City
of Karthane, Arkaelus, Nirna - Two Days Later
Spartan's
team marches at the front, the Vardengard towering and heavy in their
burnished armor, Spartan, Rho Voss, Naburiel, Ashurdan, Samayel, and
Belqartis. Their visors burn faint amber in the fog, halos of light
that cut through the snow. Behind them, three APCs crawl across the
tundra, their engines growling low and steady, exhaust steaming into
the frozen air.
Before
them looms Karthane, its massive walls half-buried in ice, the
towering gate carved with the sigil of the Forger, a hammer striking
against an anvil wreathed in fire.
At
the top of the battlements, a figure stands like a statue hewn from
the mountain itself: General Supreme Magnus Tiberius. His black and
gold-trimmed cloak ripples faintly in the wind. Beside him stand the
Praetorian Captains, Michael Marcellus and Victoria Marcellus, their
armor glinting crimson and silver against the white.
When
the approaching convoy crests the final rise, Michael leans forward
on the parapet, voice booming down through the storm.
"By
the Forge, Spartan, did you walk the whole way?" His grin is
audible even through the comm distortion.
Spartan
tilts her head back, visor catching the dim sunlight. "We took
the scenic route," she calls up. "Now open the damned gate
before I change my mind."
Michael
chuckles, glancing sidelong at his wife. Victoria shakes her head,
amused.
"Open
the gates!" she commands.
With
a groaning thunder, the massive iron doors of Karthane begin to swing
inward, steam and frost hissing from their hinges. The air fills with
the grinding echo of steel and stone.
As
the gates part, Magnus, Michael, and Victoria descend the ramparts,
boots crunching through snow, capes dragging faint red lines through
the white. They meet Spartan's team just as the Vardengard step
aside, giving room for the APCs to roll through toward the motor
pool.
Victoria
doesn't bother with restraint, she breaks into a run and leaps
forward, arms wrapping around Spartan's shoulders. The impact makes
Spartan stagger half a step, armor clanking under the sudden embrace.
"It
has been ages!" Victoria laughs, pulling back to look up at her.
"And you are finally here, by the stars, Spartan, I can breathe
again knowing you are on Nirna."
Michael
crosses his arms beside Magnus, smirking. "What am I, furniture?
I have been here the whole time, you know. Your personal protector,
remember?"
Victoria
shoots him a playful glare over her shoulder. "You are adorable,
my love, but Spartan is worth ten of you in a fight."
"Twelve,"
Spartan adds dryly.
Michael
laughs. "Blasphemy, and in front of the General Supreme no
less."
Magnus
watches the exchange in silence, the faintest curl of amusement
touching his scarred lips.
Victoria
releases Spartan, still smiling. Her eyes drift past her, to the
giants standing at her back, Rho Voss' hulking frame, Ashurdan's
solemn posture, Naburiel's calm focus. The laughter fades slightly
from her expression.
"And
these are…" she begins carefully, eyes narrowing in
recognition. "The same Vardengard that once wanted to kill my
family?"
Spartan's
reply comes slow, deliberate. She gives a single nod.
"They
were."
A
pause. The snow whispers around them.
Then
Spartan's tone softens, almost maternal.
"But
that time is gone. They are protectors now. My protectors, and
yours."
Victoria
studies their helms, then chuckles lightly, shaking her head. "Well,"
she says at last, smiling again, "that explains so much. Jr
talked about them for weeks after that dinner with you and your…
new pack."
Behind
Spartan, Naburiel shifts slightly, muttering something low through
his comm that makes Samayel stifle a snort of laughter.
Spartan
sighs, half-smiling. "He would."
Victoria
beams at her, oblivious to the quiet humor behind the helmets.
Magnus
steps forward, his shadow cutting through the snow between them.
"Welcome
home, Spartan," he says, voice low but commanding. "You
have done well. The Forger's flame endures through your hands."
Spartan
bows her head slightly, more respect than formality.
"The
flame endures, Master."
Michael
digs into a side pouch of his coat and pulls free his datapad, the
screen already flickering to life under his gloved touch.
