Settling in

  After they’d unpacked and stowed their clothes and personal effects, both of them finally switched out of their bodygloves and into civvies.

  When Artemis had quietly pinged Anastasia over the squad link earlier to ask what counted as “shipboard uniform,” Anastasia’s answer had been:

  “We’re Einherjar. Who’s gonna tell us no?”

  So civvies it was.

  They met Anastasia and Thomas in the corridor and headed together toward the Marine mess. They made for quite a sight—four supersoldiers in casual wear moving through streams of Jaeger marines in regulation black-and-green fatigues.

  The mess itself was functional but comfortable—long metal tables and benches bolted to the deck, food service built into the bulkheads, warm amber lighting softening the utilitarian lines. The smell of food hit Ralaen before anything else: grilled meat, fresh bread, something spiced that made her enhanced stomach growl.

  The room was about half full—Jaeger marines in fatigues, a few naval ratings in duty uniforms, officers at a corner table. Conversations died in patches as Wolf Squad walked past, heads turning to track them. Ralaen caught whispers—"Einherjar" and from one young marine who thought he was being quiet, "is that the alien one?"

  You're famous, Artemis observed.

  Wonderful.

  She collected what could only be described as a small mountain of food from the line—the serving staff didn't blink at the portions—and followed Eirik to a table where Anastasia and Thomas were already seated with four humans in civvies. The way they carried themselves—all relaxed, all coiled—screamed Einherjar.

  “Ralaen, Eirik,” Anastasia said, nodding to the others, “this is EHN-Cobra. Other four-man squad attached to Draupnir.”

  She went around the table.

  “Ramirez Santiago, squad lead. Susan Higgins, breacher. Yuno Watanabe, recon. Olaf Olafsson, assault.”

  Ralaen tried and failed not to snort at the last one.

  Olaf sighed theatrically. “Yes, my name is stupid,” he said before she could apologize. “Yes, my dad is also called Olaf. Yes, he thought it was hilarious. No, I will not be taking further questions.”

  That broke the ice.

  They ate and talked around mouthfuls—where the ship might be heading, which fleet elements she was likely to join, what the next push against the Rilethi might look like. Speculation, rumors, half-confirmed chatter from squad AIs.

  Their conversation was interrupted by a shout from behind them.

  “NO FRIGGIN WAY!”

  Someone in Jaeger black-and-green with neon-pink hair, cat ears, and two swishing tails bolted up to the table, tray forgotten. The Felari’s movements were fluid and acrobatic, a flash of bold color in the utilitarian mess.

  It took Ralaen a couple of seconds to match the face to the voice.

  Then it clicked. “Sari!?”

  The Felari grinned wide enough it looked like it might hurt. “What do you think we’re doing here, silly?” she said, grabbing Ralaen in an unapologetic hug. “Me and the rest of the class got assigned to Draupnir. Second rotation.”

  She waved frantically across the mess.

  Ralaen looked up to see more familiar faces in Jaeger colors heading their way: Maelis, Vorrek, Hissthar, and a scattering of other Federation recruits from their training year, all older in the eyes but still obviously them. Vorrek, the Drakari, moved with the heavy, deliberate grace of a walking fortress, while Hissthar’s serpentine form coiled through the crowd with an unnerving silence.

  They pulled tables together. Trays multiplied. The noise level went up fast.

  Sari and the others took turns talking over each other about their first rotation—guard duty on some backwater port two systems over, long stretches of boredom punctuated by brief spikes of “what the hell was that.” Their second deployment was this: frontline posting on Draupnir.

  Sari, being Sari, immediately zeroed in on the real priority.

  “So,” she said, leaning across the table, eyes gleaming, “you and Eirik. You two are…?”

  Ralaen’s ears went hot. In a low, embarrassed voice, she admitted that yes, it had… developed.

  Sari’s delighted squeal could probably have been heard in vacuum.

  Once Sari was done interrogating Ralaen about her love life, the conversation drifted to other things. What had surprised them most about serving with humans. What they missed from home. What they'd discovered that they never wanted to give up. Somehow, it kept coming back to food.

  Hissthar had discovered sushi and spoke about it with the kind of reverence Ssarathi usually reserved for diplomatic victories.

  Vorrek had discovered Indian food and refused to eat anything with less than three chilies in it.

  Maelis wouldn't shut up about tacos.

  They talked about their first shore leave after rotating back to Earth: exploring the capital, wandering other cities, seeing Hephaestus and Nidavillier from orbit. Hissthar described the moment they'd seen one of the new Ragnarok-class super-dreadnought slide out of its berth at Nidavillier, dwarfing all other ships in the shipyard structures around it. Even the Einherjar at the table nodded at that one. Some sights transcended politics.

