Waking in their shared bed, Ralaen found it empty for once. The residual warmth of Eirik’s body still lingered on his side of the mattress, a fading ghost of his presence. She stretched lazily, her enhanced muscles uncoiling with a satisfied groan, the sheets tangling around her legs.

  Good morning, Ralaen, Artemis’s calm voice echoed in her mind. Shipboard VI marks the time as 0700.

  Dragging herself from the comfortable nest, Ralaen grumbled her way into her training clothes. The sports bra was a particular source of annoyance, a necessary evil ever since her chest had become so inconveniently large. Artemis offered a silent, mental eye-roll at her charge’s morning complaints, a gesture that had become familiar sisterly chiding.

  On her way to the gym, she passed several Jaeger Marines. Their glances were a mix of curiosity and deference, their eyes tracking the Asuari who was clearly out of regulation PT uniform. Her simple, form-fitting tank top and sweatpants marked her as an Einherjar, and that alone was enough to command a different kind of respect—and attention.

  The gym was already busy when she arrived, but a path subtly cleared for her as she moved toward the leg press. It was a familiar ritual; whenever an Einherjar trained, a crowd inevitably formed. They kept a respectful distance, but the watchers were always there, drawn by the sheer, physics-defying spectacle of it all. Today was leg day. Ralaen loaded the press until the plates groaned, the digital readout climbing past the 1.5-ton mark. She settled into the machine and began her reps, the immense weight rising and falling with the smooth, controlled ease of a far lighter load.

  The workout became a blur of controlled power. She moved from the leg press to the squat rack. Her form was perfect, back straight, thighs sinking parallel to the floor before driving upward with explosive force. The rhythmic clank of the weights was a steady, percussive beat in the vast room. A few Jaegers stopped their own lifts to watch, their expressions a mixture of awe and intimidation. She finished with deadlifts, her digitigrade stance giving her exceptional leverage as she gripped the bar, her entire body coiling to lift what looked like a small engine block from the floor. Not a single grunt escaped her lips, only the quiet hiss of her controlled breathing. She wasn't just strong; she was control made visible.

  Her routine complete, Ralaen headed for the locker rooms, the satisfying burn of a good workout settling into her muscles. She peeled off her sweat-soaked clothes and stepped into the shower, the hot water a welcome balm as she began to rinse the accumulated sweat from her fur. Steam curled around her, carrying the mingled scents of a dozen different species' soaps—the sharp citrus the humans favored, something floral from the Felari stalls, the faintly mineral smell of Drakari scale-oil. The tile echoed with the splash of water and fragments of conversation from other stalls, a comfortable background hum.

  Halfway through, she was interrupted by a very familiar, very friendly pair of arms wrapping around her from behind. "Ralaen!" Sari’s bubbly voice chirped in her ear, cutting through the white noise of the showers.

  Ralaen sighed, a mix of exasperation and fondness, and scooted over to make room in the spray. She’d long since gotten used to the Felari’s complete lack of boundaries regarding personal space, especially in communal showers. "Morning, Sari."

  As they washed, Sari launched into an animated story about her recent deployment. "...and we were holding this street near the central hospital, right? My squad was getting hammered, and I swear, I was about to call for a final stand when this Einherjar drops right out of the sky! Smashed right into the middle of the Rilethi line like a comet."

  Ralaen worked a bit of shampoo into Sari's vibrant hair. "Sounds like you had a rough time," she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

  "Rough? It was terrifying! And then amazing," Sari said, then puffed out her chest proudly. "But he was definitely ogling me. I always know when someone's staring at my tits."

  Ralaen snorted. "You couldn't see his eyes."

  "Please. You can just tell," Sari insisted. "Anyway, he was tall. Definitely not you or Eirik. Maybe one of the guys from Cobra squad?"

  Ralaen just rolled her eyes where Sari couldn't see her, wisely choosing not to confirm it was, in fact, Thomas Kendricks from their own Wolf Squad. Their "helping" each other shower continued, with Sari’s hands lingering a little too long, her touches a little too intimate. Ralaen bore it with stoic patience, while Artemis chuckled in the back of her mind.

  Finally clean, they toweled off. As they started getting dressed, Ralaen pulled on a matching set of dark blue lingerie from her shopping trip back on earth—another Einherjar perk.

  She felt Sari’s eyes on her and glanced over. "What?"

  Sari gestured vaguely at her lingerie. "It's so unfair. You get to wear whatever you want, even on a warship, and I'm stuck with these regulation Jaeger undies." She paused. "I mean, they're comfortable, I'll give them that."

  "Perks of being an Einherjar," Ralaen sniffed, pulling on a soft, off-white cardigan over her simple t-shirt. She decided to press the issue. "So, anyone you're currently interested in? Or seeing?"

  Sari’s eyes lit up like a star going nova. She always did love gossip, especially when it involved romance or her latest conquest. "Seeing? No. But... there is someone I'm interested in."

  "Oh?" Ralaen prompted, doing her best to sound innocent, which wasn't her strong suit.

  After a few seconds of squirming, Sari finally admitted, "It's that Einherjar. The one who saved my squad."

  Hah! Called it, Artemis declared triumphantly in Ralaen's mind.

  Be nice, Ralaen nudged back mentally. To Sari, she raised an eyebrow. "Well, if you want, I could probably find out who it was for you."

  Sari gave her a dubious look, finally yanking the tight shirt over her head. "And have him think I can't handle my own reconnaissance? Please." She smoothed the fabric over her very generous figure, her expression shifting to one of determined pride. "If he's interested, he'll find me. Or I'll find him. But I'm not using my best friend as a dating service." She winked. "Besides, the chase is half the fun."

