Leaving the oath hall, Ralaen felt like her legs were full of static.

  Anastasia fell into step beside them, helm back under her arm, expression as calm as ever.

  “Back to the shuttle,” she said. “We’ll brief on the way.”

  They crossed old stone, then newer decking, the sounds of the palace fading behind them. The shuttle was waiting where they’d landed earlier, ramp down, engines on standby. Once they were buckled in and the craft lifted, Anastasia finally looked over at them properly.

  “First thing,” she said. “As of that oath, you’re no longer ‘candidates.’ You’re Einherjar. And you belong to me.”

  Ralaen’s ears twitched. Eirik blinked.

  “In an organizational sense,” Artemis added helpfully in her head, amused.

  Anastasia’s lips quirked. “My squad, specifically,” she went on. “Wolf Squad.”

  Ralaen stared at her. “…Seriously?”

  “Yes,” Anastasia said dryly. “The universe has a sense of humor.”

  There was a brief pause as Anastasia’s eyes unfocused slightly. A second later, Artemis dropped a packet into Ralaen’s awareness: a neat squad file, tagged with a header.

  WOLF SQUAD – ACTIVE

  Anastasia Dragomir [EHN-9921] – Squad Leader

  Thomas Kendricks [EHN-9947] – Breach / Heavy Support

  Eirik Andreassen [EHN-9973] – Recon / Marksman

  Ralaen [EHN-9974] – Assault / Close-In Specialist

  Ralaen ran a thumb over the fabric of her pants, grounding herself.

  That’s me, she thought, a little dazed. That number is me.

  That’s us, Artemis corrected gently. Get used to plural.

  “Now that we’re back up to full strength,” Anastasia continued, “we’ll be rotating forward as soon as integration clears. Likely deployment: one of the new battlecruisers joining the front. Current planning suggests Sixth Fleet. They’re making a mess of the Rilethi in theatre; we’re going to help them make a bigger one.”

  Ralaen felt a pulse of something that wasn’t quite fear and wasn’t quite excitement. Eirik’s jaw set with quiet resolve.

  The shuttle kissed down on Einherjar Command’s pad a short time later. As the ramp dropped, a soft ping brushed Ralaen’s awareness.

  Delivery notification, Artemis said. Your armor is here.

  Ralaen’s heart did a strange little jump. A half-second later, Eirik’s eyes unfocused in the same way; Apollo had clearly just passed along the same thing.

  Her tail betrayed her before she could clamp down on it, wagging once, then twice.

  Anastasia pretended not to see, but the corner of her mouth definitely twitched upward.

  “Go,” she said. “Armory. Get fitted and synced. Your AIs need to shake hands with the suits before I let you anywhere near a dropship.”

  Ralaen didn’t need telling twice.

  “Come on!” she tossed over her shoulder to Eirik, and then she was gone, boots hammering down the corridor, Artemis laughing in her head as she took a corner a little too fast.

  The armory smelled like oil, metal, and a thousand past maintenance cycles.

  Ralaen skidded to a halt just inside the doors, ears high, tail doing that treacherous, excited wiggle. One of the techs glanced up from where she was working on a suit—her suit, Ralaen realized with a jolt. The wolf-skull helm and digitigrade leg assembly were unmistakable, even half-open.

  The tech took in Ralaen’s posture and let out a short laugh.

  “Excited, are we?” she said. “Good. You’ll need that. Bodyglove first, though.”

  She jerked her chin toward an open armor rack. A neatly folded black bodyglove hung there, labeled with Ralaen’s ID.

  “You put that on before you get into the suit,” the tech said. “Locker room’s there.” She pointed at a door marked LOCKER ROOM. “Strip down completely. The glove needs full contact.”

  “Got it,” Ralaen said, grabbing the bodyglove.

  Yes, nude, Artemis reminded her, amused. No, underwear doesn’t count. The interface matrix won’t thank you.

  “Wasn’t asking,” Ralaen muttered under her breath, ears flicking as she pushed into the locker room.

  Inside, she found a locker with her name and new designation on it. The sight made something warm settle in her chest.

  She stripped quickly, folding her fatigues and stacking them in the locker. The cooler air slid over her, ruffling her coat and sending a pleasant prickle down her body. The bodyglove looked innocuous enough up close: sleek, matte fabric with faint, intricate circuitry woven through it.

  She stepped into it, carefully threading her tail through the reinforced tail-port in the back.

  The material was cool and slick against her inner thighs as she pulled it up her legs. It was a strange, liquid feeling, like being poured into a second skin. She pulled it over her hips, the fabric stretching and clinging, settling into place with a soft, sucking sound as she sealed it at her throat. It hugged every line of her.

  It wasn’t uncomfortable—if anything, it felt strangely right, like a firm second skin threading along muscle and bone—but there was no pretending it didn’t show almost everything. Curves, lines, new muscle definition from Ascension; all of it was mapped in smooth black.

  The material was so thin and form-fitting she could feel the texture of her own fur through it, a constant, maddening friction against her most sensitive places.

  This is your primary interface layer, Artemis explained. There are sensors and induction paths all through it. It talks to your bio-nanos, your neural interface, and the suit. Without it, you and the armor will be shouting at each other through a wall.

  Ralaen studied her reflection in a narrow strip of polished metal: black fur, black glove, faint traceries of circuitry like stylized runes over her limbs and torso. She looked like a weapon, sleek and deadly and undeniably female.

  The door behind her opened with a hiss.

  She heard the low whistle before she turned.

  Eirik was leaning against the frame of a nearby locker, still in his fatigues, eyes doing a very poor job of pretending not to devour the view. His gaze was a physical touch, tracing the lines of the suit, lingering on the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts. Heat rolled up Ralaen’s face, ears going hot.

  He has, in fact, seen you completely naked, Artemis pointed out, delighted. Multiple times. This is not new information for him.

  “That is completely beside the point,” Ralaen hissed, tail lashing once.

  “You look…” Eirik started, then trailed off, a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. “Dangerous.”

