image of a four-legged war machine, its chassis a brutalist fusion of angled armor plates and exposed power conduits. A trio of weapon barrels swiveled on a central turret. "We're designating it a Rilethi Heavy Assault Walker. It's mobile, heavily armored, and that main gun looks nasty.”

  She looked up from the map, her gaze sweeping over her squad. "Sensors put roughly a thousand Rilethi troops inside that perimeter. The CIC was waiting on my call. I've decided we're going to hit it. All four of us. We're going to destroy this base and eliminate every last one of them."

  For a moment, the only sound in the drop bay was the low hum of the pinnace's systems. Ralaen's first thought was that Anastasia was insane. A thousand Rilethi in a hardened bastion, and she proposed to take it with just the four of them.

  You've faced worse odds today alone, Artemis chided gently in her mind. A new window opened on Ralaen's HUD, displaying her combat statistics for this deployment. At the top, in stark white letters, was a number that made her breath catch. KILL COUNT: 472.

  Ralaen blinked, certain it was an error. Four hundred and seventy-two... since they'd dropped from orbit this morning? It felt abstract, impossible. Artemis let out a soft, amused giggle at her confusion. Don't look so surprised. You're very good at this.

  "Ralaen." Anastasia's voice cut through her internal shock, sharp and insistent. "Ralaen. Your thoughts on an approach."

  Shaking her head to clear it, Ralaen focused on the holographic map. "Artemis, highlight topography and viable ingress routes."

  The map shifted, bathed in a soft blue light. Contour lines rose and fell, and a thin blue line representing a stream glowed from the western forest. "We go in quiet," Ralaen said, her confidence returning as she analyzed the terrain. "There's a stream bed that runs right by the western perimeter. The forest on either side is dense—it'll give us total cover right up to the tree line. From there, it's a hundred-meter dash to the wall. I can cover that ground before they can get a lock on me."

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  "Good," Eirik rumbled, his synthesized voice a low growl. "I'll set up on that hillock to the south. Gives me a clear shot at the coilgun emplacements and the walker." He patted the massive weapon he was already assembling. "I'll take the shot, draw their attention. While they're looking at me, you three get in close."

  Anastasia gave a curt nod. "I like it. That's the plan. Gear up."

  The efficiency of the Einherjar was a sight to behold. Eirik methodically checked the oversized power cells and thermal radiators of his Mk.7 plasma rifle—a weapon so large it was closer to a portable cannon than a longarm. Ralaen grabbed her Mk.5 plasma carbine, the familiar weight a comfort on its magnetic sling. She secured her pair of mono-edged blades to her thighs, their sheathes clicking into place. Thomas simply hefted his two massive axes, giving them a practice swing before slinging the Two-two-seven onto his back. Anastasia selected a pulse rifle and holstered two pulsers on her hips, her movements economical and precise.

  As the others finished their preparations, Ralaen approached Eirik. She laid a gauntleted hand on his armored arm. "Be safe," she said, her voice a low murmur meant only for him. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod in return. Across the bay, Anastasia and Thomas observed the silent exchange, their gazes lingering for a moment before returning to their own checks.

  Without another word, they moved out, vanishing into the shadows of the trees.

  Their journey down the canyon and into the dense forest was unnervingly quiet. The Rilethi, for reasons Ralaen couldn't fathom, had posted no patrols. It was sloppy. Arrogant. A feeling Artemis shared, projecting a cold, tactical assessment of the enemy's incompetence into her mind.

  They followed the stream upstream, the gurgle of water masking their own silent advance. Even in half-tonnes of powered armor, the Einherjar moved like phantoms, their footfalls absorbed by the soft, loamy earth. At the edge of the forest, Anastasia raised a closed fist. Hold.

  Then, she activated the squad link. The world snapped into a new focus for Ralaen. It wasn't sight or sound, but a pure, spatial awareness. She knew Anastasia was five meters to her left, Thomas twelve to her right, crouched behind a moss-covered boulder. She could feel Eirik's position on the hillock, a distant, steady point of intent. Anastasia's command cut through the link, not as words, but as a pure, unambiguous impulse: On Eirik's shot, we move.