  Sari’s declaration hung in the air, a challenge issued not to Ralaen, but to the universe itself. Ralaen just shook her head, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "You're impossible, you know that?"

  "Impossibly charming," Sari corrected with a wink, her confidence radiating off her in waves. She hooked her arm through Ralaen's, pulling her toward the door. "Come on. I'm serious about being hungry. All this tactical planning is hard work."

  Ralaen allowed herself to be led, their pace falling into an easy rhythm. "Tactical planning? Is that what we're calling it now?"

  "It's what I'm calling it," Sari said airily. "Now, are you going to walk me to the mess hall, or do I have to find my own way to the smoked pork belly?"

  The mention of the pork belly was enough. "Fine," Ralaen conceded. "But you're buying the first round tonight if we end up in the tavern."

  "You've got a deal," Sari said with a grin.

  They headed out of the locker room, the comfortable silence of friends settling between them. As they walked down the corridor toward the mess hall, the difference in their status was clear in the small details. Ralaen moved with the easy freedom of someone in civvies, while Sari's posture was the crisp, disciplined bearing of a Jaeger on duty.

  A passing Marine private saw them approaching. His eyes locked on Sari's NCO insignia, and he snapped to attention, rendering a perfect salute. Sari returned it with practiced ease. But as the private's gaze shifted to Ralaen walking beside her, his military composure fractured for a split second. A flicker of pure, unadulterated confusion crossed his face—the jarring sight of a being from the upper echelon walking in step with his NCO like they were old squadmates. He stared for a heartbeat too long before remembering himself and looking sharply forward again. They didn't seem to notice. They were two soldiers forged in the same fire, now walking in different orbits. But as they turned the corner toward the rich, savory aroma from the mess and the low rumble of a thousand conversations, they walked side-by-side—a bond stronger than any rank.

  The week following their deployment to Solania settled into an unexpected rhythm of routine. The day after their strike on the Rilethi base, Cobra squad returned aboard the destroyer Halberd, their mission to the asteroid belt mining colony a grim echo of their own. The Rilethi had hit the colony hard. While the Halberd had managed to destroy both enemy cruisers, she hadn't escaped unscathed, and the colony's main hub station had been wiped out. The survivors, a large portion of the colony's population, had spent days hiding in the sprawling labyrinth of mining tunnels, forcing Cobra squad and the Halberd's Jaegers to conduct a grueling, block-by-block search for both survivors and any lingering Rilethi. Ramirez had relayed the story over lunch the day they returned, the details a stark reminder of the war's reach.

  While the Jaegers dealt with the aftermath, Ralaen’s week was consumed by training. Even with their Ascension, she and Eirik were not finished products. Anastasia drove them relentlessly. Their days were a physical gauntlet: sparring sessions in the combat gym where their reinforced frames sent shockwaves through the mats, zero-g combat drills in the void sphere that taught them to fight in three dimensions, and CQC exercises that pushed their reaction times to the inhuman limit. It was brutal, but it was simple. The real challenge was in the tactical simulations.

  Anastasia would lock them in a shared mental space, a blank canvas where she would paint impossible scenarios. Ambushes in asteroid fields, holding a station against boarders, navigating a hostile civilian center where every face was a potential threat. It was here that Ralaen and Eirik were forced to merge their thoughts, to anticipate each other's moves and act as a single, cohesive weapon. During one particularly brutal session on combined arms tactics, Anastasia threw a scenario at them with so many variables that a raw wave of pure exasperation bloomed in Ralaen's mind—a shared groan from both Eirik and Apollo that was so perfectly synchronized it was almost comical.

  The official training ended when Anastasia dismissed them, but their work continued in the quiet of their quarters. Eirik, for all his natural talent, was a creature of instinct, his mind fast and direct. Ralaen, however, was learning to see the battlefield as a system of interlocking parts. In the evenings, they'd lie propped up on their bed, a holographic tactical display shimmering in the space between them. She would point out the subtle tells in a terrain layout, the way a force could be funneled, the importance of controlling not just the ground, but the information flowing over it. Eirik would listen, his grey-blue eyes tracking her fingers, his usual half-smile replaced by a look of intense focus. He was teaching her the brutal grace of close-quarters combat; she was teaching him to see the whole board, to understand the flow of battle as a tactician.

  Her free time was her own, and she spent it where her new life lived: the morgue. To Ralaen, it was becoming a sanctuary. She and Artemis would stand before the hulking form of her Mk.4, Artemis walking her through the deep architecture of the machine. She would display power flow diagrams and thermal regulation cycles directly in her mind's eye, treating the half-ton of battlesteel as a living extension of their own body.

  They were deep into a discussion on the bio-nano feedback loop when a gruff voice cut through the quiet hum of the armory. "You're going to burn out the diagnostic relays if you keep cycling them like that."

  Ralaen turned to see a man in a tech's coveralls, his arms crossed. He was older, with a meticulously well-kept beard and a permanent scowl etched onto his face. Before Ralaen could apologize, Artemis projected a thought, sharp and amused. He's wrong. The relays are rated for double this cycle count. This suit is his project. He's just looking for an excuse to talk about it with someone who might actually understand.

  Ralaen's ears flattened in embarrassment, but Artemis was already moving. "Chief," Ralaen said, finding her voice. "We were just trying to understand the service tolerances."

  The tech grunted. "Understand them on your own time, Einherjar. The morgue is for maintenance, not for sightseeing."

  Perfect, Artemis thought. "Chief," Ralaen pressed, a hint of a playful whine in her voice that she knew from experience disarmed people. "We can't find the manual for the Wolf-pattern's tail assembly actuation. And Artemis says the calibration specs in the general schematics are off by three-tenths of a percent."