"You
ought to see this," he says, thumbing through a few files. "We
got a message from Jr and Lucius the other night."
Victoria's
expression softens instantly, she steps closer as Michael brings the
feed up. Once it's ready, he hands the device to Spartan.
The
armored giant takes it gingerly between her fingers, the datapad
looking almost fragile in her gauntlet. The screen lights up with two
familiar faces: Lucius Marcellus, regal as ever and hardly aged, and
beside him, Michael Jr, who looks markedly older, nearly grown, his
boyish features sharpened by time.
Lucius
is the first to speak, his tone composed and warm.
"Michael,
Victoria, greetings from Anicarro. The Academy's still standing, so I
assume the world hasn't ended in your absence."
Jr
grins, practically bouncing in his seat. "Hi Mom! Hi Dad! And
Spartan, if you are there too!"
Victoria
lets out a breathy laugh; Michael smiles faintly, arms crossed.
Jr
dives right into his excitement.
"So,
uh, the Academy's been crazy! I have been, "
Lucius
cuts in smoothly, half-smiling. "Short message, remember? Tell
them how you are top of your class."
Jr
grins even wider.
"Right!
I am top of my battalion now! Instructor Kraevon says I fight like a
wolf!"
Both
Lucius and Jr burst into laughter at that. Michael and Victoria can't
help but chuckle too, even Spartan's visor dips slightly, the
smallest ghost of amusement crossing her face.
Jr
keeps going, words tumbling out fast.
"I
have been practicing those techniques Spartan showed me, oh! Is it
true the snow on Nirna never melts? And is Spartan really there with
you?"
The
video ends on Jr's bright, hopeful grin.
Spartan
exhales softly through her vox, the sound faint and distorted. She
hands the datapad back to Michael, her voice quiet.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
"He's
grown so much. We've only been here two months and he looks two years
older."
Michael
gives a crooked smile.
"Must
be time dilation," he jokes, though his voice wavers faintly.
Victoria
lets out a trembling sigh, tears threatening to spill.
"We
are missing everything," she murmurs. "His whole life, his
first command, his first real battle. By the time we are back, he
will not even be our little boy anymore."
Spartan
reaches out, her armored hand resting gently on Victoria's shoulder.
The gesture is oddly delicate for someone forged in steel.
"It's
the price of duty," Spartan says. "I left once before, when
I returned, Marcus was not only born, but already five years old."
Michael
chuckles softly. "And you were heartbroken. I remember that."
Spartan
nods, visor turning slightly toward him. "I was. But that's
life, there are always more waiting for us to protect."
Her
helm tilts again toward Victoria. "Speaking of which… what are
you doing out here in the cold? You should have stayed on Anicarro.
Nirna is far too dangerous for the two of you."
Victoria
blinks, confusion knitting her brow. Then she laughs, brushing off
the comment. "The two of us? Spartan, you are talking nonsense.
I could not let Michael come out here alone, "
"I'm
not talking about Michael." Spartan's tone is calm, even. Her
visor dips, and she extends a hand slightly, pointing toward
Victoria's midsection.
Victoria
laughs again, nervous this time. "Oh come on, Spartan, you can't
be serious, "
Spartan
doesn't move. "I am. You are with child."
The
air freezes around them. Michael's eyes widen; Victoria's laughter
falters completely.
"Spartan,"
Michael says after a moment, voice low, "are you certain?"
"Unless
she's developed a heart arrhythmia overnight," Spartan replies,
"there is no doubt in my mind."
For
a beat, no one speaks. Only the sound of the wind over the
battlements, whispering like distant flame.
Victoria
stares down at herself, stunned, her hand hovering hesitantly over
her abdomen.
Michael
breathes out a laugh, shaky, half in disbelief.
"Well,"
he says finally, glancing at his wife with a dazed grin, "that…
was not the debrief I expected today."
Victoria's
face goes pale. Her breath catches, and then, "I, what?"
Her
hands fly instinctively to her stomach as if only now truly feeling
the weight there.