  A brilliant flash of light erupted from the south. The coilgun turret on the southwest corner of the base blossomed into a silent ball of plasma fire.

  They were already moving.

  Three figures in powered armor exploded from the tree line, a blur of white. The open ground between the forest and the base wall vanished beneath their feet. 3.6 seconds, Artemis supplied. At the wall, they launched themselves into the air, clearing the five-meter height as if it were a minor obstacle. They landed on the other side in a controlled, thunderous crash, weapons already drawn.

  Thomas was a whirlwind of death. He unslung the Two-two-seven pulser from his back, bringing the massive weapon to bear in his gauntleted hands. He planted his feet, his powered armor locking in place as he braced against the weapon's recoil. The pulser roared to life, a deafening, high-rate-of-fire shriek that tore through the milling Rilethi soldiers. The stream of superheated slugs shredded bodies and chewed through the concrete walls of the nearby barracks, throwing up geysers of dirt and shattered rock. Anastasia was a surgeon, her pulse rifle barking with precise, single shots, each one dropping a Rilethi who was foolish enough to stand and gawk.

  Ralaen's carbine spat bolts of plasma, each impact striking the Heavy Assault Walker with enough force to make the multi-ton machine stagger. Its turret swiveled toward her, a trio of barrels seeking a target.

  Then Eirik fired again.

  A second, larger spear of plasma struck the walker dead-center in its chassis. The machine didn't just explode; it came apart, its armored plating vaporizing in an incandescent cloud that left a smoking, ragged hole where its chest used to be.

  Ralaen redirected her fire, Artemis flooding her mind with threat analysis and optimal firing solutions. She didn't need to look; she simply knew where to aim. Coilgun rounds from the remaining turrets slammed into her armor, the heavy hypersonic projectiles screaming off her angled plating with showers of sparks. She weaved and advanced through the storm of fire, a ghost the Rilethi couldn't touch, their best efforts glancing harmlessly away.

  As they closed on the barracks, the ranged weapons became secondary. With a shared, unspoken thought, they stowed their guns and drew steel. Thomas hefted his axes, Ralaen's mono-blades slid into her hands, and Anastasia drew a monomolecular sword that glittered even in the dim light.

  They dashed into the heart of the compound.

  They were no longer soldiers; they were a force of nature. They moved as three parts of a single, deadly organism, weaving through the panicked Rilethi. Thomas was a cyclone of brutal, sweeping strikes that cleaved limbs and torsos. Anastasia was a dancer of death, her sword a silver blur that left clean, cauterized cuts in her wake. Ralaen was a viper, her blades a blur of motion, finding gaps in armor, severing tendons, and opening throats. Wherever they passed, the Rilethi fell in a tangle of limbs and spilled, black-purple blood.

  Eirik's fire support was a constant, reassuring presence. The remaining turrets vanished one by one, and a pair of Rilethi Kryl tanks that tried to power up were reduced to burning hulks before their guns could even fully traverse.

  Ralaen was a blur of motion, her mono-blades weaving a deadly pattern as she advanced through the chaos. A Rilethi soldier, clutching a pulse rifle, burst from the doorway of a nearby pre-fab building, its intent to flank them clear. It never got the chance.

  Ralaen met it head-on. She didn't slow, didn't dodge. She lowered her shoulder and slammed into the Rilethi at full speed. The impact was immense, the sound of armored bulk meeting chitinous plate a sickening crunch. The Rilethi became a green-and-black projectile, its body shattering the flimsy corrugated metal wall and disappearing inside the building in a shower of debris.

  Without breaking stride, Ralaen followed it through the breach.

  The smell hit her first. The coppery tang of blood, the sickly-sweet stench of decay, and the acrid smell of burnt ozone. It was an olfactory assault.

  The scene that met her eyes was a nightmare given form. The room was a charnel house. In the center was a machine of obscene purpose—a massive, industrial grinder with a wide, hungry maw lined with buzzing, blood-slicked teeth. A conveyor belt fed into it, stained black and purple. Next to the machine, piled like so much discarded meat, were the bodies of the Asuari. Their elegant forms were broken and contorted, their peaceful faces frozen in masks of terror.