  He pushed off the locker and crossed the small space in two strides. He didn’t touch her, not yet. He just circled her slowly, his eyes appreciative. He stopped behind her, his gaze on the open tail-port. He reached out, his fingers just barely grazing the reinforced edge of the fabric where it met the base of her tail.

  “It’s… very form-fitting,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her.

  His knuckles brushed against the sensitive patch of fur along her lower back, just above the tail-port, and a shiver traced its way up her spine. The suit seemed to amplify the sensation, transmitting the heat of his touch directly to her nerves. She could feel herself growing slick, the slick fabric of the bodyglove suddenly feeling constricting and incredibly revealing.

  “You,” she managed, her voice a little breathless, jabbing a finger in his direction, “need to get changed. Now.”

  He caught her finger, his grip firm but gentle. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.

  “Or what?” he murmured. “You’ll arrest me?”

  She fled before her embarrassment—and her arousal—could get any worse, ears burning, Artemis chuckling helplessly in the back of her mind.

  Back in the armory, the tech looked up again as Ralaen emerged.

  “Better,” she said approvingly. “I’m Tina, by the way. You break it, I’m the one who swears at you.”

  She turned and slapped the side of the armor frame she’d been working on. Up close, it was even more imposing.

  “This,” Tina said, something like pride in her voice, “is your personal Mj?lnir Mk.4. Asuari variant. Callsign: Wolf.”

  The armor loomed over Ralaen: battlesteel chest, reinforced joints, digitigrade leg assemblies ending in broad paw-boots with integrated claws. The segmented tail assembly coiled behind it like a poised serpent. The wolf-skull helmet sat on a nearby stand, eyes dark for now, articulated ears folded back.

  Tina tapped a few commands on her tablet.

  “Hatch,” she said.

  The backplates of the suit retracted with smooth mechanical precision, panels sliding apart and back into recesses along the flanks and spine until the rear of the armor was an open shell. Actuators hummed quietly, exposing the inner padding layer: dense, dark, contoured to an Asuari frame, with faint contact nodes where armor and bodyglove would meet.

  “Your chariot awaits,” Tina added, grinning. “Step in, nice and steady. The suit will grab the rest.”

  Ralaen swallowed, exhaled once.

  “Here goes,” she muttered.

  She stepped forward into the open shell, guided by tiny alignment prompts from Artemis. One foot, then the other sank into the padded boots; her calves and thighs slid into close-fitting channels that compressed gently around the bodyglove. She leaned her weight into the chest padding, feeling it mold to her ribs and torso as pads along her hips and shoulders snugged in, holding her in the correct position.

  Then the suit moved.

  The backplates glided forward again, sliding back into place behind her in overlapping layers. As they closed, a line of contact nodes along her spine found their mates in the suit: she felt a series of small, precise clicks and a cool, tingling pressure as each spinal joint seated and locked into place. Side seams sealed and shoulder segments settled with a series of soft, solid clacks. The padding hugged in for a heartbeat, then eased as the systems equalised pressure, leaving her held firmly but comfortably in place. The weight settled, then redistributed itself, servos coming fully online in a low mechanical purr.

  And then— the connection hit. It was different from the interface, different from Artemis. A third presence, not a mind but a body, slid into place around her awareness. For the first time since the Crown, her body felt whole. The armor didn't just augment her; it completed the picture. The last phantom echoes of the trial that had tried to break her—the memory of the broken leg, the shredded nerves, the hollowed-out void of her own mind—vanished. The servos didn't just assist her muscles; they sang in harmony with them, filling in the gaps, mending the breaks, and making her stronger than she had been before the trials even began. The floor under her boots didn't just feel present; it felt obvious, like it was directly under her own paws. Her fingers—claws encased in armored gauntlets—didn’t feel gloved. They felt like her fingers, just… tougher.

  Handshake complete, Artemis said, satisfaction humming through her. Mj?lnir systems online. Hello, big girl.

  Tina stepped up and handed her the helm.

  “Best part,” the tech said. “Try not to drop it.”

  The helmet unfolded along hidden seams as Ralaen took it. She lifted it, lined it up with cues only she and Artemis could see, and slid it down over her head.

  The world narrowed briefly to darkness and the soft clack of seals engaging.

  Then everything lit up.

  Data cascaded across her awareness, too fast to track. Suit status. Power levels. External feeds. Environmental readings. Comms routing. Artemis pounced on them instantly, sorting and filtering before they could turn into noise.

  Easy, Artemis murmured. I’ve got it.

  The HUD stabilised.

  Clean, clear overlays settled into her vision. A faint compass ring at the top. Range and ID tags hovering near heat sources and transponders. Outline highlights on doors and structural weak points. A minimap unfurled in the corner of her vision, updating with every micro-movement of her head.

  She thought about moving the compass, and it shifted left. Whoa, hold on, Artemis snapped, her tone suddenly all business. That's a direct neural impulse. I'm not used to you having that kind of pull yet. Let me lock the controls before you decide the minimap looks better on your kneepad.

  “Sorry,” Ralaen said, immediately trying to shove elements back where they’d been. “It just—”

  She took a step.

  It was… wrong for one half-second and then very, very right.

  The weight of the armor was there, but it wasn’t on her. Mj?lnir’s servos and her augmented muscles meshed, turning the motion into something fluid and natural. No lag. No sense of piloting a vehicle. Just a heavier version of her own body.

  “This is—” she started.

  “Don’t say ‘awesome’ in my armory,” Tina warned. “I’ll never hear the end of it from the others.”

  Ralaen grinned behind the wolf-skull. She was pretty sure it made the look worse, not better.

  “This is so awesome,” she finished anyway.

  She shifted her weight, rolled a shoulder, flexed her hand, testing range of motion. The armor responded like it had been born on her.

  “Woah there, tiger,” Tina said, putting a hand on a console. “If you’re going to go full ‘kids in a powerloader,’ do it on the training field, not in here. Through that door.”

  She pointed at a heavy blast door on the far side of the armory. TRAINING FIELD was stencilled over it in big, practical letters.

  Ralaen gave her a jaunty two-fingered salute with one clawed gauntlet.

