Civitas Keep, Nova Roma - Anicarro 2nd Quarter 2497

  The Anicarran sun hangs low as the shuttle's engines fall silent behind them, leaving only the clang of armored boots against the stone paths of the Keep grounds. The great walls of the Civitas Keep loom ahead, banners stirring faintly in the autumn air.

  The pack walks together, helmets clipped to hips, rucksacks heavy but familiar across their shoulders. Naburiel and Ashurdan fall back with Samayel and Belqartis, the four of them laughing in low tones, reminiscing already, scars still fresh but spirits lighter.

  Up front, Magnus keeps pace with Spartan, the two speaking in a quieter cadence.

  "Varric means to have dinner," Magnus says, beard shifting as he rubs at his jaw. "He wishes to speak on Rauvis. To weigh this matter of Venators."

  Spartan tilts her head, braid swaying against her backplate. "Good. That talk is needed."

  Naburiel quickens his step, a gloved hand finding Spartan's pauldron. His voice lowers, meant only for her. "Any plans for the evening?"

  Spartan's lips curve, her tone carrying just enough for the pack to catch. "Custom demands a Victory Table. After such a mission, the pack eats together, drinks together. If you want it, be down on the Dining Floor in thirty."

  The ripple is immediate. Ashurdan claps Belqartis' shoulder; Samayel lets out a low whistle. Naburiel smiles faintly to himself, content in the knowledge he'd sparked the tradition back to life.

  He leans close, whispering something further into Spartan's ear. Her eyes light, and she looks up at Magnus. "You too," she says, voice raised enough to be sure he hears. "You've made yourself pack, and pack means a place at the table. If you'll take it."

  Magnus slows a half step. "I… do not know this custom." His gaze flickers toward the Keep, toward duties waiting, toward Varric's expectation. For a moment, his lips press in refusal.

  But then he catches the looks; the eager grin of Naburiel, the relief etched across Samayel's face, even the hope tucked behind Spartan's smirk. He breathes out through his nose.

  "Very well," Magnus says at last, voice carrying. "Set the table. I will come."

  A cheer rises from the pack, lighthearted and unrestrained, the sound echoing off the Keep's high stone.

  Magnus glances aside to Spartan, who only smirks wider, satisfied.

  The Keep swallows them in vaulted stone and polished marble, torchlight glinting off the inlaid gold seams of the high halls. Their boots echo, heavy with the rhythm of warriors finally returned.

  Spartan casts a look toward Magnus as they enter the main corridor. "Meet us in our Hall when you're ready," she says, voice firm but easy. "And don't overdress. It's not that kind of table."

  Magnus inclines his head, lips tugging faintly at the corner. "Understood."

  The pack keeps to her side until the stairwell to the lower barracks. There they pause, offering nods to Magnus as he continues straight into the heart of the Keep. His lone silhouette fades between the towering columns, while the pack turns down, laughter carrying again as they descend.

  The stairs spiral into the Old Vardengard Wing, stone walls lined with banners faded by decades, relics of warriors long gone. The scent of oil and leather hangs thick, familiar. They file through the corridor, each peeling off toward their rooms with calls and promises of drink and stories soon to come.

  Spartan and Rho Voss walk last, side by side in silence. Their door opens with the release of air as either side slides into the wall, revealing their shared quarters. The space is modest, but wide enough to hold them both: a living chamber with weapon racks against the walls, shelves of old keepsakes, and the faint burn of incense still lingering from when they left.

  They step inside, the sound of their boots dulled by thick woven rugs. Spartan guides her armored suit onto the rack in the corner of the living room, where the locks release and the front of the suit opens up down the middle, allowing her to slide out. The plates close behind her and the suit looms, hooked onto the stand, waiting to be worn again.

  Beside her, Rho Voss does the same; his massive frame moving with precise, practiced care as his own suit, scarred and mud-stained, settles into its stand. The faint blue glow of its systems dies, leaving the room lit only by the soft lanterns overhead.

  Rho Voss sets his helmet down on the workbench with a heavy thunk. His eyes, faintly glowing in the dim light, drift out across the room. Half the space is not his, not theirs; it is hers. Cases line the walls, tables crowded with relics of her past: old uniforms stiff with wear, battered armor plates still carrying scars of battles fought long before he walked beside her, blades dulled from a hundred strikes. The air is thick with oil, leather, and the faint metallic tang of steel long rested. His chest swells with a slow inhale, shoulders rising and falling as he takes in the smell. This place, this is home.