  The chief's scowl twitched. "Of course they are. The general schematics are for human-patterns. The Asuari geometry requires a different torque load on the spinal interlocks." He stomped over, already pulling a diagnostic wafer from his pocket. "Out of the way. You'll shear the pins if you listen to those factory numbers."

  And just like that, they had him. For the next hour, the gruff tech—who Ralaen learned was Chief Armorer Magnus Halvardsson. He grumbled and complained as he walked them through the suit's maintenance. But his hands were sure, his explanations were precise, and Ralaen could see the flicker of pride in his eyes every time she grasped a new concept. He acted put-upon, but Ralaen could feel the satisfaction radiating from him, a master craftsman secretly thrilled to be teaching someone who was truly listening.

  After two weeks, Captain Clarke declared their intervention at Kryssar 3 complete. The Rilethi presence on the planet was eradicated. While the Jaegers secured the populace, the engineers from the Draupnir, Halberd, Spearhead, and Aegis had worked tirelessly, bringing Solania's power grid back online, restoring the water treatment plants, and patching the communications grid back into the network. They also found time to tend to their own, the engineering teams from all four ships crawling over the Halberd's hull to replace the armor plating cracked by a few lucky Rilethi shots.

  With their work done and the system secure, TG Six Four assembled in high orbit. Half an hour later, Ralaen and Eirik stood in the small, darkened observation blister, a bubble of reinforced transparisteel jutting from the Draupnir's ventral hull. The only light came from the stars themselves and the faint, internal glows of the ship's systems. Below them, the bone-white hull of the Gungnir-class battlecruiser stretched out, its familiar knotwork patterns already glowing with a soft, defensive blue light.

  "Task Group Six Four, breaking orbit and proceeding to hyperlimit," Captain Clarke's voice echoed through the blister.

  Below, the drive rings of the other ships flared to life, their spatial distortions smearing the starlight. The Draupnir joined them, its own powerful acceleration pushing the task group toward the safe distance for translation.

  They watched for a few minutes longer, until the novelty of the departure faded into the routine of shipboard life. Then they drifted back to their cabin, to training, to the small rituals that filled the hours.

  It was several hours later when Artemis pinged her. Translation in ten minutes. Observation blister?

  Ralaen found Eirik already there when she arrived, leaning against the viewport rail. He glanced back as she entered, making room for her beside him.

  "We have reached the hyperlimit," the helmsman announced over the shipwide channel.

  "Very well," Clarke's voice returned. "Bifrost cores to full power. Prepare for hyperspace translation on my mark."

  The low hum of the ship deepened, and a new sound joined it—a high, clean chime that resonated in their bones. Ralaen watched the ventral hull below. The blue light of the shield emitters didn't change color, but it intensified, the glow becoming sharper, more focused as it was repurposed to create the FTL bubble.

  "Translating in three… two… one…"

  There was no shudder, no lurch. For a single, disorienting heartbeat, the universe around them seemed to... fold. The starfield didn't stretch; it contracted, as if an invisible hand were gathering the fabric of spacetime. The light intensified, blindingly white, and then with a silent, impossible grace, the view settled. The ship was now inside a deep, shifting twilight, shot through with veins of iridescent light that flowed like cosmic rivers. The high chime of the Bifrost drive stabilized, becoming a constant, clean hum. Ralaen’s inner ear, screamed a silent protest as the concept of 'down' and 'forward' became momentarily meaningless before snapping back into place, oriented to the new reality within the bubble.

  Off their port and starboard bows, Halberd, Spearhead, and Aegis appeared, their hulls gleaming in the strange, ambient light of the Zeta band.

  The task group was underway, bound for the Skadi System and the rendezvous with the Sixth Fleet. The long journey to the Rilethi front had begun.

  The days in hyperspace blurred together, each one much like the last.

  The Zeta band's white-silver tunnel became a familiar backdrop, unchanging and hypnotic. Ralaen fell into the rhythm of it: wake, eat, train, eat again, train some more, collapse into bed beside Eirik. Repeat. The routine was the same as their transit to Kryssar, but with one crucial difference—this time, there were no unknowns waiting at the end. Just a rendezvous with Sixth Fleet. Just another step deeper into the war.

  She spent the first two days processing. Not talking about it, not yet. Just letting the images from Kryssar 3 settle into the place where soldiers kept such things—not forgotten, but filed away where they couldn't cut too deep. The grinding machine. The conveyor belt stained black. The woman's arm dragging on the floor. These things surfaced at odd moments—in the shower, in the quiet before sleep—and she let them come, let them pass. Artemis helped, her presence a steady warmth in the back of Ralaen's mind, never pushing, just there. Eirik helped more, in the quiet way he had. A hand on her shoulder. An arm around her at night. The simple act of being present.

  By the third day, she was ready to stop thinking about it.

  The Einherjar squads trained hard. Wolf and Cobra rotated through the simulators in marathon sessions, running scenarios back-to-back until their reflexes screamed for mercy. Anastasia and Ramirez seemed to have coordinated their torture schedules—when Wolf wasn't in the sim pods, Cobra was, and vice versa. When the simulators were full, they took to the repurposed hangar, a cavernous space the Jaegers had converted into a MOUT facility for their transit to Kryssar. It served just as well for Einherjar drills.

  Running the course in their Mk.4s was a different experience than running it against the Jaegers. When it was Wolf versus Cobra, nobody held back.

  They ran a capture-the-flag variant on the third day—Cobra defending a simulated command post, Wolf assaulting. Ralaen was first through the breach, flowing left as Eirik cut right behind her. She cleared her corner, swung her muzzle toward the door—

  And Yuno Watanabe was already behind her.