  “Copy that.”

  She turned, boots thumping a little heavier than her own paws would have, and headed for the door.

  The blast door cycled open with a deep thud and a hiss of equalising pressure.

  Beyond it lay a training field that made the Jaeger courses back on J?tunheim look like playground equipment.

  Multi-level obstacles. Wall runs. Grav-adjustable sections. Moving cover. Live-fire lanes with impact-suppressing barriers. Sim emitters and target drones hanging idle, waiting to wake up.

  Ralaen felt a laugh bubble up in her chest.

  Go on, Artemis said, warm with shared excitement. Let’s see what the wolf can do.

  Ralaen dropped into a run, armor and AI and Asuari finally moving as one, and hit the course at full speed.

  After one full lap of the course, Ralaen was grinning like a maniac behind the wolf-skull. She’d already learned one important lesson: Mj?lnir plus Phase IV muscles equals “do not touch fragile things.” Two posts on the balance run were now slightly less straight than they’d been before.

  She dropped off the final platform, boots thudding into the mat, when the door from the armory cycled again.

  Another Einherjar stepped out in Mk.4.

  Her HUD instantly splashed an ID tag above the skull-faced helm:

  EHN-9973 – EINHERJAR ANDREASSEN, EIRIK

  She slid to a stop so fast the servos whined in protest, then trotted over, segmented tail armor betraying every flick of her excitement.

  We see him, Artemis said dryly. Your tail is broadcasting in five languages.

  “This is so awesome,” Ralaen blurted as she got close enough, and threw her clawed gauntlets around him in a hug, careful—this time—not to put full power behind it.

  Eirik chuckled, the sound coming filtered but warm through external mics. “I see my wolf likes her new toy,” he said.

  Artemis giggled in the back of her mind.

  Ralaen puffed her cheeks, which the helmet thankfully hid. “It is not a toy,” she muttered, then regrouped. “Race me?”

  He tilted his head, skull-plate giving nothing away, but his body language read dubious.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “You’ve already had a practice run. I’m at a disadvantage here.”

  Ralaen rolled her eyes. “Fine, big strong human like you can have a head start if you really need one,” she said, voice dripping sarcasm.

  Artemis burst into outright laughter. Rude. Accurate, but rude.

  Eirik snorted. “No head start,” he said. “We go even.”

  “Deal,” Ralaen said. “Loser owes the winner a favor. Anything they ask.”

  “Anything?” he asked, a shade too innocent.

  She hesitated just long enough for him—and Artemis—to notice. “Anything,” she confirmed.

  Logging this for later, Artemis said.

  They took their places at the start line: two armored figures, side by side, the training field ahead of them a jagged forest of steel, grav plates, and bad ideas.

  Countdown on my mark, Artemis said.

  Linked, Apollo replied on a shared channel Ralaen could feel more than hear.

  3… 2… 1… GO.

  They launched.

  The first obstacle was a staggered series of low barriers and raised plates over a grav-irregular lane. Patches of heavier and lighter gravity rippled across it in invisible waves.

  Ralaen hit it at a sprint, letting Artemis paint “heavy” and “light” zones in her HUD. She bounced from plate to plate, using low-g spots to lengthen her stride, high-g patches to dig in and vault. Eirik stayed just off her shoulder, taking a more conservative line, boots landing with solid, efficient precision.

  Next came the wall run: a pair of angled surfaces curving up and around, forming a half-pipe studded with holds. They had to cross it without touching the floor.

  Ralaen hit the wall, claws scraping for grip as Mj?lnir’s servos helped her push up and sideways. For a glorious second she felt like she was sprinting sideways along a cliff, tail acting as counterweight. She kicked off a handhold, flipped to the opposite wall, and heard Eirik’s armored boots hit the surface just behind her.

  They dropped off the far edge into a rolling series of horizontal bars and hanging plates: monkey bars crossed with a wind chime. The grav here was nudged a little high to make it hurt.

  Ralaen grabbed the first bar, swung, let go, snatched the next. The suit made her feel light, but she could hear the stress creak in the metal when she caught herself; she consciously moderated her grip so she didn’t rip anything off the frame. Eirik took a slightly faster swing line, boots tucked, using momentum like he’d been born in these courses.

  Obstacle four: a live-fire lane with moving cover. Drones popped up along the sides, spitting nonlethal training rounds that still hit hard enough to bruise. Slabs of mobile cover slid back and forth on tracks.

  “Go wide,” Artemis advised. Left cover has the better timing.

  Ralaen darted from slab to slab, pulses of simulated fire sparking against her shields. She timed a dash between two crossing pieces of cover, slid, bounced up, and cleared the last barrier—

  —and then hit the fifth obstacle wrong.

  It was a series of upright post-columns with narrow gaps, meant to be threaded at speed. She misjudged a turn, her armored hip clipping one of the posts. It didn’t so much yield as lose an argument with momentum. Brace! Artemis yelped, a split-second, instinctual warning. The post bent with an ugly metallic groan, and she pinwheeled into the next one, denting it.

  “Ow,” she grunted, more from pride than pain.

  Field integrity: still acceptable, Artemis reported blandly. Post integrity: less so.

  Behind her, Eirik vaulted the damaged section with a clean, economical leap, landing beyond the smashed-in post and using the opening she’d unintentionally created. On the shared channel, Apollo’s voice was a cool counterpoint: Efficient. Use her mistakes.

  She pushed off the twisted metal, got her feet under her, and took off again.

  The next stretch was a vertical scramble: modular walls with varying grips, a quick haul up, a jump across a gap, then a fireman’s pole drop. She climbed fast, claws digging into armored holds, hauled herself over the lip, and launched off.

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

  She was closing the distance. Eirik’s transponder bobbed in her HUD a few meters ahead, his path neat and disciplined where hers was a little more chaotic but just as determined.

  Final leg: balance beams over a grav-shifted pit, then a mad dash to the finish.

