The training fields outside the capital thundered with controlled violence. WarMechs stood in staggered formation across the basalt flats, their armored feet grinding into the stone as they pivoted, advanced, and halted on command. Tobias watched from the elevated command gantry, hands clasped behind his back, eyes reflecting the amber glow of targeting holos and status runes scrolling across the tactical display. This was not spectacle—it was necessity. No'aar would not be held by banners and speeches, but by discipline forged in repetition.
Below him, Hetairoi moved first, their heavier frames anchoring the line while Hoplites darted between them like blades probing for weakness. The pilots were still learning to trust one another, still unlearning the habits of independent command that had served them in skirmishes but would doom them in war. Tobias issued corrections sparingly, his voice calm and precise as it carried over the comm-net. When a maneuver failed, he did not shout—he rewound the moment, broke it apart, and showed them where the future collapsed.
Trace stood nearby, helmet tucked under one arm, watching the flow of machines with a soldier's eye rather than a noble's. "They're improving," he said quietly. "Still rough, but they're starting to think like a unit instead of survivors." Tobias nodded. He could feel it too—the subtle tightening of probability, the narrowing of futures where chaos reigned unchecked. Each successful drill closed doors the enemy would have otherwise walked through.
Behind them, Kvasir observed in silence, fingers dancing across a slim data-slate as he cross-referenced pilot performance, maintenance cycles, and historical combat doctrine pulled from archives few outside House Cocytus even knew existed. "Patterns are emerging," he finally said, his pleasant tone unchanged. "Certain pilots respond better to predictive overlays. Others rely on instinct. If we tailor command inputs accordingly, efficiency increases by nearly twelve percent." He looked up, eyes sharp. "Twelve percent decides battles."
The rhythm of the drills shifted when Tobias issued a single, unexpected command. "Live opposition. One-on-one. Hoplite versus Hetairoi," A ripple of surprise passed through the command net. The Hetairoi was better armored and piloted by one of the unit's most seasoned veterans. On paper, the outcome was already decided. Yet the Hoplite that stepped forward did so without hesitation, its reactor humming steadily as it locked into combat stance.
The pilot's name flashed across Tobias' display: Cassian Rook, age twenty-seven.
The engagement began explosively. The Hetairoi surged forward, titanium shortspear flaring, forcing the Hoplite into immediate retreat. Cassian did not try to match speed with speed—he bled momentum instead, backing through uneven terrain, turning every half-step into an obstacle. When the Hetairoi committed to a full thrust, Cassian pivoted hard, letting the heavier frame absorb the impact while rerouting power to his shield and driving a short-range counterburst directly into the Hetairoi's knee assembly. The larger machine stumbled.
Gasps broke across the observation gantries as Cassian pressed the advantage with brutal efficiency. He used terrain like a weapon—rock, dust, even his own mass—forcing the Hetairoi into tight angles where speed meant nothing. A final feint drew the spear wide, and Cassian brought the Hoplite's reinforced arm down in a crushing strike that locked the Hetairoi against the ground, its systems screaming compliance. Silence followed. Then Tobias smiled.
"Stand down," Tobias ordered, his voice steady, though his pulse had quickened. He switched to a private channel. "Pilot Rook. Explain your reasoning."
Cassian's reply came after a breath, calm but edged with restrained intensity. "Hetairoi pilots expect fear from Hoplites, sir. I gave him certainty instead—certainty that I'd retreat, certainty that I'd fold. Once he believed that, the outcome was already decided." Trace let out a low whistle. "That's not just skill," he muttered. "That's instinct."
Kvasir's fingers paused over his slate. "And pattern recognition," he added mildly. "His combat profile suggests adaptive intelligence well above baseline." Tobias descended from the gantry moments later, stopping directly before Cassian's towering machine. "From this moment forward," he said, his voice carrying across the field, "you are Vice-Commander of my unit. You will train as I train, see what I see, and command when I cannot."
Cassian powered down his Hoplite and opened the cockpit, revealing a man with close-cropped dark hair, a scar tracing his jaw, and eyes sharp with equal parts discipline and fire. He saluted crisply. "I won't fail you, my lord."
Tobias met his gaze, prescience stirring faintly again—not with warning this time, but with approval. "See that you don't."
As the drills concluded and the WarMechs powered down, Tobias allowed himself a single breath of satisfaction. This was only the beginning. Mordred still lurked beyond the horizon, Lunan interests watched with hungry calculation, and somewhere in the depths of the capital an assassin still breathed. But here, in the clash of steel and will, Tobias was no longer merely reacting to the future—he was shaping it.