  The training round caught Ralaen center-mass before she'd even registered movement. Her armor flashed red: KILLED. She froze in place as the drill demanded, watching Yuno ghost past her toward Eirik's position. The woman moved like smoke, finding gaps in coverage that shouldn't have existed.

  How did she get there? Ralaen demanded.

  Maintenance hatch, Artemis said, sounding almost impressed. She dropped through the ceiling.

  On the far side of the structure, Thomas's heavy pulser roared—and then cut off abruptly. A moment later, his icon flashed red too. Olaf Olafsson came around the corner a second later, not even breathing hard, his armor scorched with sim-hits he'd simply walked through to close the distance.

  "Took four rounds," Thomas said over comms, disgusted. "Didn't even slow down."

  "Should've used five," Olaf replied cheerfully.

  They reset and ran it again. This time Ralaen watched the ceiling.

  It took six more iterations before Wolf finally cracked Cobra's defense—and only because Anastasia predicted Ramirez's fallback pattern three moves ahead. The man was methodical, every position chosen for overlapping fields of fire, every retreat covering the next defensive line. No flash, no wasted motion. Just relentless pressure that made you fight for every meter.

  Susan Higgins, meanwhile, went through doors like they'd personally offended her. When Wolf switched to defense, Ralaen set up in a reinforced corridor, confident in her position—and then Susan came through the wall beside the door, half a ton of battlesteel punching through simulated concrete like wet paper. She didn't slow down, didn't pause to clear—just kept moving, trusting her armor to eat whatever Ralaen threw at her while she closed to killing range.

  It worked. Ralaen's training rounds sparked uselessly off Susan's chest plate as the woman's rifle came up.

  KILLED, her HUD announced again.

  "Why the wall?" Ralaen asked afterward, pulling off her helmet in the morgue. "The door was right there."

  Susan shrugged, her dark hair matted with sweat. "Doors are where people point guns. Walls aren't."

  "She's not wrong," Eirik admitted.

  Thomas was still grumbling about Olaf. "He fights like someone told him armor was optional and he didn't believe them."

  Ralaen snorted, running a hand through her damp fur. "He fights like a battering ram with legs."

  "Coming from our resident close-in specialist," Eirik said dryly, "that's almost a compliment."

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  She flicked her tail at him. He dodged, grinning.

  When they weren't training, they gathered in the Einherjar common room—a lounge space set aside for Wolf and Cobra squads in Marine country. It had the same warm amber lighting as the tavern, the same knotwork patterns etched into the bulkheads, but the furniture was more practical: sturdy couches bolted to the deck, a scattering of chairs, a small holo projector in the corner. The kind of place designed for killing time between deployments.

  It was there, on the fourth day, that Ralaen learned something new about Cobra squad.

  Susan and Yuno were sitting together on one of the couches, not quite touching but close enough that the space between them felt deliberate. Susan was reading something on a datapad while Yuno dozed against her shoulder, her dark hair falling across Susan's arm.

  Ralaen had assumed they were together—the body language was obvious to anyone paying attention. What caught her attention was the ease of it. The way neither of them seemed to notice or care who was watching.

  They share a room too, Artemis noted. Registered as a bonded pair in Einherjar records. Squad leader's discretion on quarters assignment.

  Registered? Ralaen frowned internally. There's a formal process?

  Yes. It affects next-of-kin designations, notification protocols, benefits allocation, that sort of thing. A pause that felt almost too casual. You and Eirik have the same status, incidentally.

  Ralaen blinked. We do?

  Apollo and I filed the paperwork after Kryssar 3. Another pause. It seemed... appropriate. Given the circumstances.

  Ralaen didn't know whether to be touched or exasperated. You registered us as a bonded pair without asking?

  We registered you as a bonded pair without bothering you, Artemis corrected, and there was warmth beneath the primness. You had other things on your mind. The administrative details are our job. Besides— a flicker of something like amusement— were we wrong?

  Ralaen had no answer for that.

  She glanced at Eirik. "Did you know we're officially registered as a bonded pair?"

  He looked at her, brow furrowing slightly. "We are?"

  "Apparently Apollo and Artemis handled it. After Kryssar."

  Eirik was quiet for a moment. Then his expression softened into something between surprise and a crooked smile. "Huh." He reached over and took her hand, fingers lacing through hers. "Sounds like them."

  You're welcome, Artemis said dryly.

  Ralaen squeezed Eirik's hand and didn't respond. But she was smiling.

  "Relationships in the ásveldi military," she said after a moment. "How does that work? Beyond the paperwork our AIs apparently handle for us."

  Eirik's mouth twitched at the addition. "Same as most militaries—fine as long as you're not in the same chain of command. Keeps things clean, avoids conflicts of interest." His eyes met hers. "Einherjar are different, though. Four-person squads, no real rank structure between us. The brass knows relationships happen. They'd rather we be with someone who understands the life than try to make it work with someone who doesn't."

  "So nobody cared? About us?"

  "Anastasia noted it for the record. That was it." He squeezed her hand. "We're not the first squad couple. Won't be the last."

  Ralaen's gaze drifted back to Susan and Yuno. "It's nice," she said. "Knowing it's normal."

  "It is what it is," Eirik said simply. "We do a job most people can't imagine. Finding someone who shares that burden—that's not a problem. That's a gift."

  Thomas, for his part, had been quieter than usual since Kryssar 3.

  Not withdrawn—Thomas was never withdrawn. But there was something on his mind, and it showed in the way he'd drift off mid-conversation, staring at nothing. During one of their common room sessions, Anastasia finally called him on it.