  She took the beams at speed. The first time, she’d overcompensated and bent one when her foot came down too hard. This time she let Artemis modulate micro-corrections through the servos, letting the suit smooth out her overpowered instincts. She kept the beam intact—and gained a little ground—but Eirik still hit the last stretch half a heartbeat before her.

  They sprinted for the line, Mj?lnir systems giving everything they had.

  Eirik crossed it a stride ahead.

  He threw both armored fists up, then punched the air once. “Alright!” he whooped, external speakers booming. “Winner.”

  Ralaen skidded to a stop beside him, breathing hard more from habit than necessity. Her HUD calmly informed her she was well within safe exertion parameters.

  They’d agreed beforehand: winner had the right to ask the loser for anything.

  Eirik stepped closer, wolf-skull to skull-mask, and dropped his voice. One of his gauntlets came up to rest on her waist, the touch impersonal through the armor but the intent incredibly personal. He leaned in so his external speaker was right next to her audio pickup.

  “Tonight,” he said, tone low and smug, “I get to give you a foot massage.”

  A shiver ran up her spine that had nothing to do with cold or fear.

  Asuari feet were… sensitive. Very sensitive. Almost as sensitive as the base of their tails. Eirik had discovered that early on, and he liked how soft the pads were, how the fur between her toes fluffed under his fingers.

  “No… anything but that,” she groaned. “You know how sensitive my feet are.”

  “Up-up-up,” he said, wagging a finger. “You know the rules. Loser has to do what the winner says.”

  She exhaled, defeated. “Fine.”

  This is going to be entertaining, Artemis purred. For me.

  They ran a few more drills and weapons tests to get used to the suits—short sprints, snap turns, live-fire bursts down the range—before returning the armor to the armory. She’d learned that some of the techs called it “the morgue” when they thought the Einherjar weren’t listening. Tina took her Mk.4 back with the fond exasperation of someone putting a very large, very dangerous pet into its kennel. “No dents I can’t buff,” she said. “Try not to add too many more tomorrow.” Ralaen and Eirik hit the mess afterwards, still in their fatigues, trays loaded down with the kind of calorie bombs Ascension-phase Einherjar needed just to break even. Ralaen’s tail betrayed her anticipation for their “evening activity,” swishing slowly under the bench, the tip occasionally thumping against the metal leg. Oh, you are utterly doomed, Artemis sang in her head, a note of pure, unadulterated glee in her mental voice.

  Back in their shared quarters, the door hissed shut, sealing them in. Eirik didn’t say a word. He just gave her a look— a slow, predatory smile that promised retribution of the most pleasurable kind. He sat on the edge of the bunk and patted his thigh. “Feet,” he said, his voice a low, commanding rumble. Ralaen groaned, a sound of pure theatrical protest, but she obeyed. She stretched out on her side, planting her paws in his lap, the black fur of her legs a stark contrast against the drab fabric of his fatigues.

  He started with her right paw, his touch reverent. His hands, still calloused from the day’s drills, were warm against her. He began gently, his thumbs working slow, firm circles into the thick, leathery pads of her paw. The sensation was immediate and electric. A jolt of pure pleasure shot up her leg, coiling deep in her gut. His fingers slipped between her toes, his touch deliberately light as he stroked the incredibly sensitive, softer fur there, making her whole body twitch.

  “Eirik…” she warned, her voice already gone husky, tight with need.

  “Bet’s a bet,” he said, entirely too pleased with himself. He shifted his attention to the delicate bones and tendons, his touch firm and knowing. Each press, each stroke, sent another shivery wave of heat through her. She was panting, her claws flexing unconsciously, long before he was half done with the first paw.

  Oh my, Artemis murmured, a sound of dawning, wicked comprehension. Oh, I see. This is… far better than tactical data.

  He moved to her left paw, giving it the same meticulous, torturous attention. By now, Ralaen was a mess of simmering arousal. The air in the room felt thick, charged. Every nerve ending was on fire. She could feel the damp heat pooling between her thighs, a desperate, aching need that had nothing to do with the day's exertion.

  He finished, his hands still cupping her paws. He looked down at her, his grey-blue eyes dark with desire, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips. "All done," he said softly.

  Something in her chest pulled tight, then snapped.

  With a low growl that had nothing to do with combat, Ralaen moved. In a blur of enhanced speed, she pounced, knocking him flat onto his back. She landed on top of him, her knees pinning his shoulders, her paw-hands pressing against his chest. She loomed over him, her lips pulled back in a snarl that was all hunger, her tail lashing behind her.

  “You,” she growled, her voice a low, dangerous rasp, “are a tease.”

  “And you,” he shot back, his hands coming up to grip her hips, his eyes blazing with excitement, “are a sore loser.”

  She leaned down, her muzzle an inch from his mouth. “Make me,” she whispered.

  That was all the invitation he needed. He surged up, flipping them with a display of raw strength that stole her breath. Suddenly he was on top, his weight a delicious, grounding pressure. He didn't give her a chance to recover. He captured her mouth in a searing, possessive kiss, his tongue delving deep, claiming her. His hands were everywhere, tearing at the fastenings of her fatigues, yanking them down over her hips.

  The cool air of the room hit her heated skin, and she arched up into him, a desperate, silent plea. He obliged, his hand sliding between her thighs, his fingers finding her slick and ready. He didn't tease. He drove two fingers into her, his thumb finding her clit and circling it with a ruthless, expert pressure that had her crying out, her claws digging into the blankets.

  She came apart in seconds, a sharp, explosive orgasm that ripped through her, leaving her trembling and breathless. But he didn't stop. He worked her through it, drawing out the pleasure until she was a writhing, whimpering mess beneath him. Only then did he release her, rising up to shuck his own pants with frantic haste.

  He settled back over her, hooking her legs over his arms. He looked down at her, his expression fierce, intense. Then he drove into her, hard and deep. The sensation was overwhelming, a perfect, stretching fullness that pushed a gasp from her lips. He set a punishing, relentless rhythm, each stroke a declaration of his victory, a fulfillment of the promise his touch had made all evening. The room was filled with the sounds of their harsh breaths, the slap of skin on skin, and the creak of the bunk.