  At some point, the whole group drifted out of the mess and into the Marines’ own tavern just down the corridor.

  Imperial ships did serve alcohol, but only in dedicated taverns, never in the mess. It made enforcement easier, cut down on smuggling, and gave the crew somewhere to bleed off pressure that wasn’t a random corridor brawl. The tavern itself was a long metal room with warm amber lighting reflecting off knotwork-etched bulkheads, a clear echo of the mead halls the humans had left behind on Earth.

  Ralaen discovered something new about her upgraded physiology: she could drink Vorrek under the table without even wobbling.

  Before Ascension, that would have been impossible. Now, she watched the Drakari—built like a monument of flesh and bone—slump sideways in defeat while she still felt only pleasantly warm.

  A Drakari trying to drink an Einherjar under the table, Artemis tutted in the back of her mind. Ambitious. Do remind him he never stood a chance.

  Between rounds, Ralaen introduced Artemis properly to her old squadmates via holo-emitter. The tiny projected avatar perched on the table edge, trading barbs and commentary with Apollo and the others while Sari poked curiously at the emitter unit.

  They stayed there a long time, talking themselves hoarse while the tavern’s lighting drifted slowly from bright “afternoon” to the softer warmth of “evening” and then into the dim, cozy glow that passed for “night” aboard.

  As Sari cheerfully explained, there wasn’t a real clock anyone cared about out here. Officially there were watches and duty rosters; unofficially, the ship’s day–night cycle was defined as: “Is the captain up yet?” and “Has the captain finally gone to bed?”

  Eventually, yawns beat stubbornness. People peeled off in ones and twos, then in clumps, heading for bunks.

  Later, in the Marine berthing section, Ralaen showered—thankfully, the ship’s facilities were not unisex—and endured Sari and Maelis oohing and aahing over the Einherjar rune over her heart.

  Then she and Eirik made their way back to their cabin.

  It felt strange, lying down on a ship for the first time. No viewports. No stars. Just the faint, constant background hum of a battlecruiser’s systems, thrumming through the frame and into the mattress.

  “It was nice seeing them again,” she mumbled, settling her head into the crook of Eirik’s arm, tail curling over his legs.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Yeah,” he said softly, the word half-swallowed by sleep.

  She didn’t hear the rest. She was already gone, drifting off to the steady heartbeat of Draupnir around her and the quieter one at her back.

  Draupnir – Einherjar quarters: Ralaen / Eirik

  Sitting curled up on the wide bunk in their shared quarters aboard Draupnir, Ralaen hunched over a dataslate in her lap, tail coiled around her ankles.

  She'd sent her parents messages now and then during Jaeger training. Brief updates to let them know she was still breathing, still keeping up.

  Then the Black Trials.

  Then the Crown.

  Then Ascension.

  After that… nothing.

  It wasn't that she'd forgotten. It was that she'd been busy and every time she thought about opening a message template, her stomach tied itself into knots and her claws hovered uselessly over the keys, the phantom ache of the Crown a cold memory in her chest.

  Earlier that morning, Eirik had decided enough was enough.

  “You’re sending them something,” he’d said, arms folded, jaw set.

  “I will,” she’d muttered.

  “Today,” he’d added.

  She’d glared. “You do not give me orders, human.”

  He’d just smiled and gone for the nuclear option.

  “Until you send a message to your parents,” he’d said calmly, “I’m not brushing your tail again.”

  That had been low. She’d actually felt her tail fluff in offended betrayal.

  Artemis had not been helpful.

  He has a point, her AI had said mildly. They raised you. They deserve to know you didn’t fall off the edge of the world.

  Between the two of them prodding and bullying, she’d finally given in with a heartfelt sigh and opened a new message.

  Now she sat cross-legged, fur fluffed from earlier, staring at the half-finished text.

  Telling them she was alive was easy.

  Telling them she was still among the humans, still serving with ásveldi forces somewhere out in the war, still not coming home any time soon… that was harder.

  The line she would not cross—could not cross yet—was simple: Einherjar. She left that part in the dark. “Jaeger,” “attached to human units,” “working with their special forces” – that was as far as she went. Let them picture the girl who’d left for J?tunheim, not the thing she’d become since.

  She had no idea how to phrase the part where she’d basically thrown away Asuari citizenship and signed herself over to ásveldi service. Her claws tapped the slate edge, then stopped. Every attempt sounded either like an apology or like she was bragging.