  "You've been somewhere else for days," she said, not looking up from her datapad. "Want to talk about it, or should we keep pretending not to notice?"

  Thomas was quiet for a long moment, nursing a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold.

  "There was a Jaeger sergeant. Pink hair. Felari. Held her squad together when everything went sideways. You don't see that often."

  Anastasia's eyes flicked up. "And?"

  "And nothing." Thomas shrugged, but it didn't quite reach his shoulders. "I told her to find me on Draupnir when it was over. First round on me."

  "That's not nothing."

  "It's not anything yet, either." He took a sip of cold coffee and grimaced. "She's not in my chain of command. Neither of us would be compromising anything. I just..." He trailed off.

  "You're interested," Anastasia said. It wasn't a question.

  "Maybe." Thomas set the cup down. "I don't know. It's been a while since I thought about anyone that way."

  Anastasia returned to her datapad, but there was a hint of something softer in her expression. "Her name's Sari. She's attached to Draupnir's Jaeger battalion. If you want to find her, she's not hard to locate."

  Thomas looked at her. "You already knew."

  "I pay attention." Anastasia's mouth twitched. "Go talk to her. Worst she can do is say no."

  Thomas didn't respond, but some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

  In the evenings, Ralaen and Eirik retreated to their quarters. The cabin was small but comfortable—a double bunk against one wall, lockers beneath, the large vid screen she'd bought during their first transit mounted on the opposite bulkhead. It had become their sanctuary, a space where they could just be without the weight of armor or expectation.

  They fell into a routine of their own. Gym sessions when their schedules aligned, pushing each other through sets that would have been impossible before Ascension. Movie nights when they didn't, curled up on the bunk together with the lights dimmed and some old human film playing on the screen.

  The movies had been Maelis's idea, actually.

  "You have to understand human culture," the Azelari had insisted during one of their group dinners in the tavern, her silver eyes bright with conviction. "Their stories, their myths. That's how you understand them. And the best place to start is the action movies."

  She'd provided a list. A long list. Titles Ralaen had never heard of, with names like Rambo, Terminator, and Demolition Man. Maelis had spoken about them with the kind of reverence most Azelari reserved for diplomatic protocols and ancient treaties.

  "These are classics," Maelis had said, tapping the list on Ralaen's datapad. "Essential viewing. You cannot call yourself part of human culture until you have seen John Spartan punch his way out of a cryo-prison, or watched the T-800 explain why he cannot self-terminate."

  Ralaen had no idea what any of that meant.

  She watched them anyway.

  Terminator turned out to be about a time-traveling machine that looked like a human, sent back to kill a woman whose son would one day lead a resistance against other machines. The sequel was about the same machine, reprogrammed to protect the son instead. Both films were violent, loud, and strangely compelling.

  "I don't understand," Ralaen said during the second one, watching the T-800 lower itself into molten metal. "He's a machine. Why does it matter if he dies?"

  Eirik was quiet for a moment. "Because he learned," he said finally. "He started as a thing. By the end, he was something more. And he chose to sacrifice himself so the people he'd learned to care about could live."

  Ralaen thought about that. About Artemis, who had started as code and become her sister. About the choice to be something more than what you were made to be.

  She didn't cry at the ending. But she did hold Eirik's hand a little tighter.

  Rambo was simpler—a man who had been broken by war and couldn't find his way back. Halfway through, Eirik paused the film unprompted, something he rarely did.

  "I knew a guy like this," he said quietly, eyes still on the frozen frame. "After my first deployment. He couldn't turn it off. The hypervigilance, the anger. He'd flinch at loud noises, pick fights in bars." He was quiet for a moment. "He ate his sidearm six months after we rotated home."

  Ralaen's ears flattened. She pressed closer against his side, not knowing what to say.

  "I think about him sometimes," Eirik continued. "Wonder if I could have done something. Said something." He shook his head slowly. "There were people who could have helped him. But he never asked, and none of us knew how bad it was until it was too late."

  He unpaused the film without waiting for a response, but his arm tightened around her. She understood. Some things you said not because you wanted an answer, but because you needed someone to hear them.

  Demolition Man was absurd, a comedy wrapped in action that made Eirik laugh out loud at parts Ralaen didn't entirely understand. The Last Action Hero was apparently a joke about other action movies, which required Eirik to pause every few minutes and explain references she'd never seen.

  "This is ridiculous," she said during one such pause. "How am I supposed to understand a joke about a movie I haven't watched?"

  "That's the point," Eirik said, grinning. "Now you have to watch all of them."

  She threw a pillow at him.

  These movies are fascinating, Artemis observed during the third night. The narrative structures follow remarkably consistent patterns. Hero's journey, mentor figure, sacrifice and rebirth. The same stories humans have been telling since they first developed language, wrapped in explosions and one-liners.

  You're analyzing them, Ralaen thought back, amused.

  I'm appreciating them, Artemis corrected. There's a difference. Also, I find the T-800's character arc genuinely moving. Don't tell anyone.

  Your secret is safe with me.

  On the fourth night, Sari ambushed her in the corridor outside the mess.

  "I heard you've been watching Maelis's list," the Felari said, falling into step beside her, tail swishing with barely contained excitement. "Action movies. Explosions. Men with big muscles shooting things."

  "They're... educational," Ralaen said carefully.

  "Educational." Sari's ears flattened in mock disappointment. "Ralaen. You have a gorgeous man waiting for you in your quarters every night, and you're watching things explode?" She pressed a datachip into Ralaen's paw. "These are my recommendations. You'll thank me later."

  Ralaen looked at the chip dubiously. "What's on this?"