  The second orgasm built slower, a deep, rolling tide of pleasure that crested and broke over her in a wave that left her utterly wrecked. He followed her over the edge with a guttural groan, his body tensing as he found his own release deep inside her.

  He collapsed on top of her, his weight a welcome anchor. They lay there for a long time, their hearts hammering against each other's ribs, their bodies slick with sweat. Slowly, the frantic energy receded, replaced by a profound, bone-deep satisfaction.

  For the record, Artemis said smugly, her mental voice radiating pure satisfaction, this is my favorite use of Mj?lnir downtime so far.

  Ralaen just laughed, breathless and happy, and didn’t bother to argue.

  The next two days blurred in a very specific way: armor, drills, sweat, repeat.

  Wolf Squad lived on the training fields.

  They ran solo courses first—get a feel for moving as one person in one suit, no network to lean on. Ralaen learned how to brake before hitting walls this time. She practiced bounding overwatch alone, tracking simulated contacts while Artemis painted arcs and threat cones. Eirik did precision marksman runs, snapping from target to target while Apollo quietly adjusted for wind and drift. Thomas was a natural at heavy breaching like he’d been born with a ram in his hands. Anastasia floated through every drill like she and her armor had grown up together.

  Then they flipped the switch.

  Squad link mode.

  One moment it was just Ralaen and Artemis. The next, three more presences joined—Apollo, Anastasia’s AI, Thomas’s—tying four Einherjar and their AIs into one tightly braided thread. Ralaen’s HUD shifted subtly, elements rearranging to make room for three new icons: WOLF-1, -2, -3, pulsing with distance, status, and direction.

  It felt like a sixth sense had been bolted onto her soul.

  She stood at the start of the kill-house, her Mk.4 armor snug around her, rifle at low ready. The door in front of her was marked BREACH 1.

  Link up, Anastasia said across the squad net. Wolf Squad, stack and clear.

  Ralaen didn’t have to look.

  She knew Eirik was on her right—his icon hugging her flank at one meter, status green, rifle up. She knew Thomas was just behind and left, heavy weapon angled to cover the far corner. She knew Anastasia was one room over, behind the interior wall, already ghosting toward BREACH 2 to hit the next chamber in sync.

  The awareness wasn’t words or pictures. It was just there, like knowing where her own limbs were.

  “Breach,” Anastasia said.

  Ralaen hit the door.

  It blew inward on a tightly controlled charge, fragments pinging harmlessly off armor. She flowed in low and left, muzzle already tracking to her assigned sector. She knew without checking that Eirik was slicing right, clearing his pie; she didn’t have to confirm that Anastasia had gone through the next door because her sixth sense told her exactly when Wolf-1 vanished from this room’s geometry and appeared in the next.

  Targets popped—holo-silhouettes of Rilethi, hostage markers, no-shoots.

  Wolf Squad moved like they’d been doing it for years.

  Another drill was all verticality: grav plates set to varying levels, multi-story scaffolding, rappels and assisted jumps. Ralaen sprinted up an incline, hit a low-grav patch, and let the suit’s servos kick her up onto a catwalk two stories above. Thomas on overwatch, her linked sense told her; she could feel his position like a pressure mark in space. When Anastasia called a coordinated drop, they stepped off ledges in staggered rhythm, landing in a staggered arc around the target zone, weapons covering every lane of approach without needing to shout positions.

  They ran live-fire with Jaeger Marines, too.

  One scenario had Wolf Squad acting as a spearhead element for a Marine platoon. Ralaen pushed up the center of a ruined-street sim, her armor soaked in sim-fire and explosions that translated into manageable haptics. While she moved, she felt Jaeger positions as blips fed through command overlays. Anastasia’s voice was calm in their ears, calling shifts.

  “Wolf-3, punch left, clear that breach. Wolf-4, cover Wolf-3. Marines Bravo and Charlie, advance on my mark.”

  Ralaen kicked through the gap, cleared the room, and knew before she saw it that Eirik was shouldering into position on her right, muzzle already covering the doorway to her twelve. It was intoxicating, that sense of never being alone, of the squad moving as one body with eight hands and four brains.

  By the end of the second day, she was exhausted in the good way—muscles pleasantly used, armor systems warm with constant work, AIs humming contentedly in the back of their minds.

  They were stripping out of their suits in the armory when the orders hit.

  It came as a soft chime in her head and a flicker of a new message from Anastasia. Artemis opened it without being asked and splashed the contents into Ralaen’s awareness.

  POSTING: BATTLECRUISER DRAUPNIR Hull Number: BC-662-J Attached forces: Wolf Squad (Einherjar), additional Einherjar squad [Cobra], 1x Jaeger Marine battalion Departure: +1 day, 0900 local Destination: Sixth Fleet, forward theatre

  Anastasia’s voice followed on the squad net. “You’ve all seen it,” she said. “We ship out tomorrow. Pack what you need. Say your goodbyes. Muster at pad four at zero-eight-hundred. Questions can wait until we’re aboard.”

  She cut the channel.

  Ralaen stood there for a moment, bodyglove half-peeled off, feeling the words settle. The cool air of the armory suddenly felt colder, the half-peeled bodyglove like a cage she couldn't get out of fast enough. For a moment, the hum of the armory’s life support sounded like the hiss of a ship’s hull breaching in vacuum.

  Battlecruiser. Sixth Fleet. Forward theatre.

  It felt… real. More real than any sim, any plan. They weren’t training for some abstract future anymore. They were about to be on the front.

  Back in their quarters, packing didn't take long. Her entire life outside of armor fit into one duffel: spare fatigues, PT gear, a datapad, and a few small personal things she barely remembered acquiring between Jaeger hell-month and Ascension. She stared at the half-empty bag. It looked pathetic.

  "That's it?" she said, the words quiet. "I don't own anything. Not one thing that isn't issued."

  Eirik looked up from his own bag, which was already zipped shut. "You have my hoodie."