"No,
no, that cannot be right. The Hospitium Natalis has been shut down
since the war started! They will not take any new patients, not even
noble ones! And by the time we return to Anicarro, a transfer will be
impossible!"
Her
voice trembles as she looks between Spartan and Michael, panic rising
in her tone. "I cannot... I cannot give birth on Nirna!"
Michael
can't help it, he laughs, that low, warm laugh of his that always
manages to cut through tension. He slides an arm around her
shoulders, pulling her close. "Then we will just have to make
sure Nirna behaves, will we not?"
"Michael!"
she protests, half angry, half on the verge of tears.
He
kisses her temple through her fur-lined hood, still smiling. "It
is alright, amore. We will figure it out. We always do."
Magnus,
who has been quietly observing the exchange, folds his hands behind
his back, his blue-glowing eyes thoughtful. "A natural
pregnancy," he muses. "Remarkably uncommon… perhaps even
fated."
He
looks to Victoria then, his voice carrying that deep, measured
authority that could calm storms.
"Do
not fear, Lady Marcellus. Lucia Dain is here, our chief Fleshwright.
She will see to it that you and the child are kept in perfect health.
Few hands are more capable."
Spartan
tilts her head slightly, vox crackling softly as she speaks. "How
did you not notice until now?"
Victoria
presses her gloved hands to her face, groaning. "I do not know!
Maybe because I have been running halfway across a frozen planet? Or
maybe because my armor's been strangling me for weeks and I thought I
was just… gaining weight?"
Michael
snorts, failing to hold back another laugh. "Explains the
complaints about the chestplate, at least."
Victoria
swats his arm, but even she can't help smiling now.
Naburiel
steps up beside Spartan, his massive frame casting a long shadow
across the snow. His voice, when it comes, is calm and resonant
behind the helm.
"You
have my word, Lady Marcellus. We will keep the war far from
Karthane's walls. None shall threaten the life within this city."
That
simple vow makes both Michael and Victoria pause, the sincerity of it
cuts through everything. Michael clasps Naburiel's arm in thanks.
"Then
I owe you more than I can ever repay."
Victoria
nods with a faint, relieved smile. "Thank you. Truly."
Magnus
gestures toward the inner roads.
"Go.
Find Lucia in the Sanctum Medicae. She will confirm Spartan's reading
and begin the preparations necessary. This is no place to stand about
in the cold."
Victoria
laughs nervously again, still visibly rattled but trying to keep her
composure. "Right. Yes. Sanctum Medicae. Of course."
Michael
gives a small bow to Magnus and Spartan both. "General.
Spartan."
Then
he and Victoria turn, walking arm in arm down the snow-covered street
toward the fortress interior.
The
moment they're gone, the wind howls faintly between the walls. Magnus
turns back to Spartan and her pack, his expression easing into
something almost… wistful. "A child born amidst war. Strange,
how life insists on continuing." Spartan bows her head slightly.
"I had no idea they were unaware. Had I known, I would have kept
quiet until we could confirm it privately."
Magnus
waves a hand lightly. "No harm done. Though you are right, we
will need to evacuate all remaining civilians as soon as possible.
This is no place to raise the next generation."
Then,
as if shifting gears entirely, he straightens.
"Speaking
of which, the engineers finished their work this morning. The
barracks have been expanded to accommodate the Federalists, and the
new Vardengard quarters are complete as well. You will find them much
more suitable than the temporary shelters we had before."
He
turns down the road, motioning for them to follow. The Vardengard
fall in behind him, boots crunching through the snow as they head
toward the inner walls, toward the glowing lights of Karthane's
heart, where warmth, steel, and duty await.
Magnus
walks between Spartan and Rho Voss, his black cloak whispering in the
wind, his boots crunching through the frost-crusted snow. The great
walls of Karthane rise high on either side, streaked with the smoke
of forge-fires and the breath of winter. Around them, the city hums
with life, engineers shouting to one another from scaffolds, soldiers
hauling crates of ammunition, the distant clamor of drills echoing
across the frozen square.