  "Romance," Sari said, her eyes gleaming. "Human romance. The good kind—the kind that makes you want to curl up with someone and never let go." She winked. "Trust me. Your Eirik will appreciate it."

  Before Ralaen could protest, Sari had already bounded off down the corridor, her pink hair vanishing around a corner.

  That evening, Ralaen found herself staring at the chip while Eirik rummaged through their small cooling unit for drinks.

  "Sari gave me something," she said. "Movies. She said they were... romantic."

  Eirik emerged with two bottles of the honey-mead the ship's tavern stocked and raised an eyebrow. "Sari's recommendations?"

  "She was very insistent."

  A slow smile spread across his face. "Could be interesting. Different from watching things explode, at least."

  They settled onto the bunk together, the lights dimmed to a warm amber glow. Ralaen queued up the first film—something called The Notebook—and accepted the bottle Eirik handed her. The mead was sweet and warming, spreading a pleasant heat through her chest.

  The movie started slowly. Two young humans, meeting in a small town. Flirtation, resistance, the slow dance of attraction. Ralaen found herself leaning into Eirik's side without consciously deciding to, her tail curling around his thigh.

  "Come here," he murmured, and she shifted, settling into the space between his legs, her back against his chest. His arms wrapped around her waist, chin resting on top of her head. She could feel his heartbeat against her spine, steady and strong.

  On screen, the two characters kissed for the first time—desperate, rain-soaked, full of years of suppressed longing. Ralaen felt something stir in her chest. The scene was... affecting. The raw emotion of it, the way they clung to each other like drowning souls finding air.

  Your pheromone output is increasing, Artemis observed clinically. Elevated arousal markers. Should I give you privacy?

  Please, Ralaen thought back, and felt her AI's presence withdraw to a respectful distance—still there, but no longer actively observing.

  Eirik's hands, which had been resting innocently on her stomach, began to move. Slow, absent circles at first, his fingers tracing patterns through the thin fabric of her shirt. She didn't think he was even aware he was doing it. On screen, the couple was dancing now, slow and close, and Eirik's touch drifted lower, skating along the waistband of her pants.

  Ralaen's breath hitched. She shifted in his lap, pressing back against him, and felt the unmistakable evidence of his arousal against her lower back. A small sound escaped her throat—half surprise, half want.

  "You smell incredible," Eirik murmured against her ear, his voice rougher than before. "You always do, but right now..." His hands slid under her shirt, palms warm against her fur. "I can't think straight."

  She knew what he meant. Dr. Dubois had explained it—the pheromone bond between them, the way her body's chemistry called to his on a level deeper than conscious thought. When she wanted him, he knew. And right now, she wanted him very much.

  "Then stop thinking," she whispered, turning in his arms to face him.

  The movie played on, forgotten.

  His mouth found hers, and the kiss was nothing like the restrained pecks they'd shared in public. This was hungry, demanding, his tongue sliding against hers with an urgency that made her melt. She straddled his lap, her knees bracketing his hips, and his hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him.

  "Ralaen," he breathed against her lips. Just her name, but the way he said it—like a prayer, like a claiming—sent heat pooling low in her belly.

  She pulled back just enough to strip off her shirt, tossing it aside. His eyes darkened as they swept over her, lingering on the Einherjar rune tattooed over her heart before dropping to the swell of her breasts. She hadn't bothered with a bra—not in the privacy of their quarters—and she watched his throat work as he swallowed.

  "Beautiful," he said, and the reverence in his voice made her fur prickle with pleasure.

  She reached for his shirt, and he helped her pull it over his head. Then they were pressed together, skin against fur, and the sensation was electric. She could feel the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle, the heat of him seeping into her. Her hips rolled instinctively, grinding against the hardness straining beneath his pants, and they both groaned.

  He flipped them, pressing her into the mattress with his weight. His mouth trailed down her throat, teeth grazing the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, and she arched into him with a gasp. His hands were everywhere—cupping her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked, then sliding lower, hooking into the waistband of her pants.

  "Off," he growled, and she lifted her hips to help him drag the fabric down her legs.

  Then she was bare beneath him, and he sat back on his heels to look at her. The hunger in his eyes made her feel powerful, desired, claimed. Her thighs parted instinctively under his gaze, and she watched his eyes drop to the slick evidence of her arousal glistening in her dark fur.

  "Gods," he breathed. "You're so wet."

  His hand slid up her inner thigh, and she trembled in anticipation. When his fingers finally found her folds, parting them gently, she let out a moan that would have embarrassed her if she'd had any capacity left for shame. He stroked through her wetness, spreading it, teasing her entrance before circling up to find the sensitive nub at the apex of her sex.

  "Eirik," she gasped, her hips bucking against his hand.

  He watched her face as he worked her, his expression one of rapt concentration. One finger slid inside her, then two, curling to find that spot that made her see stars. His thumb pressed against her clit, rubbing in slow circles, and she felt the pleasure coiling tight in her belly.

  "That's it," he murmured. "Let me see you."

  She was close—so close—when he withdrew his fingers. She whined at the loss, reaching for him, but he was already moving down her body. His breath was hot against her inner thigh, and then his mouth was on her, tongue sliding through her folds, and she cried out, her claws shredding the sheets beneath her.

  He licked into her with focused intensity, his tongue finding every sensitive spot, alternating between broad strokes and pointed flicks against her clit. When he sealed his lips around that swollen bundle of nerves and sucked, she shattered, her thighs clamping around his head as the orgasm ripped through her.

  He didn't stop. He worked her through it, gentling his touch as the waves subsided, then building her up again until she was writhing against his mouth, oversensitized and desperate.

  "Please," she begged, tugging at his hair. "I need you inside me. Please, Eirik."