  And two other Rilethi were in the process of heaving another body—a woman with long, dark hair—onto the conveyor belt.

  The ice in Ralaen's stomach became a nova. Artemis growled in her mind, a low, guttural sound of pure agreement that was a perfect mirror of Ralaen's fury.

  Time seemed to slow. She saw every detail: the casual, bored expressions on the Rilethi's faces, the flicker of the machine's status lights, the way the dead woman's arm dragged limply on the floor.

  Ralaen charged.

  She crossed the ten meters between the breach and the Rilethi in a single, explosive bound. They turned, their faces shifting from boredom to shock. She didn't give them a moment to register the threat. She stowed her blades with a sharp click, her hands closing around their long, spindly necks.

  She lifted them both off the ground. Their armored carapaces groaned under the pressure, their cybernetically enhanced limbs scrabbling uselessly against the unyielding steel of her gauntlets. They were tall, almost two meters, but her rage-fueled strength was immense. She dragged them, kicking and struggling, to the grinder's maw.

  "See for yourselves!" she roared, her voice amplified and distorted by her helmet's speakers into a guttural, alien bellow. She shoved them in, headfirst.

  The machine screamed. Its high-speed grinders, designed to pulverize flesh and bone, met the resistance of Rilethi cybernetics and armored plating. It whined and groaned, shuddering violently as it tried to process the unexpected material. Sparks flew, and the sound of grinding metal mixed with the wet, tearing of flesh. The first of the two Rilethi was halfway through when the machine finally ground to a halt with a final, sickening crunch, clogged and destroyed by its own fuel.

  She stood over the steaming, ruined machine, her chest heaving. The red rage began to recede, leaving behind a cold, empty calm. For good measure, she unslung her carbine and put two plasma bolts into its casing. The metal glowed cherry-red and then melted, fusing the gears and control panel into a single, useless slag.

  But the fury was gone, replaced by a sudden, ringing silence. In the small building, the only sounds were the drip of viscous fluid from the clogged maw and the frantic, fading thump of her own heart in her ears. For a long moment, she just stared at the slagged metal, the image of the dead Asuari woman's face burned into her mind's eye*.* It was only then, as the adrenaline subsided, that she became aware of the quiet from outside. The fighting was over.

  She walked back out into the compound. Thomas and Anastasia stood amidst the carnage, not a single Rilethi left standing. The air was thick with the smell of ozone, burnt metal, and the coppery tang of alien blood. Anastasia approached, her helmeted head tilting slightly as her gaze swept over Ralaen's armor, taking in the splatters of purple-black Rilethi blood, oil, and the dark, viscous fluid from the grinder.

  Her voice came over the private squad link, clear and natural. "Find something that bothered you?"

  Ralaen's own voice was flat, devoid of emotion as she replied on the same channel. "They had a machine. A disposal unit. They were... feeding dead Asuari into it."

  There was a moment of silence over the comm. Then Anastasia placed her gauntleted hand on Ralaen's shoulder pauldron, the metal-on-metal contact a solid, grounding weight. "It's over," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. "We've cleansed this base. They can't hurt any more innocents here."

  A heavy shadow fell over them. Thomas approached, his massive frame blocking out the light from the burning wrecks. He had cleaned his axes on a piece of discarded canvas, but the gore was still fresh on his armor. He didn't say anything at first, just stood there, his presence a solid, reassuring wall. He reached out and rested his gauntlet on her other shoulder, a firm, steady pressure.

  "First time seeing that, maeja?" his deep, resonant voice rumbled over the link, the question gentle, not condescending.

  Ralaen gave a short, sharp nod, her helmet barely moving.

  "Yeah," Thomas said, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "The rage is a tool, Ralaen. Don't let it own you. You focus it. You point it. And you use it to make sure things like this never happen again." He gave her pauldron a firm pat. "You did good. You did what needed to be done."