  "That doesn't count," she said, a little too quickly. "I can't visit a station wearing nothing but issued kit and your old hoodie. I need… clothes. For existing." She trailed off, her ears flattening. "I haven't gone shopping since I left home."

  A small silence filled the room. "Then we fix that," Eirik said simply.

  Ralaen sent a request to Anastasia over the net before her nerve could fail. Requesting leave to nearest habitation for personal gear acquisition. Back before sundown.

  The reply came back almost instantly. Approved. Back by sundown. Try not to start a war.

  Ralaen blinked. That’s it? she sent privately to Eirik.

  He just shrugged, slinging his duffel over his shoulder. "We're Einherjar now. We're assets, not line units. A captain can request our presence, not order it. We answer to the Allfather and the Norns. Everyone else makes suggestions."

  I did not forget, Ralaen muttered, though she addressed Artemis as much as him. I just haven't lived it yet.

  You're about to, Artemis chimed in, her mental voice dry. Starting with a mandatory shopping expedition.

  The shuttle down was an hour’s hop in a small atmospheric skimmer. The town was big enough for proper streets and crowds, small enough that the sight of two off-duty Einherjar drew stares and a few people subtly reaching for their phones. Ralaen tried not to fidget.

  Artemis chose that moment to dump the contents of her ásveldi defense payroll account into her awareness with great glee. You have been getting paid, the AI announced. Quite well. Combat pay, hazard modifiers, Einherjar classification bonus. You have not spent a single credit.

  Ralaen stared at the number, then blinked again. "That's… a lot."

  Correct, Artemis said. So, within reason, buy what you want. I’ll handle the logistics.

  Ralaen decided not to look any closer. "Okay. Clothes first."

  The shop was a sensory assault. Ralaen’s ears swiveled, trying to filter the overlapping conversations, the thumping music from a distant speaker, and the whir of automated racks. Her bright blue eyes darted from one hanging mass of fabric to the next. On Asuar, clothing was a binary: formal wear or a daily jumpsuit. This was chaos.

  After a frustrating half-hour trying on standard-fit pants that pulled wrong at her digitigrade legs or offered no accommodation for her tail, Ralaen let out a sigh that was equal parts frustration and defeat.

  Eirik, leaning against the wall outside the fitting room, pushed off. "Alright, that's enough of this." He walked onto the sales floor and flagged down a passing clerk—a woman with a tired but efficient air. "Excuse me," he began, his tone polite but direct. "Do you have anything for non-standard morphologies?"

  The clerk followed his gaze to the fitting rooms, where Ralaen was just emerging, looking defeated. A wry, knowing smile touched the woman's lips. "We do," she said, her voice lowering conspiratorially. "But our off-the-rack selection is pathetic. What you want is the loom."

  She led them to a quiet corner where a large, humming machine stood behind a glass panel. "It's expensive," she warned, "but it can spit out any design in the store, custom-printed to a body scan. Takes about ten minutes."

  Ralaen stared at the machine, then at the racks. The sheer volume of it was overwhelming.

  "Okay," Eirik said gently, seeing her hesitation. "What's the most basic thing you'd wear?"

  "A jumpsuit," she said automatically, her ears flattening slightly with the memory of a simpler wardrobe.

  He nodded, like that's exactly the answer he expected. "Right. So let's find the Earth equivalent of the bottom half of that." He pulled a pair of dark denim jeans from a rack. "These. Let's get the machine to make you a pair that fits."

  The process was a revelation in its sheer simplicity. On Asuar, getting a new jumpsuit meant waiting weeks for a garment that was "close enough." Here, she stood on the platform for thirty seconds as light washed over her. Ten minutes later, a machine produced a pair of pants that were made for her. Not for a general body type, but for the specific, unique geometry of her own frame. The fit was flawless, the reinforced tail opening seamless. It was a level of personalization she had never experienced outside of her custom-fitted armor.

  From there, a new world opened up. Eirik became her guide, a patient translator for this strange language of Earth fashion.

  "Okay, so you have the pants," he said, pointing. "Now you need a top."

  He led her to a wall of folded shirts. She ran a hand over a soft, grey t-shirt. It was so simple, so purposeless. It wasn't armor. It wasn't a uniform. It was just a piece of fabric. She noted how the fabric clung a bit more to her thicker shoulders and chest than she was used to, a constant reminder of how much her body had changed.

  "I like this," she said, her voice quiet.

  "Good. Get a few. Now try this." He handed her a thick, heavy cable-knit sweater.

  Ralaen took the garment, her fingers sinking into the thick wool. She gave him a flat look. "Eirik. I have fur."

  He gave her a deadpan stare, completely unimpressed. "It's for when it's cold."

  She blinked. "I'm Asuari. We're from an arid world. It doesn't get 'cold'."

  "On Earth, it does," he said, his voice flat. "Trust me. You'll want this."

  Still skeptical, she pulled the sweater on. The weight of it was immediate, a comforting, enveloping pressure that was entirely different from the insulation of her own short, dense fur. The heavy material settled over her broader shoulders and the solid muscle of her back, a barrier against the world that had nothing to do with biology. It felt… safe.

  She pushed the thick collar down from where it was bunched up near the black fur of her chin. "Okay," she conceded, her tail giving a single, soft swish behind her. "This too."

  They were heading down the street, arms full of bags containing the building blocks of a new identity, when Ralaen stopped dead. The shop window in front of her was full of mannequins in lace, silk, and satin. On Asuar, what was worn under a jumpsuit was as functional as the jumpsuit itself. This was… art. A secret language of intimacy she didn't even know existed.

  "I want to go in there," she said, her voice filled with a new kind of wonder.

  Eirik looked at the display, then at her. "Of course you do," he said, his voice soft.

  The bell above the door chimed a soft, melodic note. The air inside was warm and smelled of vanilla and something floral, a scent so alien it made her nose twitch. It was a world away from the sterile, functional undergarment dispensary on Asuar, where you selected a size based on a simple chest measurement and a fabric grade. This was a boutique.

  A clerk with a perfectly tailored black dress and a warm, disarming smile approached them. Her voice, when she spoke, was a slow, melodic drawl. "Welcome. Can I help y'all find somethin'?"