  Eventually Artemis stepped in, gently nudging phrasing, suggesting lines, trimming her more panicked rambling into something that sounded like an adult talking to other adults instead of a pup caught sneaking out.

  She definitely did not mention Artemis herself. Not yet. Hi, Mom, Dad, I joined a human supersoldier cult and also there's someone living in my head felt like too much for one letter.

  When she finally hit send and watched the status tag flip to QUEUED – OUTBOUND (BIFROST NODE), she sagged back against the bulkhead with a long exhale.

  “It’s done,” she mumbled.

  Proud of you, Artemis said quietly.

  Ralaen stretched until her spine popped, grabbed her toiletry bag, and padded out into the corridor in a t-shirt and sweats. No armor, no bodyglove, no boots. Just padded feet on deck plating and a weirdly light feeling in her chest.

  The showers in Marine Country were blessedly close.

  She stripped in the locker room, stowed her clothes in an empty cubby, and stepped into the spray of one of the stalls. Hot water hammered down over her black fur. She closed her eyes and soaked in the heat of the shower, fingers working shampoo through her hair and along the base of her ears.

  Human shampoo had ruined her for Confederacy basics. This stuff smelled like citrus and cedar and left her fur with a glossy sheen that during one meal had made even Maelis grudgingly jealous.

  She took her time. The water sluiced the suds down her body, tracing the new, harder lines of her shoulders, the defined muscles of her abdomen, the powerful curve of her thighs. It was a strange, intimate discovery, re-learning her own form. Her hands followed the water's path, sliding over her own slick fur, a ghost of the way Eirik’s hands had mapped her the night before. A low warmth bloomed in her belly, a private heat that had nothing to do with the water's temperature. Conditioner, rinse, careful work through the thicker fur along her tail. By the time she stepped out, wrapped in a towel, she felt almost boneless.

  She pulled on a fresh set of underwear and her sweatpants, then sat down on the bench in front of the mirrors to brush out her tail properly. It took work now—denser fur over stronger muscle—but the result was worth it. The plume of her fluffy tail fell in a glossy arc when she lifted it, and Eirik made very specific appreciative noises whenever he ran his fingers through it.

  She was halfway through working out a stubborn tangle when a familiar voice cut in.

  “Well, well,” Sari said, tail-tips flicking. “Would you look at you.”

  Ralaen glanced up.

  Sari leaned against the next locker, still damp from her own shower, pink hair in a messy knot, ears perked. Maelis stood beside her, towel slung over one shoulder, arms folded, eyes running a frankly assessing line over Ralaen’s frame.

  Sari circled once, unabashed.

  “You’ve put on a lot of muscle,” she said, prodding gently at Ralaen’s shoulder, then upper arm. “Like, a lot. This is not the skinny little operator who showed up at J?tunheim.”

  Ralaen snorted. “Thanks. I think.”

  “It’s a compliment,” Sari said. “You look like you could pick up Hissthar and throw him down a hallway.”

  Maelis made a thoughtful noise. “It’s not just the arms,” she said. “Your legs, your back… and your chest.”

  Her gaze dropped, sharpening, and then she actually pointed.

  “Is that Victoria’s Secret?” she asked, dead serious. “Uppsalír branch. Midnight line. I practically lived in that shop on leave.”

  Ralaen’s ears went flat. She glanced down at herself, then back up. “I… may have replaced some of my old stuff,” she muttered.

  “Some,” Maelis echoed, snorting. “You were a small C during hell month. That cut was definitely not standard issue back then. That is not a C. You’ve gone up what, at least a size? Maybe two.”

  Ralaen felt heat rise under her fur. “The shop girls said I’m a double D now,” she admitted. “They also said if I kept trying to squeeze into the old ones, my back would revolt and my body would hate me forever.”

  Sari let out a delighted giggle. “Figures,” she said. “You disappear into some super-secret human ‘special training’ and come back with super strength, super stamina and super… curves.” She gestured expansively, a motion that took in her own truly formidable F-cup assets. “Welcome to the big leagues.”

  Maelis, who was sitting there in a modest C-cup sports bra, rolled her eyes but smiled. “Some of us are perfectly happy in the featherweight division,” she said, poking Ralaen’s side. “But you’re definitely not in that division anymore.”

  Sari reached out and gently traced the line of Ralaen's shoulder, her touch light and curious. "No, seriously," she said, her voice dropping to a more intimate murmur. "The power I get. But this..." She gestured vaguely at Ralaen's chest and hips. "This is a happy accident. You look incredible, Ral. Like you were carved from a block of obsidian and then polished by a master."

