Outpost Seven - Eastern Border (A day's march from Castrum Inferior)

Three days since I buried Cassia, seven days since we arrived at Outpost Seven. I tell myself she escaped, has to have escaped. The soldier who wanted her 'favor' got assigned to night patrol—been avoiding me since. For now.

The march from Castrum Inferior took a full day. Captain Serena kept me close, already treating me differently than other auxiliaries.

Our unit of forty auxiliaries and ten soldiers holds one section of this outpost of two hundred. Captain Serena commands our section. Above her, Tribune Marcella rules the outpost like her personal kingdom.

Day One

"Your supply notations are brilliant but need clearer formatting," Captain Serena says, but she's almost smiling.

I'm reorganizing patrol schedules when she leans over my shoulder to check. Her hair brushes my cheek—silver strands that smell like weapon oil and something floral. She doesn't pull away immediately.

"Sorry, Captain. Never had to write quickly before."

"You wrote poetry at court, didn't you?" She still doesn't move away. Her breath is warm against my ear. "What about?"

"Stupid things. Moonlight. Gardens. Whatever the Empress wanted to hear."

"Write me something useful instead. Supply calculations in verse."

I laugh—actually laugh. "That would be the worst poetry ever written."

"Perfect. I hate poetry." Now she does smile, small but real. Her hand rests on the table next to mine, fingers almost touching. "Back to work, Marcus."

"As you command, Captain." I turn slightly, and suddenly we're face to face, inches apart. Her green eyes widen slightly, lips parting. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.

The moment breaks when a scout arrives. "Captain, forward patrol reports movement. Barbarian scouts, maybe fifteen."

Her warmth vanishes. All business. She steps back, and I feel the loss of her proximity like cold water. "Double the watch. Alert Tribune Marcella."

Day Three

She's hurt. Not badly—an arrow graze from the morning skirmish at our walls—but she won't let the camp healers touch her.

"They're incompetent," she mutters, trying to bandage her arm one-handed. The wound has torn her undershirt, revealing pale skin marked with old scars.

"Let me."

"You know field medicine?"

"I know enough." I take the bandage, careful not to touch more than necessary. But as I work, she watches my face with those green eyes. My fingers brush her skin, and she shivers—not from cold.

"You're different from other decorative males," she says quietly, voice husky.

"Because I can bandage wounds?"

"Because you see me as a person, not just another female officer to fear." She winces as I tighten the wrap, then catches my hand before I can pull away. "Do you know how rare that is?"

"Do you know how rare it is for an officer to see me as more than property?"

Our eyes meet. Something passes between us—understanding, definitely more. She's still holding my hand, thumb tracing circles on my wrist.

"Marcus," she breathes, leaning closer. "I—"

A runner bursts in. "Captain! Scout report—fifty barbarians, full raiding party. Moving through the valley."

She jerks back, releasing my hand like it burns. The moment shatters. She pulls away, armor sliding back over vulnerability. "Fifty. They're testing us."

But her fingers ghost over where I touched her, and when she looks at me, there's promise in her eyes.

Day Five

I find her studying maps at midnight, alone. A single candle illuminates her face, making her silver hair glow like moonlight.

"You should sleep, Captain."

She looks up, and something in her expression makes my breath catch. "Can't sleep. I keep thinking about..." She pauses, then gestures at the maps. "Look at these patterns. They're not raiding. They're probing for something specific."

I move around the table to look, but she shifts closer, our shoulders touching. The contact sends heat through me.

I bring her heated water with pine needles—the best we can manage out here. She takes a sip, surprised.

"This is... actually pleasant."

"Learned to make do at court. Not everything was luxury."

"You have more useful skills than you think." Her hand brushes mine as she takes the cup. Deliberate. This time, she doesn't let go, intertwining our fingers. "Marcus, can I tell you something?"

"Always, Captain."

"Livia. Please, when we're alone..." She squeezes my hand. "My father was executed for suggesting men might be capable of magic. That the System's restrictions were artificial." She stares at our joined hands. "Ridiculous, right?"

My blood freezes, but I don't pull away. "Right. Ridiculous."

"Sometimes I wonder what would happen if he was correct. If men could access magic, would the Empire survive?"

"Probably not."

"Would that be bad?"

The question hangs between us, treasonous and honest. She turns to face me fully, still holding my hand.

"Would it be bad if everything changed? If the rules broke? If we could just be..." She reaches up with her free hand, fingers barely grazing my jaw. "Just be us?"

Another scout arrives before I can answer. "Captain, confirmation. Two hundred barbarians minimum. They'll reach us in two days."

She drops my hand, but the look she gives me says this isn't over.

Day Six

She returns from Tribune Marcella's tent looking destroyed.

Her armor is disheveled, hair loose, and—she's crying. Captain Livia Serena, Level 50, is crying.

"Captain?"

She collapses into her chair. "I requested evacuation. Told her we can't hold against two hundred with just fifty soldiers."

"What did she say?"

"She laughed. Called me a coward. Said if I can't hold a simple outpost, maybe I should join the auxiliaries myself." Her voice cracks. "Then she... she grabbed me, Marcus. Said female nobles who fail become camp whores."

I've never seen her vulnerable like this. Without thinking, I move closer, offer her a cloth.

"You're not a coward."

"I'm going to get everyone killed." She takes the cloth, wipes her face. "The Tribune won't send reinforcements. Won't approve retreat. We're sacrificial."

"Then we make our own plans."

She looks up at me, green eyes red-rimmed. "A male auxiliary is suggesting tactics?"

"A friend is suggesting survival."

Something shifts in her expression. "Friend?"

"If you'll allow it."

She stands, moves closer. "Marcus, when the attack comes, stay near me."

"I'm auxiliary. I'll be with supply lines—"

"No." Her hand grips my wrist. "Stay near me. Promise."

"Captain—"

"Livia. When we're alone, call me Livia."

"That's not appropriate—"

"Nothing about this is appropriate." She's close enough that I can see gold flecks in her green eyes. "I've watched you for a week. You're brilliant, kind, and definitely not Level 10. There's something impossible about you."

"Captain—"

"I don't care what it is. Just... survive what's coming. Please."

For a moment, I think she might kiss me. Then horns sound—scouts returning.

She steps back, Captain again. "Positions. Now."

Day Seven

Dawn brings worse news.

"Captain," the scout gasps. "Three hundred. Maybe more. They're not hiding anymore."

Serena's face hardens. "Three hundred. The Tribune still won't—"

"No, Captain. She says to hold or die trying."

"Then we die." She looks at me. "Unless we're very clever."

She starts issuing orders to our fifty. Trap placements. Defensive positions. Then, quietly to me: "When I give the signal, take who you can and run. Get the auxiliaries out."

"What signal?"

"You'll know." She touches my face, just once. "Marcus, these seven days... they've been the most real of my life."

"Livia—"

Horns again. But not scouts.

"BARBARIANS! SOUTHERN APPROACH!"

She grabs her sword. "They're early."

As we rush to positions, I realize three things:

1. I care about her more than I should after just a week
2. She suspects what I am but doesn't care
3. Most of us are about to die

The barbarian war cries echo across the valley. Three hundred voices promising death.

Livia looks at me one last time. "Remember. When I signal, run."

Then the killing begins.