  Ralaen just stared, her ears perked with curiosity and her tail giving a nervous flick behind her. She had no idea where to even begin. On Asuar, a bra was a bra—a one-size-fits-all stretch garment that offered basic support. The concept of different sizes was as foreign as the concept of dresses.

  Eirik, looking deeply out of his element, just gestured vaguely. "She needs… everything."

  The clerk’s smile widened. "Of course, sugar. We see a lot of out-of-system clients. The first step is always a fitting. If you'll just come with me?" She beckoned to a younger woman standing discreetly by a rack of silk robes. "Amber, honey, could you prep the Intimate Loom for a new scan?"

  The younger woman, Amber, nodded and moved efficiently toward a secluded area of the store, leaving the lead clerk to guide them.

  She led them toward the same area, now being set up by Amber. "Our standard sizing charts are, shall we say, human-centric," she explained, her voice professional and kind. "But we have a solution for that."

  Amber pulled back a curtain to reveal the smaller, more delicate loom. "The Intimate Loom," the lead clerk said. "It provides a perfect fit, but it's significantly more expensive. For a first-time fitting with us, the scan and the first three custom pieces are complimentary."

  Ralaen looked at the machine, then at the clerk. "You have to scan me?"

  "It's how we get it perfect, darlin'," the clerk said gently. "But before we do, I find it's always better to do it hands-on. To learn the language of your own body. May I?"

  Ralaen gave a hesitant nod.

  What followed was the most educational, and frankly most intimate, ten minutes of her life. The lead clerk was a master of her craft, with Amber acting as a silent, efficient shadow, ready with a tape measure or a new sample at a moment's notice.

  "Oh, sugar," the clerk said, her voice a warm, slow drawl as she took in Ralaen’s frame. "You are just poured into the wrong size, aren't you? We can see all that spillage from here." It wasn't an accusation, just a statement of fact wrapped in honey.

  "Let's start from scratch, honey. You just forget whatever size you think you are."

  The clerk took the tape measure from Amber. "Okay, let's start with the band," she said, her hands professional but firm as she wrapped it around Ralaen’s ribcage. "This is the foundation. It needs to be snug. Eighty-five centimeters. Amber, note that down."

  Ralaen stood stiffly, her soldier's posture warring with a profound sense of awkwardness.

  "Now for the cup," the clerk continued, moving the tape. "We measure across the fullest part… and we've got ourselves a twenty-centimeter difference from the band, sugar." She paused. "That puts you at a Double D, at least. On Earth, anyway."

  "Double D?" Ralaen repeated, the sound foreign in her mouth. Before the overdrive regimen and the Ascension program, she would have been a 'C cup,' though she didn't know the term. This new measurement was for a body she didn't entirely recognize.

  "It's just a number, sweetpea," the clerk assured her. "Amber, you can start the scan."

  Once the manual measurements were noted, the clerk guided Ralaen onto the platform. Amber operated the controls, and the light scan was quick, confirming the numbers and creating a 3D model on a nearby screen.

  "Perfect," the clerk said, tapping the screen. "Amber, let's get a simple black t-shirt bra first."

  The machine whirred, and Amber presented the newly made garment. The lead clerk took it from her and helped Ralaen put it on, fastening the band at her back. "Okay, now the most important part," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "You just lean forward for me, darlin'."

  Ralaen complied, her movements stiff and unsure.

  "That's it. Now, take your hands," the clerk guided, "and just… scoop." She placed her own hands on the sides of Ralaen’s breasts. "You're gonna gently lift everything forward and up, makin' sure it's all sittin' pretty inside the cup. Don't you be shy now."

  The touch was clinical, but it was shockingly personal. Ralaen flinched, her ears flattening for a second before she forced herself to relax. No one had ever touched her like this, with a purpose that was neither medical nor hostile. She followed the clerk's lead, her own claws carefully retracted as she performed the strange, intimate gesture.

  "There you go," the clerk praised as Ralaen straightened up. "Now stand up real straight and adjust those shoulder straps so they sit snug, not loose. Just like that."

  Ralaen did so. The difference was staggering. The weight of her chest was suddenly, effortlessly supported.

  "How does that feel, sweetpea?" the clerk asked.

  Ralaen shifted her shoulders, testing the fit. "It… doesn't feel like anything."

  "That's the goal, honey," the clerk laughed, giving her a warm, genuine smile. "That's what perfect support feels like. It should feel like nothin' at all."

  "Now for the fun part," the clerk said, her eyes twinkling. She began pulling pieces from the racks, holding them up against Ralaen’s fur. A deep crimson balconette bra with delicate lace trim. A matching set in a sapphire blue that made her eyes seem to glow.

  Artemis was no help at all. That one, the AI suggested, highlighting a sheer, violet babydoll set. And that one. And—oh, that would absolutely murder him.

  Ralaen’s ears burned hot under her black fur, a telltale flush of embarrassment she couldn't hide. But when the Southern belle clerk held up a matching sapphire blue set, the color so vivid it made her own eyes seem to glow, Ralaen didn't dismiss it. She didn't put it back. For the first time, she wasn't choosing for comfort or function. She was choosing because it was beautiful.

  By the time they left the lingerie shop, Eirik had passed through discomfort, into amusement, and out the other side into a sort of shell-shocked appreciation. Ralaen led the way out, her steps energized, her tail giving a happy, confident swish behind her. She took three steps onto the pavement and stopped dead, her ears perking in alarm. She looked down at her own feet, still clad in the standard-issue, soft-soled black boots from her duty uniform.

  "Eirik," she said, her voice flat.

  He stopped beside her, following her gaze. "What's wrong?"

  "My feet," she stated, as if it were obvious. "Everything else is new. My feet are still issued."

  He looked from her boots to the bags in his hands and a slow, knowing grin spread across his face. "Well, we can't have that. A new wardrobe deserves new shoes."

  Finding shoes, however, proved to be an even greater challenge than finding pants. Every store they entered was a maze of footwear designed for plantigrade feet. Ralaen was starting to get that same defeated look she'd had in the first clothing store.