  He rose over her, his mouth and chin glistening with her arousal. The sight sent a fresh pulse of heat through her core. She reached for his waistband, fumbling with the fastening until he helped her shove his pants down. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the head flushed dark with need. She wrapped her paw around him, stroking once, twice, smearing the bead of moisture at the tip.

  He groaned, his hips jerking into her grip. "Keep that up and this is going to be over embarrassingly fast."

  She guided him to her entrance, rubbing the head of his cock through her slick folds, coating him in her wetness. "Then stop making me wait."

  He thrust into her in one smooth stroke, burying himself to the hilt.

  They both cried out. The stretch was exquisite—that perfect, aching fullness that made her feel complete. He stilled, his arms trembling with the effort of holding back, his forehead pressed against hers.

  "Okay?" he asked, his voice strained.

  "More than okay." She wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper. "Move. Please."

  He obeyed.

  The first thrust punched a moan from her throat. He set a rhythm—deep, rolling strokes that dragged his cock against every sensitive spot inside her with each pass. She clung to him, her claws leaving red lines down his back that would heal by morning, her tail thrashing against the sheets.

  "You feel so good," he groaned against her ear. "So tight. So wet. Made for me."

  "Yes," she gasped. "Yours. Only yours."

  The words seemed to snap something in him. His pace increased, hips snapping against hers with a force that would have been bruising before Ascension. The wet sound of their coupling filled the cabin, punctuated by the slap of his hips against her thighs and her desperate, keening moans. He shifted his angle, and suddenly he was hitting that spot inside her with every thrust, and the pleasure was building to something unbearable.

  "I love you," he said, the words rough and fierce. "You know that, right? Every part of you. My mate."

  "My mate," she echoed, the word punched out of her on a particularly deep thrust. "I love you—I'm going to—Eirik, I'm—"

  "Come for me," he commanded, and drove into her hard.

  The orgasm crashed through her like a tidal wave, whiting out her vision, tearing a scream from her throat that was half his name and half something more primal. Her inner muscles clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, and she felt him follow her over the edge a moment later. He buried himself deep, his cock pulsing inside her as he came with a guttural groan, spilling hot and thick into her depths.

  They lay tangled together afterward, breathing hard, sweat-damp and satisfied. On the screen, the movie had continued without them—the characters were old now, grey-haired and holding hands in a hospital bed. Ralaen watched through half-lidded eyes, her head pillowed on Eirik's chest, his heartbeat slowing beneath her ear.

  "Sari was right," she murmured.

  Eirik huffed a laugh, his hand stroking lazy patterns through the fur on her back. "Remind me to thank her."

  "Don't you dare. She'll be insufferable."

  "She's already insufferable."

  Ralaen smiled, pressing a kiss to his chest. The movie played on, a quiet backdrop to the warmth of their tangled limbs and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

  That was quite something, Artemis observed, her presence returning with a hint of amusement. The movie, I mean. Very emotional ending.

  You weren't watching the movie.

  I most certainly was. I have no idea what you're implying.

  Ralaen's smile widened, and she let herself drift, warm and content and utterly at peace.

  The gatherings in the tavern became a regular occurrence.

  Not every night—schedules didn't always align, and sometimes the weight of training left everyone too tired for socializing. But often enough that it felt like a rhythm, a heartbeat of normal life in the middle of a war.

  The tavern itself was a warm pocket in the ship's metal heart—amber light reflecting off knotwork-etched bulkheads, the low murmur of a hundred conversations blending with the clink of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter from a corner booth. The air carried the yeasty smell of beer and something savory from the small kitchen in the back.

  The group that assembled varied. Sometimes it was just Wolf and Cobra, the eight Einherjar crowding into a booth meant for six and not caring about the squeeze. Sari's squad joined them sometimes. Most of them were familiar faces—Maelis, Hissthar, Vorrek, Asula, and the five humans who'd survived J?tunheim alongside them. The Felari siblings were the exceptions: Lyra and Elmar, fresh out of J?tunheim and assigned to Sari's squad after she made sergeant.

  The siblings had the same tawny fur and dark ear-tips that marked them as litter-mates. The humans were harder to tell apart at first: Ward was the tall one, built like a wall, Williams the youngest, Martinez had a scar across her nose that she refused to explain. Okonkwo and Petrov she mainly distinguished by accent—Lagos and somewhere in eastern Europe, respectively.

  They all shared one thing: a respect when it came to the Einherjar. It faded quickly after the first few rounds.

  Williams bet Thomas twenty credits he couldn't finish a bottle of mead in one go. He lost. Petrov spent ten minutes explaining exactly what was wrong with the mess hall's borscht while Martinez nodded along, adding complaints of her own. Someone produced a deck of cards. The rules changed three times in the first hour, mostly whenever Sari was losing.

  Asula was deep in conversation with Vorrek and the rest of the squad, laughing along with the rest. She and Ralaen didn't talk much—hadn't since Ralaen broke her arm—but there was no heat in Asula's eyes anymore, whenever they panned past Ralaen. Whatever point Asula had been trying to prove back then, she'd moved past it. It was probably hard to hold a grudge against someone that far out of your league.

  The night wound down. The card game fell apart when Williams couldn't remember whose turn it was, and started dealing to the wrong person first. The crowd thinned, people drifting off to rack, until it was just the old J?tunheim crew left—Ralaen, Eirik, Sari, Maelis, and a few others.

  Lyra was the one who asked. "Why'd you leave?" She was looking at Sari, ears canted forward. "The Federation, I mean. You were Felari—you had options."

  Sari was quiet for a moment, swirling her drink.