  Spartan steps to his side, catching his gloved hand in hers. She lifts it to her lips, pressing a kiss against his knuckles, eyes soft beneath the lantern glow. She looks small beside him, bare feet on the rug, cargo pants loose on her hips, black sports bra leaving her scar-laced shoulders bare.

  His gaze lowers to her, hood shadowing the brightness of his eyes. Instead of letting her hold linger, he slides his hand free and cups her face, palm firm against her cheek. For the briefest moment, his vision shifts, memory cutting through the present. He sees her as he first found her after captivity: face caked in dirt and dried blood, eyes hollowed by exhaustion, dulled by pain, but still unbroken. The image stabs at him, and his fingers clutch more tightly at her cheek as his breath catches in his chest.

  Without a word, he pulls her in, wrapping his arms around her head and shoulders, shielding her in his hold.

  Spartan lets out a quiet giggle, muffled against the cloth of his fatigues. Her arms slide around his waist, squeezing hard, returning the embrace with all the warmth she can give.

  Spartan and Rho Voss step out into the hall, the door clicking shut behind them. Their boots sound against the stone, but the silence doesn't last. Two doors down, Samayel and Belqartis emerge, laughing about something only they seem to understand. A moment later, the door between creaks open and Naburiel and Ashurdan step out, moving at their own lazy pace, still adjusting their rucks over their shoulders.

  They pause together in the corridor, voices lowering as the weight of the Keep presses in. The stillness feels different here. Naburiel rolls his shoulders, glancing along the vaulted ceiling, while Belqartis lets out a dry chuckle.

  "Strange, isn't it?" Belqartis says. "The quiet. The time. With the Venators it was straight to the debrief, then into the kennels. No breath. No pause. Certainly no choice."

  Ashurdan grunts agreement. "Feels wrong to be allowed to stand here."

  Spartan shakes her head with the faintest smile. "It feels right. You'll get used to it."

  Their talk lingers until heavy footsteps echo down the hall. Magnus approaches, broad-shouldered, dressed down in fatigues like one of them. No polished armor, no regalia; just another soldier returning home. The Vardengard light up at the sight of him, disbelief flashing first, then warmth. Naburiel grins wide, clapping Magnus' arm as he nears. "You're really coming with us?"

  Magnus answers with the smallest nod, his eyes softened. "I could never decline the offer for you."

  "Ha, of course not, Master," Spartan chuckles, and the pack echoes it with their smiles and laughter.

  Together they move, descending through the Keep. The air grows warmer as they near the Blood Pit, the murmur of countless voices swelling into a roar. They push through the ocean of burly figures, the crowd parting with respect as the Vardengard stride through. Heat, smoke, and the smell of charred meat thickens the air.

  The Dining Floor is alive. Packed wall to wall, the hum of a thousand voices rolls like a storm, laughter and arguments and toasts rising together. Tables sit low to the ground, squared blocks of stone and old wood, scarred by decades of fists and knives. Around them, the pillow piles are stacked thick, royal reds, tarnished golds, deep silvers, blacks, purples. All pulled from the Keep's long stockpiles, mismatched but regal in their age.

  Shoes lie discarded at the sides of the piles, neat or scattered depending on the soldier. Bare feet press into the stone floor, others fold cross-legged, shoulders brushing against shoulders as the Vardengard crowd in. The air is warm, thick with smoke, sweat, and roasted meats carried in endless streams from the kitchens.

  Spartan takes her place with her back to the corner, the walls of the Dining Floor forming a shield at her back. Magnus settles down to one side of her, the pillow pile dipping under his weight, and Rho Voss lowers himself to the other. Naburiel folds in beside Magnus, Ashurdan beside him, and Samayel and Belqartis press in tight against Rho's free side. The pile is full, alive with the warmth of their bodies.

  But Morus is already there. Stretched across the back of the heap, sound asleep, arms draped, chest rising and falling. Spartan leans back, reaching to touch his leg, giving him a shake.

  "Morus," she says.

  He stirs, yawns, rolling onto his back with a grunt. He rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand. "Already ordered," he mutters through another yawn, voice rough with sleep.

  The pack chuckles softly at him, the sound drowned quickly in the roar of the hall. Yet above that roar are murmurs, faint but insistent. Heads tilt, eyes dart. Word travels fast. Not only has the Commander returned, with her pack intact, but with them, seated among the pillows like any other, is the General Supreme.

  The Supreme is no stranger to the Blood Pit. His presence is known, but never here, never like this. He belongs to the upper walkways, to the observation galleries and the arena floor, a figure above the rest. But tonight, he sits with them, shoulder to shoulder, his boots cast aside, just another man among wolves.

