"Authentication code," Handran demanded, his voice weak but determined.

"Bastion-Prime-Alpha-Three," Vylaas responded without hesitation, also sending digital verification over local-net, before dropping to one knee beside the wounded officer. "We need to move quickly. Enemy forces are converging on this position."

Handran lowered his weapon as his VI confirmed Vylaas' identity, relief evident in his expression. "Didn't think anyone was coming. Especially not you." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Why are you here, Your Highness? I can't be the most popular name around the royal dinner table."

"Haven't shared a private meal with family in over a decade," Vylaas replied, examining the beam pinning Handran's leg. "And I'm here because someone needed to be. Hold still."

Burning mana at a prodigious rate, Vylaas fortified his Strength and lifted the beam, carefully shifting it away from Handran's injured limb. The lieutenant-colonel bit back a cry of pain, his face paling further.

"Compound fracture," Chimera radioed back to Reeves. "Significant blood loss. Internal injuries to torso consistent with blast trauma. Immediate medical attention required."

"Can you stand?" Vylaas asked, already knowing the answer.

Handran attempted to push himself up, then collapsed back against the wall, breathing heavily. "Afraid not, Your Highness. You should go. They want me dead, and they'll kill anyone who tries to help."

"Who wants you dead?" Vylaas asked, preparing a battlefield stabilization kit from his armor's medical compartment.

"The same people who arranged this 'routine patrol' into a Raxian ambush zone," Handran replied bitterly. "I've been asking too many questions about civilian casualties. About why certain operations seemed designed to maximize collateral damage rather than achieve tactical objectives."

Vylaas administered an injection to temporarily stem the blood flow from Handran's worst wounds. "High Command doesn't like questions."

"No," Handran agreed, wincing as the nanites did their work. "Especially not when those questions implicate certain high-ranking officers in potential war crimes."

"Vylaas," Chimera interrupted through their neural link, "enemy reinforcements approaching. Estimated time to position: forty-five seconds."

"Time to go," Vylaas announced, carefully lifting Handran in a fireman's carry. The lieutenant-colonel groaned but didn't resist. "Chimera, bring the Asklepios around. We need immediate extraction."

"Ship en route. ETA thirty seconds. Warning: Raxian anti-air systems activating. The ship will be vulnerable during extraction."

Vylaas adjusted his grip on Handran, ensuring the officer's wounded side wasn't bearing his weight. "Then we'd better give them something else to shoot at."

He moved to the bunker entrance, the Aegis shield manifesting before him once more. Outside, the situation had deteriorated rapidly. Raxian forces had established a perimeter around the bunker, and a quick scan revealed at least thirty soldiers with supporting armor.

"They really want you dead," Vylaas observed grimly.

"Told you," Handran managed through gritted teeth. "Leave me. Save yourself."

"Not an option," Vylaas replied, echoing words he'd said countless times on countless battlefields. "Chimera, analyze the enemy formation. Find me a path."

The tactical overlay in his HUD updated, highlighting a section of the Raxian line that appeared slightly thinner than the rest. It wasn't much, but it was their best chance.

"Asklepios-3 approaching from bearing two-seven-zero," Chimera reported. "Twenty seconds to arrival."

Vylaas took a deep breath, focusing his Willpower, sharpening his Intent. The Aegis shield expanded, growing larger and more substantial as he channeled additional energy into it. Simultaneously, his Bastion aura intensified, creating a protective field that now encompassed both himself and Handran.

"Hold on," he warned the lieutenant-colonel. "This will be rough."

Without further hesitation, Vylaas charged from the bunker entrance, the Aegis shield held before them like a battering ram. The Raxian forces reacted immediately, a barrage of weapons fire converging on their position. The shield absorbed most of it, but Vylaas could feel the impacts resonating through his armor as some of the energy bled through.

"Shield integrity at forty-seven percent and falling," Chimera warned.

Vylaas didn't slow. He pushed forward, using the shield not just as protection but as a weapon—its energy field disrupting enemy positions as he plowed through their line. Soldiers were knocked aside, their weapons rendered temporarily inoperable by the energy discharge.

A heavier blast—from one of the armored vehicles—struck the shield directly. Vylaas stumbled, nearly losing his grip on Handran. The shield flickered dangerously, its energy matrix destabilizing under the sustained assault.

"Shield critical," Chimera reported. "Twenty-two percent and falling. Asklepios-3 in visual range."

Indeed, the medical ship was descending rapidly, its remaining shields glowing bright as they absorbed enemy fire. The deployment bay was open, ready to receive them—but it was still fifty meters away, across open ground covered by enemy weapons.

"We won't make it," Handran observed weakly. "The shield won't hold."

"It doesn't need to hold," Vylaas replied, determination in his voice. "It just needs to last long enough."

He adjusted his grip on the lieutenant-colonel once more, then broke into a full sprint toward the waiting ship. The Aegis shield continued to absorb fire, but its integrity was failing rapidly. Warnings flashed across Vylaas's HUD as the shield's energy matrix began to collapse.