The
Vardengard move in silence, their Olympian Armor towering and
gleaming, steam rising faintly from their vents in the cold. They
follow Magnus down the main thoroughfare until they reach the
military quarter, the twin barracks, freshly built, the metal still
dark from the welds.
To
the left, the Federalist barracks hum with life, soldiers shouting,
laughter, the smell of machine oil and coffee wafting out of an open
door.
To
the right, the new Vardengard Barracks looms, its fa?ade black and
steel-gray, unadorned save for the sigil of the Forger carved above
the entry.
A
handful of Invictan infantrymen stand outside the main barracks,
chatting idly. They wear standard-issue armor, polished but scuffed,
they don't notice who passes them until Magnus's shadow crosses their
boots. One of them stiffens too late, elbowing the other in panic,
and the group straightens to salute, heads bowed low. Magnus doesn't
slow. His only acknowledgment is a curt nod as he passes, and they
remain frozen in reverent silence until he's gone.
He
reaches the sealed door and presses his gloved hand to the control
pad. The reinforced blast doors slide open with a heavy clunk and a
sigh of heated air.
Inside,
warmth. Firelight.
The
Vardengard Barracks are nothing like the sterile quarters the
Vardengard are accustomed to. The chamber is vast, the ceiling arched
with blackened steel ribs, a central firepit recessed deep into the
floor. A real hearth, rare and forbidden in most military
installations due to ventilation, but this one breathes properly, the
flame drawing upward through a sculpted flue that hums with low,
resonant heat.
Bunks
line the sides in disciplined rows, but spaced wider than normal.
Each has an armor rack beside it, large enough to hold Olympian
plate. At the back, two workbenches bear the clutter of tools and
repair gear; vises, wrenches, spare servo parts. And at the heart of
the room, near the fire, a broad, low table rests on the floor, meant
for meals, planning, or simply being together.
At
that table, Morus sits cross-legged by the pit, dressed in black
fatigues, stirring a pot suspended above the flames. His armor gleams
from the rack behind him, the red sigil of Invicta burned into its
chestplate. The scent of broth, strong, gamey, tinged with herbs,
fills the air.
He
looks up when the doors hiss open and cracks a grin.
"About
time. I was starting to think the Forge claimed you all."
Spartan
pauses in the doorway, taking it in. The warmth. The size. The
domestic feel of it all; unusual.
Her
tone is measured, formal. "This is not standard. Vardengard
quarters are not meant for comfort."
Magnus
folds his hands behind his back, his voice quiet but carrying. "They
are now. I requested certain alterations. You are not mere soldiers,
you are the hammer and flame of Invicta. You deserve a space to rest
as such."
Spartan's
visor glints with reflected firelight. "A space like this will
soften soldiers."
Magnus
smiles faintly. "Then consider it a test. If you approve, I will
standardize it across the legions. If not," he gestures slightly
"I will have it torn down by morning."
Spartan
studies him for a beat, then inclines her head. "You honor us,
Master. We will give it the test it deserves."
She
turns sharply to her pack, her voice snapping into command.
"Belqartis. Ashurdan. Fetch the bonejackal carcasses from the
trucks before they freeze solid."
The
two incline their heads and stride out.
"Naburiel,
Samayel, retrieve our gear from the Federalists' quarters. I want
everything moved in before nightfall."
"Understood,"
Samayel rumbles, already turning to leave.
Magnus
lingers for a moment longer, glancing around the firelit hall, the
way the flames reflect in the black armor, the way the air hums
faintly from the forge heat. His expression softens.
"When
I became a General of Invicta, I envisioned warriors who would never
know peace," he says quietly. "But perhaps I was wrong.
Even a weapon must cool between strikes."
He
turns to go, cloak sweeping behind him, boots echoing against the
steel floor. "Rest well tonight, Vardengard. Tomorrow, the work
begins again."
The
doors seal shut behind him, leaving only the crackle of the fire and
the slow simmer of Morus' stew.
