The morning after the attack, camp buzzes with nervous energy.

"Dead barbarian in sector seven," I hear a servant reporting. "Found him rifling through bodies at the mass grave. Weird thing is, one of the fresh graves was disturbed."

My blood freezes. But the officer just laughs.

"Probably wolves. They dig up the fresh ones sometimes."

Another horn sounds—different pitch. Assembly, not attack. They're moving us auxiliary units to defensive positions. The barbarians rattled them more than they're admitting.

The attack comes at noon.

Two hundred barbarians this time, testing our walls with ladder rushes and arrow volleys. They pull back after an hour, leaving twenty dead. We lost twelve. The officers call it a victory.

I watch from the auxiliary position—a supply depot behind the main walls. Safe. Useless. The other male auxiliaries around me look relieved. I feel sick. Cassia is still out there, buried or escaped or dead.

"Victory" means nothing if she suffocated in that dirt.

I've been waiting two days for my unit assignment. The attacks delayed everything. When the all-clear sounds, they finally process us. Seventeenth Auxiliary, immediate deployment.

I'm collecting the few items I'd been issued when she finds me. One of the soldiers who escorted me to the grave yesterday. Level 22, built like she crushes rocks for fun.

"Pretty boy."

I turn, already calculating escape routes.

"That gladiator's grave." Her eyes narrow. "My partner started to say something about that corpse before the attack. Then this morning, disturbed grave. Too convenient."

My mind races. She continues: "Something bothers me about it. The timing was too perfect."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She grabs my collar, pulls me close. Her breath smells like cheap wine. "I think you do. I think that bitch is alive."

"What do you want?"

"Same thing Valeria got. A favor." Her hand slides down my chest. "You're too pretty to waste on burial duty. When you're done playing soldier, you come find me. We'll discuss what I didn't see."

"I... yes. Of course."

She shoves me away. "Good boy. Now run along to your unit."

Another favor owed. Another sword over my head. But Cassia might be alive, and that's worth any price.

The Seventeenth Auxiliary is housed in a converted stable. Fitting, since we're treated like animals. Forty male auxiliaries, all Level 15 or below, supervised by five female soldiers.

Our commanding officer stands at the entrance, and my breath catches.

She's beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with trying. Tall, lean muscle, silver hair despite looking maybe twenty-five. Her armor bears noble house marks—conscripted nobility, rare but not unheard of. The System identifies her: [Captain Livia Serena, Level 50, Disgraced Noble].

Another Livia. Third one I've met, after my sister and the dead thief. The name really is cursed.

"You're the prince," she says. Not a question. Her voice is educated, refined. "Marcus Aurelius. Level 10. Survived Valeria's training. Only two from ten."

"Just Marcus now, Captain."

Something flickers in her green eyes. Sympathy? No, that's impossible. Female officers don't sympathize with male slaves.

"I've read your file. Spoke against the Empress. Survived impossible odds in training. Interesting." She turns to address all of us. "The Seventeenth supports the main legion. You carry supplies, maintain equipment, dig latrines. In battle, you hold the line while real soldiers do the work. Most of you will die. Any questions?"

Silence.

"Good. Marcus, you're assigned to my command tent. Personal auxiliary."

The other males look at me with mixed pity and envy. Personal auxiliary to a female officer usually means one thing.

Her tent is organized, spartan. Maps cover a table. Supply lists. Troop movements. She's actually working, not just playing soldier.

"Your file says decorative class. Can you read military reports and supply manifests?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Good. Organize these supply requests by priority." She hands me papers. "I need accurate counts by evening."

I stare. "You want me to... do paperwork?"

"Is that a problem?"

"No, I just... most officers use personal auxiliaries for... other things."

She looks at me directly. Those green eyes are tired, older than her face.

"I'm not most officers. I'm here as punishment, same as you. Conscripted for my father's crimes." She turns back to her maps. "I need competent help, not decoration. Can you be competent, Marcus?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Then work."

I start organizing papers, mind spinning. A Level 50 noble who treats males like people. Who's here against her will. Who actually seems to care about keeping us alive.

This is either the best luck I've had, or the worst trap.

Evening comes. I've reorganized her entire supply system using Kevin's engineering logic. She reviews it, and I see surprise cross her face.

"This is... actually excellent. You've increased efficiency by thirty percent."

"I'm good with systems, Captain."

"Evidently." She pauses. "Marcus, can I ask you something honestly?"

"Of course, Captain."

"Why did you really speak against the Empress? You had everything. Luxury, safety, privilege. Why throw it away for people who mean nothing to you?"

I think about lying. But something in her eyes stops me.

"Because someone had to. Because watching her kill senators for entertainment while calling it justice made me sick. Because being decorative while people died felt like drowning."

She nods slowly. "My father said something similar. Before they executed him and conscripted me." She looks at the maps again. "We march tomorrow. Border patrol. The barbarians are getting bolder."

"Yes, Captain."

"Marcus." Her voice softens slightly. "In my unit, competence matters more than gender. Prove useful, and I'll keep you alive. Fair?"

"More than fair, Captain."

As I leave her tent, I realize three things:

1. Captain Serena is genuinely different—perhaps dangerously so
2. The soldier who suspects about Cassia won't wait long for her "favor"
3. Tomorrow we march toward the same area where Cassia might be hiding

Of course they are.

I'm a Level 10 male with impossible abilities, serving a disgraced noble, owing sexual favors to violent soldiers, while my supposedly dead friend hides in barbarian territory.

What could possibly go wrong?