  The murmurs ripple, some carrying approval, others unease. Respect, confusion, disbelief. To see him here unsettles something deep in the Vardengard.

  The low thunder of the Dining Floor seems to blur around their table. Here, tucked in the corner, the Vardengard settle into easy breaths, the press of their shoulders grounding them. The chatter between them builds until Samayel leans forward, one arm draped lazily over his knee, his sharp grin flashing in the lamplight.

  Samayel's grin sharpens as he leans forward, voice pitched just enough to cut through the clamor.

  "Tell me again, Naburiel, how many Venators did you say you felled on Rauvis? Ten? Twelve? Or was it three goats and an acolyte you mistook for the rest?"

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  The table erupts in laughter, Ashurdan snorting so hard he nearly falls backward against the pillows. Naburiel narrows his eyes, lips twitching against a smile.

  "Seventeen. Count them as you like, but none stand to argue."

  "Seventeen corpses, ita," Belqartis says, jabbing him with an elbow. "But half of them were already dying when you found them. A man could trip over bodies in that jungle and call himself a slayer."

  Rho Voss, silent as always, merely exhales through his nose like the rumble of a forge.

  Spartan chuckles, shaking her head as she leans back against the stone wall. Her gaze tilts toward Magnus. His massive frame sits with perfect posture despite the heap of pillows beneath him, hands resting easily on his knees, blue eyes taking in the table as though every jest is a report of worth.

  "You comfortable, Master?" she asks, voice low.

  Magnus turns to her, the hint of a smile tugging at his solemn mouth. "Surprisingly so. This seating is quite… cozy. Better than I expected."

  She leans closer, her voice dipping even softer, almost lost beneath the roar of the hall. "Thank you for coming down here. The Victory Table is a rare thing for us. Most Vardengard never get to sit at it. For you to share it…" She lets the thought hang.

  His eyes shift to hers, steady, unreadable, then soften just enough to let the weight of his answer through. "The honor is mine."

  Before she can speak again, the crowd parts. Two towering Vardengard women stride forward, muscles corded beneath sleeveless tunics, each gripping a handle of an enormous iron platter. The thing steams and smolders, a feast fit for titans. Behind them follows a broad-shouldered male bearing a smaller tray, balanced carefully in his scarred hands.

  The great platter lands heavy on the table, the wood groaning beneath its weight. Steam rises in fragrant clouds, the left side a bubbling scarlet broth, spiced so sharply the air tingles in the throat; the right side a deep brown stock, earthy with herbs and slow-cooked marrow.

  Above it all rests the array: charred heart slices glistening with fat, strips of seared lung curled at the edges, boiled tripe shining pale, thick sausages twisted like chains, slabs of flesh still hugging the bone. At the center sits the crowned prize: a whole cow's head, roasted dark, its slack jaw pried open and stuffed with fruit. Green Eve's Apples and red Adam's Apples gleam among lemons, limes, blood oranges, and the shocking red flesh of dragonfruit, the colors blazing against the smoke-dark meat.

  The smaller platter is set beside it: a steaming bowl of thick pap, rolls of dense bread, and a line of drink. Tall iron steins brim with Vardengard spirits so strong the fumes alone could strip paint; beside them, a slender, handle-less cup of dull silver, filled with a psychoactive draught that glimmers faintly in the lamplight.

  Samayel whistles low, licking his teeth. "Now that is a kill worth feasting."

  Laughter ripples across the pile again, the tension of Magnus' presence easing back into warmth, into family.

  The laughter dies down, fading like sparks swallowed by smoke. The heat of the platters presses into them now, steam curling upward in ghostly trails. The rich tang of spice and broth hangs heavy in the throat. No hand moves, no one reaches for food or drink.

  Bare shoulders rise and fall in steady breath. The silence tightens, sharpened by expectation.

  Spartan leans forward, elbows on her knees, her dark hair slipping down past her arms. She looks from one face to the next, Samayel's grin subdued, Naburiel's sharp eyes steady, Ashurdan's heavy brow bowed just so, Belqartis tense but waiting, Rho Voss a mountain of patience beside her. Even Magnus, the Supreme, stills. The air bends toward her.

  Her voice carries low but clear, roughened by smoke and fire.

  "Gratitude. For the battle, hard fought and harder won. For the fire of the Forge, where we are tempered still. For the Forger, and the Gods He has chosen to rule, who lay before us this table. That the blades we are may be sharpened again."