  "Alright, new plan," Eirik said, pulling out his datapad. "Standard retail is a bust. We're going custom." He tapped a few times, bringing up a local directory. "There's a cobbler—old-school, but he does specialist work. Exosuit fittings, prosthetics integration... non-standard morphologies. He's our guy."

  The shop was tiny, smelling of rubber, glue, and ozone. An old man with a thick gray beard and cybernetic eyes looked up from a workbench. He didn't blink at the sight of them.

  "Einherjar," he grunted. "What do you need?"

  "Shoes," Eirik said. "For her."

  The cobbler's cybernetic eyes whirred as he scanned Ralaen from head to toe, lingering on her legs and feet. "Digitigrade. Full paw. Reinforced tendons. You put a lot of stress on the ball of your foot." He looked from her to Eirik. "One pair won't do. You'll need at least three."

  Ralaen looked at the cobbler, then at Eirik, surprised.

  Eirik just shrugged. "He's the expert."

  "I can afford it," Ralaen said, her chin lifting slightly.

  The cobbler grinned, showing a mouth full of metal teeth. "I like you. Up on the stand. I'll scan you for all three at once."

  The fitting was quick and brutal. The cobbler scanned her feet, then knelt, pulling out a collection of strange tools. He prodded the pads of her paws, ran a calloused hand along her tendons, and grunted as he measured the angle of her ankle joints. He didn't speak to her, only to himself, muttering about flex points and stress fractures. He worked with an intense, focused economy, like a field medic patching up a soldier.

  "Come back in three hours," he said, shooing them out. "They'll be ready."

  They returned exactly three hours later. Laid out on the workbench were three distinct pairs of footwear.

  First, the running shoes. Charcoal grey with a polymer sole and articulated gel-cushion pockets. Ralaen put them on and felt the responsive, springy cushioning. She took a few experimental bounds, a wide smile spreading across her face as her tail began to wag.

  Next, the winter shoes. They looked like rugged, dark brown hiking boots, lined with a synthetic, fur-like insulation. The sole was thicker, with deeper, more aggressive tread. They felt warm, solid, and utterly unshakeable.

  Finally, the leather shoes. They were a simple, elegant design in a soft, black leather. They were flexible, comfortable, and moved with her foot like a second skin. They were for walking, for existing, for everything in between.

  "They're perfect," she breathed, looking from the shoes to Eirik, who was already paying the cobbler without even looking at the total.

  The old man just nodded, wiping his hands on a rag. "They'd better be. Now get out of my shop."

  Now, fully kitted out from the skin out for any conceivable environment, they headed back to Einherjar Command.

  Back in the sterile quiet of her quarters at Einherjar Command, she emptied the bags onto her bunk. She picked up the sapphire blue bra, the delicate lace and cool silk a stark, alien texture against the calloused pads of her paw-hands. It was a garment designed for a soft human woman, not for a soldier with claws and a body forged by war. It was frivolous. It was impractical.

  And it was the first word she had ever truly spoken in a new language.

  This language had no words for duty or function. Its vocabulary was built from sensation: the cool slide of silk, the delicate scratch of lace, the soft weight of wool. It was a way of saying "I want this"—and of saying to herself, and perhaps to Eirik, that the weapon you see on the outside is not all of me.

  She was just beginning to learn how to speak it.

  That night, she modeled.

  At first, it was a tactical review. Jeans and a grey t-shirt. The hoodie. She stood in the center of the room, her posture straight, awaiting his assessment. Eirik gave a slow nod, his expression one of mild approval. "Looks good. Functional. It suits you." It was the same tone he used when approving a new loadout.

  Then she changed.

  When she stepped out of the bathroom, it was in the sapphire blue lace. The soft light of the room caught the delicate fabric, a stark, beautiful contrast against her short, black fur and the solid muscle of her frame.

  Eirik’s brain visibly blue-screened.

  His eyes went wide, then dark, and his mouth did that slow, stunned curve she’d learned meant his higher cognitive functions had just been shoved into the back seat. It was the same expression he got when he was calculating a complex firing solution, all his focus narrowing to a single point. Only this time, the firing solution was her.

  Ralaen turned once, her thick tail swishing in a slow, deliberate arc, just to see the effect.

  Analysis, Artemis supplied, her mental voice dripping with smug humor. Cognitive functions have been rerouted from tactical assessment to… aesthetic appreciation. I do believe you just broke his brain, Ralaen.

  What followed was some very enthusiastic appreciation from Eirik, lots of laughter, and very little sleep.

  Later, when the room had gone quiet again, Ralaen lay half-curled against him, her tail draped over them both. In the predawn light, she traced the black lines of the rune tattooed on his chest, right over his heart.

  "Are you scared?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  He was quiet for a long moment, his hand coming up to cover hers. "Terrified," he said, his voice rough with sleep and honesty. He paused, then added, "Of the Rilethi. Of the fleet. Of the void."

  Ralaen nodded against his chest. That was a fear she understood. A soldier's fear.

  "That's not what I'm scared of," she admitted, her voice even softer.

  He shifted, looking down at her. "What then?"

  She hesitated, the words feeling foolish now. "I'm scared that when we get there... I'll be too good at it. That I'll like it too much."

  He was silent for a beat, then he pulled her closer, his lips brushing her forehead. "Then I'll be there to pull you back," he murmured. "Always."

  Artemis’s warm and steady presence was a quiet comfort in the back of her thoughts, a silent promise that she wouldn't be alone in that, either.

  By the time dawn edged pale light over Einherjar Command, she had a duffel that actually held more than just her issued kit, orders to report to the battlecruiser Draupnir, her Mk.4 waiting for her in the armory, an AI as a partner, and a human she cared about breathing slow and steady underneath her.

  Tomorrow, Wolf Squad would step onto a ship and go to war.

  Tonight, for the first time since she’d left Asuaril, she let herself just exist: one Asuari woman in a borrowed bed, tangled up with someone who’d chosen the same impossible path she had. She decided she could live with that.