  The tension drained from Ralaen's shoulders, and she felt herself relax, the combined weight of their presence anchoring her to the here and now. In her mind, Artemis offered a soothing presence, a gentle, mental caress that quieted the rage and eased the horror, leaving only the quiet certainty of her squad's unwavering support.

  With the compound secured, Eirik rejoined them, his massive frame moving with deceptive quiet. Together, the four Einherjar made quick work of the debris, shoving aside the blasted hulks of Rilethi tanks and kicking the molten remains of the walker out of the way. The courtyard was cleared in minutes.

  "Xerxes, bring us home," Anastasia said into her comm.

  A moment later, the assault pinnace descended, its engines a low, powerful hum that vibrated through the soles of their boots. It settled onto the cleared ground with a soft hiss of hydraulics, and the ramp lowered. They piled in, and the pinnace lifted off, the battered landscape shrinking beneath them as it climbed into the sky.

  Inside the drop bay, the atmosphere shifted. The tension of combat bled away, replaced by a weary, practiced routine. They moved to their designated cradles along the starboard side.

  As one, they gave the command. "Release."

  A soft chime echoed through the bay as each suit acknowledged its individual command.

  Ralaen felt the change immediately. The low mechanical purr of her suit's servos died. The weight, which had been redistributed and balanced, settled back onto her frame in its full, crushing half-tonne. The flood of tactical data from the suit's sensors vanished, and the world outside the helmet seemed to lose a layer of sharpness, no longer painted with tactical overlays.

  "Disengaging spinal interface," Xerxes's calm, synthetic voice announced over the bay's speakers. "Stand by for spinal withdrawal."

  Ralaen felt a series of precise, sharp clicks run up her spine as the contact nodes disengaged, a strange, tingling sensation that was the inverse of the suit sealing. A moment later, the backplates of her Mj?lnir armor retracted with smooth mechanical precision, sliding apart and back into recesses. The cool air of the drop bay hit her back through the thin material of the bodyglove.

  She took a step backward, out of the open shell, her body feeling strangely light and unburdened without the armor's constant support. Her thick, black tail, freed from its segmented mechanical sheath, gave a lazy flick. She turned to see the others doing the same. Eirik, his sandy-blond hair already messy, ran a hand over it as the helmet seals disengaged. Their powerful frames were now clad only in the form-fitting black nanofiber of their bodygloves, which clung to Ralaen's thicker, fighter's build and Eirik's lean, rangy muscle.

  They filed up the narrow companionway into the crew compartment. It was a space of lived-in comforts: a small kitchenette, a door leading to the bathroom and showers, and an open lounge area with seating arranged around a small holotable.

  Thomas made a beeline for the fridge, his movements economical. He pulled out four dark brown bottles, twisted the caps off three with his thumb, and offered the open bottles to Anastasia and Eirik. He held the last one, unopened, out to Ralaen as she settled into Eirik's lap in one of the large armchairs. She took it with a quiet murmur of thanks, her own claws making quick work of the cap.

  Only then did Thomas claim his spot, half-lying, half-sitting on the couch, his long frame taking up most of the available space. He took a long pull from his bottle before setting it on the deck beside him. Anastasia settled into an armchair, draping one leg over the armrest in a posture of calculated relaxation.

  Anastasia's gaze fell on Ralaen and Eirik, a faint smile in her voice as it came over the squad link. "So, I was just reviewing the mission logs with Xerxes. He mentioned an... interesting exchange between you two in the park, right before we were called to the next objective."

  A wide grin split Thomas's face. Ralaen, who had been melting into Eirik's embrace, went instantly stiff, her triangular ears flattening against her skull. Eirik's arm tightened around her waist, his posture shifting from relaxed to protective.

  Anastasia let the silence hang for a moment, her tone turning playfully stern. "I'm not teasing, you two. Well, not much. I was wondering when you were going to make it official. I knew you two had moved in together during the Ascension program."

  Thomas nodded in agreement from the couch, taking a swig of his beer. "We were taking bets on when you’d make it official" he said while grinning.