  Her hand finds the stein, the metal cool against her palm. She lifts it. One by one, the others follow, iron ringing softly as Magnus raises his own among theirs.

  "Blood and Steel!" they thunder, voices joined, rattling the hall.

  The first drink is deep, hot, biting down the throat like flame. Spartan sets hers down with a solid thud and reaches forward, plucking a strip of lung from the seething red broth. Steam rolls off it as she tears into it, spice burning her tongue. She chews slow, leaning back against the pillow pile, eyes half-closed.

  Rho moves next, his massive fingers reaching into the brown broth to lift a thick slice of heart. He eats without a sound. Naburiel follows, spearing a seared cut from the platter's edge.

  And then the eyes turn. All of them, brothers, sisters, wolves, shift to Magnus. Guest, Supreme, yet now seated as one of them.

  He reads the weight in their gaze, unflinching. His hand reaches forward, slow but certain, and he lifts a strip of charred liver from the rim of the platter. He brings it to his mouth, tears it clean.

  Only then do the Vardengard surge forward, hands diving into the feast with growls of hunger. Meat and broth, bread and pap, organs and flesh, the table comes alive. The ritual complete, the feast begins.

  The first bites break the dam.

  Hands plunge into the steaming broths, fingers tearing strips of meat too hot to hold. Broth scalds wrists and runs down forearms, smeared without care as flesh is ripped, shared, stolen. Pap is slapped into stew, used to scoop hunks of offal, crumbling apart and stuffed into mouths between gulps of spiced liquor.

  Growls rumble low in throats, laughter cutting sharp between them. Ashurdan elbows Belqartis as he swipes a sausage from under his nose, only for Belqartis to snap at his hand with his teeth, a playful bite that earns a roar of laughter. Naburiel shoves back against Samayel, meat clutched between his teeth as he snarls, both men near toppling into the pile in their struggle to claim the same cut.

  The feast dissolves into a storm of movement, elbows, shoulders, teeth, and laughter, like wolves around a kill.

  Magnus sits back into the pillows, his hand steady on his own first portion. He takes his time with the bite, chewing with slow deliberation, silver eyes keen on the chaos before him. This is not the field, where meals were orderly, quiet, tempered by discipline. Here, the Vardengard let the leash slip. The tension of war, if only for the night, is cast off into the fire.

  Even Spartan, who he has dined with a hundred times, is unrecognizable in her loosened joy. She snatches meat with a growl, snapping at Naburiel's hand, laughing as she shoves a strip of tripe past her lips. Rho Voss holds a thick cut of liver between his teeth, only for Spartan to lean in and bite it straight from his mouth.

  The two growl against one another, lips curling into feral grins. The table erupts in raucous laughter. Rho nudges her with his shoulder, heavy enough to rock her sideways into the pillows, his massive hand landing warm and steady on her thigh as if to anchor her there. She snarls mockingly, but before she can strike back, he reaches past her, snatching her stein and downing a few great swallows of her drink.

  The pack howls, pounding fists on the stone table, broth splashing, drink spilling, their joy unrestrained. The Blood Pit roars with them, the thunder of voices and the scent of meat binding them in a living storm.

  And Magnus, the General Supreme, watches with a quiet smile at the corner of his mouth, content to sit among wolves.

  Magnus remains untouched by their wildness. He moves with the same calm precision he always carries, his posture straight despite the chaos. He plucks pieces from the platter with deliberate care, as if still seated in some marble hall of the capital. His fingers never linger long in the broth; each bite is clean, measured.

  When he lifts his stein, the liquor scorches his throat. It's stronger than anything he's ever had; three times the strength of his finest whisky, but he does not flinch. The fire sits warm in his chest, thrumming behind his sternum.

  Spartan, across from him, leans forward suddenly, grin broad, eyes bright in the firelight. She reaches, not just for her tall metal cup, but for his as well. The psychoactive drink glows a deep crimson under the lamplight, thick like blood. She presses his into his hand.

  "Drink it," she says, voice teasing but firm. "You'll relax more."

  He raises a brow, steady as ever. "I am relaxed."

  She laughs, head tilting, dark hair spilling forward. "Then you'll relax better."

  Magnus studies the drink. The liquid is dark as garnet, the scent sharp, iron and herbs, copper and something sweet beneath. He sips once, cautious. The taste is bitter, earthy, coppered like blood, brewed long and deep.

  He swallows, sets the cup down, but Spartan's hand slips under his, lifting the bottom of the cup with her clawed fingers. The drink tilts, and he has no choice but to take another, longer swallow. He exhales through his nose, the taste lingering metallic on his tongue.