  Maelis’s gaze was less playful and more analytical, but no less intense. "It's the proportion," she said, her tone low and appreciative. "It's not just that you're bigger. It's that everything fits. The strength, the new curves... it's a cohesive package. You look dangerous and beautiful at the same time. It's a very potent combination."

  The genuine, unguarded admiration from both of them made something in Ralaen loosen, a knot of self-consciousness she hadn't even realized was there.

  “Thanks,” she said quietly, her ears flushing a darker shade of grey.

  Sari plopped down on the bench beside her, tails curling around her own ankles.

  “So,” she said, nudging Ralaen’s arm. “Did you ever send that message to your parents?”

  Ralaen blinked at her. “How did you—”

  “You think I can’t read that guilty ear twitch from across a mess hall?” Sari scoffed. “Eirik looked like someone had told him he wasn’t allowed to touch your tail anymore until you did. I put two and two together.”

  Artemis, deeply unrepentant, hummed agreement in the back of her mind.

  Ralaen sighed. “I sent it,” she said. “Told them I’m alive. Told them I’m… still with the humans. Still in the war. Not coming home yet.”

  “Did you tell them what you are now?” Maelis asked, more curious than judgmental.

  “Some of it,” Ralaen said. “That I’m still with human military units. That it’s dangerous. That I’m… further in than I was when I left. But not the details. Not Einherjar. Not yet.”

  Maelis’ gaze softened. “They’ll probably guess something is different,” she said. “Parents do that. But choosing when to tell them? That’s on your.”

  Ralaen stared down at her tail, brush paused halfway.

  “I think they’ll be scared,” she said finally. “For me. For what it means. For what it says about… where I belong.”

  “And where do you think you belong?” Sari asked, softer now.

  Ralaen opened her mouth.

  You belong here, Artemis said, the thought a quiet warmth blooming in the back of her mind, laced with an affection that felt as real as Eirik’s hand in hers. With your human. With your pack. With me.

  Ralaen shut her mouth again, ears flushing.

  “Here,” she said eventually. “For now, at least. Here feels… right.”

  Maelis nodded once, as if that answered something for her too.

  Sari bumped her shoulder lightly. “Then your parents will just have to cope with the fact that their pup went off and became terrifying,” she said. “We’ll all be very impressed on their behalf.”

  “Not terrifying,” Ralaen muttered.

  “Uh-huh,” Sari said. “You keep telling yourself that.”

  The locker-room door hissed open again and a couple of female human Jaegers wandered in, towels over their shoulders, mid-conversation.

  “…telling you, the deck gang in Bay Three swear it wasn’t a normal marine,” one of them was saying. “Big as hell, wolf’s head, glowing red eyes, digitigrade legs, tail. Looked like a damned werewolf in power armor.”

  Her buddy snorted. “There are no werewolves on this ship.”

  “That’s not what Hangar Chief Mikkelsen says. Whole crew down there’s calling it ‘the Draupnir werewolf’ now.”

  Both of them went abruptly quiet as they rounded the lockers and clocked Ralaen: stripped down to a sports bra and sweats, damp black fur still glossy from the shower, their eyes snapped to the Einherjar rune inked over her heart.

  One of the Jaegers did an obvious double-take. The other elbowed her hard, then they both pretended to be deeply fascinated by their own lockers.

  Sari’s tails twitched with barely contained laughter. Maelis’ mouth curved, just a little.

  Ralaen very carefully did not react, just went back to brushing out her tail like she hadn’t heard every word.

  Well, Artemis sighed, deeply amused, that’s one way to ensure the lower decks give you a wide berth. Public Relations are going to be thrilled_.

  Sari’s tails twitched with suppressed laughter.

  “Come on,” Maelis said, standing and slinging her towel into her locker. “If we don’t get back to the mess soon, Sari’s going to start interrogating you about your love life again.”

  “I am absolutely going to do that,” Sari said cheerfully. “Also, can you send me the exact brand of that shampoo later? Mine leaves my hair and fur all frizzy.”

  Ralaen gave her tail one last thorough stroke with the brush and stood.

  “Fine,” she said. “But if you start talking about breast sizes at the table, I’m putting you through a bulkhead.”

  Maelis smiled. “That’s the spirit.”

  They filed out into the corridor together, the noise and movement of Marine Country folding around them. Somewhere ahead there would be food and Eirik; somewhere far behind, in relay queues and FTL buffers, a message was finally on its way home.

  The worry sitting under her breastbone didn’t vanish. But it had shifted. Less like a weight, more like something she could carry without it crushing her.

  She walked on with her friends, the battlecruiser humming quietly around them, and for the first time since J?tunheim, the distance between who she’d been and who she was now felt… almost bearable.