  "My parents wanted me to be someone's trophy wife," she said finally. "Some administrator's arm candy, producing heirs and playing the Great Game until I aged out of usefulness." Her voice was light, but her eyes weren't. "I wanted to do something. To matter."

  Maelis was quiet for a moment. "You made the right call," she said. "For what it's worth."

  "Wouldn't have anyone else lead us boss" Hissthar said.

  "To our sergeant!" Vorrek rumbled, raising his glass in a toast

  Sari's expression softened. "Thanks, guys."

  On the fifth day, TG Six Four dropped out of hyperspace.

  Ralaen felt it first as a subtle change in the ship's rhythm—the clean hum of the Bifrost core shifting, the faint wrongness of translation pressing against her inner ear. She was in the gym when it happened, halfway through a set of deadlifts, and she set the bar down carefully as the sensation washed over her.

  Translation complete, Artemis reported. We have arrived in the Skadi system.

  Ralaen grabbed a towel, wiped the sweat from her fur, and headed for the observation blister.

  She found the rest of Wolf Squad already there. The blister was cramped with four Einherjar bodies—designed for two or three observers at most—but none of them seemed to mind the close quarters. Thomas and Anastasia stood at the viewport, their silhouettes dark against the stars. Eirik turned as she entered, his face relaxing into a smile when he saw her.

  "You felt it too," he said.

  "Hard to miss." She moved to stand beside him, her shoulder brushing his, one hand finding the cool rail that ran beneath the transparisteel. Through the viewport, the Skadi system spread before them—an unfamiliar star, unfamiliar planets, but the same deep black between them. The deck hummed faintly beneath her feet as Draupnir's drives adjusted course. "Where's the fleet?"

  "In-system," Anastasia said without turning around. "High orbit around the third planet. That's Nyssian Vale—Drakari colony world. We're on approach now."

  The tactical plot on the blister's small holo-display showed it clearly: TG Six Four's four icons moving in-system, heading toward a cluster of contacts around a pale blue marble of a world. The cluster was dense, dozens of ships arranged in formation, their IFF tags glowing a reassuring blue-green.

  Sixth Fleet.

  They watched as Draupnir and her escorts on the approach to sixth fleet, the gravity drives pushing them toward the rendezvous point. The other ships grew on the plot, their icons resolving from abstract markers into distinct classifications: destroyers, cruisers, battlecruisers. The backbone of a fleet at war.

  And then, at the heart of the formation, four icons that dwarfed everything else.

  Those are the four Ragnar?k-class super dreadnoughts, Artemis said. The core of Sixth Fleet.

  The display zoomed in at Ralaen's unspoken request, pulling sensor data and visual feeds to show what those icons actually represented. And suddenly the holo-display was filled with the image of them. Mountains of battlesteel, each two kilometers long, each bristling with weapons.

  "Gods," Ralaen breathed. Her claws tightened on the viewport rail without her consciously willing it.

  "Not gods," Eirik said quietly. "But close."

  The super-dreadnoughts hung in high orbit, their massive forms catching the light of Skadi's star. Their hulls were covered in the knotwork patterns that marked all ásveldi vessels, but at this scale, those patterns became visible as vast, interconnected designs that flowed from bow to stern like rivers of light.

  See the bow? Artemis highlighted one of the ships on the display, zooming in on its forward section and highlighting the yawning hole in the bow ram. That's the spinal graser aperture. A single shot from that weapon can core a capital ship from stem to stern. Potentially, it can crack a world.

  Ralaen stared at the massive opening, trying to grasp what that meant. For a ship to crack a world.

  And those— Artemis highlighted clusters of massive hexagonal shapes along the dorsal and ventral surfaces. —are the turret arrays. Fifty-four grasers per aspect. In a broadside engagement, a Ragnar?k can put out enough fire to overwhelm anything short of another super-dreadnought.

  "They're beautiful," Ralaen said softly.

  "They're the leviathans of space," Thomas said. His voice wasn't unkind, just matter-of-fact. "The most efficient way to kill that humanity has ever devised. Four of those ships could glass a planet in an afternoon and still have ammunition left over."

  "That's not beautiful?"

  Thomas considered. "Maybe. In the way a thunderstorm is beautiful. Or a volcano."

  Ralaen watched the super-dreadnoughts drift in their orbits, patient and implacable. She thought about Kryssar 3. The machine. The bodies.

  Beautiful, she thought, and meant it.

  TG Six Four slid into formation with practiced precision. Draupnir took up station near the fleet's center, her escorts spreading out to fill gaps in the defensive screen. On the plot, their four icons merged with the constellation of the Sixth Fleet, becoming part of something larger.

  Ralaen stood at the viewport and watched the fleet drift past—destroyers like lean hunting hounds, cruisers and battlecruisers with their predator lines—all dwarfed by the super-dreadnoughts. Hundreds of ships, tens of thousands of crew, all of them brought here for the same purpose.

  She felt both small and powerful at the same time. Like she was a part of a vast organism, insignificant alone but essential to the whole.

  It is awe inspiring isn't it?, Artemis said*.*

  There was something in her voice—a quiet intensity that reminded Ralaen of their movie nights, of Artemis admitting she'd found the T-800's sacrifice genuinely moving.

  Ralaen didn't answer. She didn't need to.

  Later, in the quiet of their cabin, Eirik found her staring at the ceiling.

  "Heavy day?" he asked, settling onto the bed beside her.

  "I've seen fleets before. Federation task forces, Confederacy patrol groups." She shook her head. "Nothing like that."

  He didn't say anything. Just pulled her a little closer.

  She shifted, pressing herself against his side, her tail curling around his leg.

  "Tomorrow we find out where they're sending us," she said.

  "Tomorrow," he agreed.