  Eirik's posture changed. The uncertainty vanished, replaced by a quiet, undeniable pride that seemed to make him sit up straighter, even with Ralaen in his lap. One of his rare, crooked smiles touched his lips. He raised his own bottle in a silent acknowledgment to Thomas before taking a drink, his other hand resting possessively on Ralaen's hip. Ralaen, for her part, felt the last of her embarrassment melt away, replaced by a warm, solid certainty. She leaned her head back against Eirik's shoulder, her tail giving a slow, happy wag against the side of the armchair.

  The assault pinnace Garm's Maw slid into its designated berth aboard the battlecruiser Draupnir with a soft, magnetic clunk, slotting back into the same hangar bay they had left from. The familiar, sterile air of the warship felt different now, heavy with the memory of combat.

  Before disembarking, they prepared to don their armor. "Hatch," they commanded in unison. The backplates of their Mj?lnir shells retracted with smooth mechanical precision. They stepped forward into the open shells, their feet locking into the padded boots as their legs slid into the close-fitting channels. The suits closed automatically with a series of soft, solid clacks, the backplates gliding forward and sealing. The familiar series of precise clicks along their spines as the contact nodes found their mates and locked into place, the weight redistributing as the servos hummed to life.

  Marching through the ship's corridors, their armored boots ringing on the deck plates, they drew stares from the human crew. It wasn't just their imposing presence; it was the state of their armor. It was a canvas of the fight, scoured by coilgun ricochets and splattered with the dried, purple-black blood of their enemies.

  They arrived at the morgue, the Einherjar armory, and began the meticulous process of dismounting. "Hit the showers," Anastasia said, her voice echoing slightly in the chamber. "Mess hall in one hour."

  Ralaen had grown accustomed to the stares by now, but they were different out of armor. It wasn't the intimidating silhouette of the "Draupnir werewolf" that drew eyes, but the form-fitting black bodyglove. It did little to hide the powerful, fighter's build she had developed during the Ascension program, the defined muscles and generous curves a stark contrast to the lean runner she'd been before. She walked with the others to the locker rooms, her soldier's posture a practiced shield against the attention.

  Inside, she stripped off the nanofiber bodyglove and tossed it into the laundry chute. The hot water of the shower was a blessed luxury, soaking into her dense black fur and washing away the grime and the lingering phantom scent of the grinder. She wasn't tired, not yet—the Einherjar physiology was still buzzing with residual adrenaline—but the ritual of cleansing felt necessary.

  Toweling off, she pulled on the dark jeans and a simple, thick-knit sweater she kept in her locker. Eirik was waiting for her outside, his own sandy-blond hair still damp. They walked together to the marine mess, the comfortable silence between them saying more than words could.

  Anastasia and Thomas were already at a table, their trays laden with food. Ralaen and Eirik got their own, the Einherjar portions twice the size of a normal serving. Today's meal was a classic: meatballs swimming in a rich brown gravy, boiled potatoes, pickled cucumber, and a dollop of tart red berry jam.

  Ralaen sat down and took her first bite. The flavors exploded in her mouth—savory meat, creamy potatoes, sharp pickle, sweet jam. It was so far from the dense, functional taste of the energy bars that it felt like a revelation. Her eyes widened, and a soft, involuntary sigh escaped her.

  Anastasia snorted. "You should see the look on your face, pup. That's a face of true bliss."

  Ralaen blushed, the heat rising under the fur on her cheeks. "After today," she said, her voice slightly muffled as she took another forkful, "and the energy bars from the pinnace... this is pure heaven." Eirik nodded in emphatic agreement, already halfway through his own plate.

  She wolfed down her dinner with an Einherjar's efficiency and then turned to the dessert: a generous slice of apple pie crumble covered in a creamy vanilla sauce. The first bite made her moan in delight, a sound that was both genuine and embarrassingly loud. It drew looks and raised eyebrows from her squadmates, and another deeper blush from Ralaen. "I'm really hungry," she mumbled, "and it's all so good."