  She grins at his expression and turns her attention to her own cup, downing a long swallow without hesitation.

  Magnus rests the cup against his knee, studying her. His voice lowers, nearly lost in the din around them.

  "Tell me," he says. "The battle at Rauvis. What did you make of it? Of Absjorn?"

  Spartan looks up at him, chewing a bite of meat, brow arching.

  "You really want to talk business now?"

  "I would like to," he says simply. "If it is appropriate."

  She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she reaches toward the centerpiece, the roasted cow's head, and digs her claws into the charred cheek. The flesh peels away with a hiss of steam and fat. She tears a chunk free and glances at him over her shoulder.

  "The cheek's one of the best parts," she says. "That, the tongue, and the eyes."

  She bites into the piece, chewing slowly, savoring it. Then she holds the rest out to him, a quiet challenge.

  Magnus eyes her for a long moment, her fingers glistening with broth and grease, the curve of her grin daring him to refuse. He takes the meat from her hand. The cheek is tender, rich, melting on his tongue.

  Only after his first bite does she finally answer him.

  "Absjorn…" she begins, staring into the rim of her stein. "He's not like most of them. Not a zealot blind to the world. He believes what he does, ita, but he's aware. He sees the blood, he knows what it costs, and he spills it anyway."

  Her gaze drifts back to the table, to her pack tearing and laughing, the glint of teeth and the shine of sweat on skin.

  "I'm not sure we made the right call," she admits. "Letting him and Cassiel live. But killing them there… might've been the wrong one too."

  Magnus listens, his hand still holding the half-finished slice of cheek. The din of the feast rolls around them, a storm they sit quietly within. Spartan drinks again, slow and deliberate, her eyes distant for a moment.

  Rho growls as Samayel shoves him, a rib torn clean from the bone between his teeth. Spartan's gaze softens at the sight, her lips twitching in faint amusement before she looks back to Magnus.

  Magnus turns his head toward her, the flicker of the lamps cutting gold into the blue of his eyes.

  "What do you mean," he asks quietly, "by both being bad decisions?"

  Spartan rolls the stein between her palms, gaze fixed on the dark surface within. "While I was with him… I learned more than I thought I would."

  Magnus says nothing, waiting.

  "Absjorn's not a fool," she goes on. "He's obsessive. Ritualistic to the marrow. He prayed a dozen times a day. Spoke to Cassiel, his priest, like a man confiding in a shadow. Everything he did, from how he breathed to how he swung his axe, was a ritual. Every death, every punishment, every act. I don't think he knows how to exist outside of it."

  Magnus nods slightly, fingers tracing the rim of his cup. "A man bound by his own faith is predictable," he says. "But dangerous all the same."

  Spartan glances at him, then looks back toward the platter. "Ita. When we first reached their encampment, I saw things I hadn't before. Up close, not from a ridge or through scope lenses. They live by the bell; when it tolls, they drop everything. Even in the middle of a meal. Even mid-command. I heard what their priests said. It wasn't preaching, it was conditioning. Their virtues hold them together… and those same virtues are what will break them, if struck right."

  Magnus leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. "And you would use that against them," he says.

  Her lips press into a faint smile. "Normally, yes. But I tried that with Absjorn."

  Magnus' brow shifts. "And?"

  Her eyes lift to his. There's an odd flicker there; humor, discomfort, something caught between. "He developed an attraction," she says finally. "I could smell it on him. In his prayers, in the way he'd look at me. Sin and temptation were his favorite confessions. He thought himself strong against it. He wasn't."

  Magnus stiffens. The faint amusement in his face fades into a restrained grimness. He understands what she means too well. The quiet between them stretches a breath too long.

  "That kind of weakness," he says slowly, "in a man like him… it doesn't end quietly."

  Spartan nods. "No. It doesn't." She takes another swallow of her drink, the psychoactive's warmth beginning to soften her gaze. "He's bound tighter than any of his soldiers. The more he fights himself, the closer he comes to breaking. And when he breaks… it'll be a storm."

  Magnus sits back again, watching her over the rim of his cup. Around them, the pack's laughter continues, louder now, bodies pressed close, the sound of teeth and broth and thunderous joy. The world narrows to the small space between them.

  "Then we best be ready for that storm," he murmurs.

  Spartan's eyes narrow faintly, a smirk tugging at her mouth. "We will be."

  She leans back against the pillows again, watching Rho snarl at Samayel as they fight over a bone, her grin widening faintly. "We always are."