  In the middle of another bite of pie, the ship underneath and around her shuddered. A deep, resonant thrum vibrated through the deck plates. Ralaen froze, the fork halfway to her mouth. Anastasia’s eyes went distant for half a second as she communicated with Xerxes.

  "KV strike," she said, her focus returning. "Draupnir is launching on the base. I sent my after-action report and recommendation to the captain. I didn't feel anyone should have to go back in there to clean up, not even to recover the dead civilians."

  After dinner, they made their way to the marine tavern. It still felt strange to Ralaen, this bar in the heart of a warship, a place where soldiers could drink and unwind. They found a booth, and Eirik slid in next to her. Ralaen's tail curled around his waist, a possessive, gentle gesture.

  They talked about the mission, deconstructing their individual fights. Anastasia had landed in a suburban area, clearing houses one by one. Eirik had dropped into the downtown shopping district, fighting from shop to shop through a mall packed with Rilethi. Ralaen recounted her own brutal advance from street to street, blasting through ferrocrete walls.

  "And I," Thomas said, leaning back with his beer, "dropped to relieve a Jaeger squad. Led by a Felari sergeant with the biggest tits I'd ever seen. At least for a woman that short. Couldn't have been more than 160 centimeters."

  Ralaen's ears perked at that. She turned to Thomas. "Was her name Sari?"

  Thomas looked surprised. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

  Ralaen grinned, a mischievous glint in her sky-blue eyes. "Did you fancy her?"

  Thomas actually blushed, a rare sight. "She... uh, she looked beautiful. All determined and serious in the middle of that mess."

  Ralaen snorted, a sound of pure amusement. "Determined and serious?"

  Thomas raised an eyebrow. "What's so funny?"

  "You've met Sari before, Thomas," Ralaen said, her tail twitching with suppressed laughter. "When we first came aboard Draupnir. In the mess hall."

  It took a few seconds, but then it clicked. Ralaen could practically see the gears turning in his head as he connected the serious, hardened NCO from the drop zone with the bubbly, overly-friendly, pink-haired Felari who had flirted with them all over their first meal. His eyes widened in dawning comprehension.

  Anastasia, who had been watching the exchange, burst out laughing. "Oh, you've got it bad," she managed to say between chuckles. "Thomas has always been a sucker for a serious woman in uniform. Especially a serious woman in a Jaeger uniform."

  Ralaen could see the gears grinding in Thomas’s head as he tried to square the serious, hardened NCO with the bubbly, pink-haired flirt. She couldn't help but giggle. "Sari's a bit of an oddball," she explained. "Like most Felari, she's flirtatious and very friendly. But unlike your typical Felari, she doesn't play the 'Great Game'," she said, making finger quotes in the air.

  This drew questioning looks from both Eirik and Anastasia. Ralaen sighed. "The Great Game is... everything to them. It's the foundation of their society. It's a constant, intricate game of social maneuvering, all about navigating hierarchies, creating drama, trading gossip, and using style and influence to outmaneuver your rivals. You make alliances, you break them, you leverage secrets—it's all about climbing the social ladder, not through force, but through sheer social cunning."

  Anastasia’s eyes went distant for a second, then she hit her palm with her fist in an 'aha!' gesture. "Wait, you mean like the Felari courtesan who's been making waves on Earth recently? What's her name... Vexi?"

  Ralaen cocked her head, her triangular ears perking with curiosity. "A Felari courtesan? On Earth?"

  "Yeah, before we shipped out, I heard there was a new, highly sought-after courtesan causing a sensation back in Uppsalír," Anastasia explained.

  "Yeah, like that. It's not surprising a Felari would nestle her way into human politics like that. But going back to my point," she continued, "Sari never believed in the Great Game. Not as far as I know, anyway. It's why she left her homeworld and joined the Jaeger training program the first chance she got."

  Thomas’s face had hardened, but Ralaen pressed on. "She told me her parents wanted her to leave the military and get a bond-mate—some administrative politician back on Felucia. All to forward her parents' plans in the Great Game." Ralaen sighed. "But when she signed up with the Jaegers and became a human citizen, her parents disowned her. She told me in a message while I was undergoing the Ascension program."

  At that, Thomas's face softened, the hard lines of his jaw relaxing. It was a subtle shift, but it didn't escape Ralaen's notice. A small, knowing smirk touched her lips. "You better watch yourself, Thomas," she teased gently. "Sari may not be a player of the Great Game, but she's still a Felari. She'll have you wrapped around her finger in no time if you're not careful."

  This sent the both Anastasia and Eirik into a fit of laughter, and Thomas, caught completely off guard, half-choked on his beer.

  Returning from the tavern, the squad split off, each heading to their respective quarters. The door to Ralaen and Eirik's room slid shut with a soft hiss, cutting off the distant hum of the ship's corridors. They went through their nightly routine in comfortable silence, the movements familiar and easy.

  Ralaen sat on the edge of the bed, wearing only a matching set of black lace from Victoria's Secret. She was methodically brushing her thick, black tail, the strokes long and even. Eirik came over to sit behind her, taking the brush from her hand to gently work through the dense fur near the base, his touch a soothing, constant presence. When they were done, she set the brush aside and they slid under the covers.

  Ralaen settled her head on Eirik's chest, the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart a comforting thrum against her ear. Her paw-hand rested on his skin, her finger tracing the sharp, dark lines of the Einherjar rune tattooed over his heart.

  "I can't get the image of that machine out of my head," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "The Rilethi... just tossing them in like garbage."

  Eirik's arm tightened around her, his hand stroking her head, his fingers gently tangling in the fur behind her ears. "There was nothing you could have done to stop them, Ralaen," he said, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "You weren't there. But it won't happen here again. We saw to that."

  He let the silence hang for a moment before trying to shift her focus. "So... you think Sari would be interested in Thomas?"

  Ralaen was quiet for several seconds before she took the out he was offering. "Honestly? I'm not sure. Sari's always been... free-spirited. During training, she had a few flings with other candidates."

  Eirik snorted. "Really? I never saw anything. How did she manage that without the whole barracks knowing?"

  "Because you weren't on her menu, Eirik," Ralaen said, lifting her head to give him a wry look. "I think she figured you were a lost cause. She's got a good sense for that stuff. But I caught her sneaking back in before dawn more than once."

  "Huh." Eirik was quiet for a moment, then a slow grin spread across his face. "You know, that actually explains a few things. Some of the guys had these weird scratch marks on their backs. Looked like they'd been wrestling a bobcat."

  Ralaen laughed, a quiet, genuine sound that chased away the last of the shadows in her mind. She settled back against his chest, her tail giving a contented flick against the blanket. "A very determined bobcat," she murmured.

  Their voices dropped even lower, the conversation turning inward. "What are we going to do about our parents?" Eirik asked, his voice a quiet rumble against her ear.

  Ralaen sighed, her finger still tracing the lines of the rune on his chest. "My parents... Lathira and Darev... they will be happy that I am happy," she said softly. "But they won't understand this human 'wedding.' To them, we are already bonded. We said the words. In the eyes of Asuari law, it is done."

  "So what, we just skip it?" Eirik asked. "We don't do the human thing for my parents?"

  "No, not skip," Ralaen clarified, shaking her head slightly against him. "But we would have to have two celebrations. A human wedding for your family. And then... a great feast for mine. The whole of Clan Ashar would have to gather. It would be a massive affair. A celebration of the bond that already exists." She paused, then asked softly, "What are your parents' names, Eirik?"

  "Sven and Josephine," he said, his voice quiet. "They'd want the wedding. They'd want to see you in a white dress."

  Ralaen was silent for a moment, imagining it. "It's going to be... complicated," she finally sighed.

  "Hey," Eirik said, his hand still stroking her hair. "We'll figure it out. We'll make our own way. A little complication never hurt anyone."

  His simple confidence was a balm. She snuggled closer, her earlier tension finally dissolving completely. "Yeah," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. "Our own way."

  Her last word was a soft whisper. In the quiet dark, the steady beat of his heart under her ear and the even rhythm of their breathing drew them down together, and soon they were both asleep.