"Shield failure in five seconds," Chimera warned.

Vylaas pushed himself to the limit, enhanced muscles straining as he covered the ground between them and the ship. Thirty meters. Twenty. The shield was barely holding, its once-solid surface now riddled with fluctuating gaps where energy leaked through.

"Shield collapse imminent," Chimera reported. "Three... two..."

At fifteen meters from the ship, the shield failed completely, disappearing in a shower of dissipating energy. Immediately, enemy fire converged on their exposed position.

Vylaas didn't hesitate. He channeled everything he had into his Bastion aura, creating a final defensive bubble around them. It wouldn't stop a direct hit from heavy weapons, but it might deflect enough of the small arms fire to get them to the ship.

Pain lanced through his left shoulder as a round penetrated the weakened aura, striking his armor. Another impact, this time to his right leg. The armor held, but the force of the hits threatened to knock him off balance.

"Ten meters," Chimera counted down. "Nine. Eight."

More impacts. Warning indicators flashed across his HUD as armor integrity dropped precipitously. Handran groaned as a round grazed his already wounded side, fresh blood soaking through the nanite seals.

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"Five meters. Four."

The deployment bay loomed before them, Reeves visible at its edge, medical kit already in hand. Vylaas gathered his remaining strength for a final push.

"Two. One."

With a last, desperate lunge, Vylaas cleared the threshold of the deployment bay. He stumbled forward, his momentum carrying them both further inside as the bay doors began to close behind them. Energy blasts struck the closing doors, leaving scorch marks on their armored surface.

"We're aboard," Vylaas gasped, carefully lowering Handran to the deck. "Go! Get us out of here!"

The ship lurched as Chimera engaged the engines, accelerating away from the battlefield. Reeves was already moving, her experienced hands working to stabilize Handran's condition.

"Multiple critical injuries," she reported, medical scanner hovering over the lieutenant-colonel. "Internal bleeding, the compound fracture, significant tissue damage. He needs surgery immediately."

"Do what you can here," Vylaas instructed, his armor reconfiguring as Chimera partially disengaged to assist with the ship's systems. "Chimera will get us back to base."

"Vylaas," Thorne's voice came over the comm, strained but relieved. "Next time you decide to fly my ship into an enemy battalion, maybe give me some warning?"

"Your ship?" Vylaas managed a tired smile. "I thought it was only yours when it was breaking."

"It's definitely breaking now," Thorne confirmed sourly. "Port shield array is completely fried. Hull breaches on decks two and three. Primary power coupling operating at sixty-three percent capacity. It'll take weeks to repair all this damage."

"You'll have it done in days," Vylaas replied confidently, making his way toward the bridge. "You always do."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'll take my time with this one. Teach you a lesson about proper ship handling."

Vylaas reached the bridge, settling into the command chair. He could feel the ship's systems—damaged but functional, limping away from the battlefield as Raxian pursuit craft scrambled to intercept.

"Status," he demanded, hands moving across the interface to adjust their course.

"Hull integrity holding at seventy-one percent," Chimera reported. "Shields at minimal capacity. Engines operating at eighty-four percent. Estimated time to friendly territory: seven minutes, twelve seconds. Probability of interception before crossing battle line: thirty-seven percent and rising."

"Divert all remaining non-essential power to engines and rear shields," Vylaas ordered. "Maximum speed."

The ship responded, acceleration pressing him back into the command chair as they raced away from the Raxian forces. On the tactical display, enemy pursuit craft were closing—but not quickly enough. The distance to friendly territory was shrinking faster than they could close the gap.

"Five minutes to friendly territory," Chimera updated. "Probability of interception now twenty-two percent and falling."

Vylaas allowed himself a moment of relief, though he knew they weren't safe yet. "Status of Lieutenant-Colonel Handran?"

"Entering surgery," Reeves replied over the comm. "But he needs proper medical facilities soon. The regen-fields are containing the worst of the bleeding, but with our current load of patients we can't spare the resources we'd need to do the work I'd like to do."

"Understood. We'll have him in a propery surgery within fifteen minutes."

A notification flashed across the neural interface—an incoming transmission on a secure Imperial channel. Vylaas hesitated before accepting it.

"Prince Vylaas," a stern voice greeted him. Colonel Merrick, his father's adjutant. "You are ordered to report for immediate debriefing upon your return. Your... unauthorized extraction mission has drawn significant attention. This one was a step over the line."

"I'm sure it's ruffled some feathers," Vylaas replied evenly. "I'll report as ordered, after Lieutenant-Colonel Handran is safely delivered to medical care."

"The lieutenant-colonel's situation is being reviewed," Merrick continued, his tone suggesting this was not good news. "He will be placed under guard pending investigation into his activities."

"Investigation? He nearly died because someone in High Command arranged an ambush. If anyone should be under investigation—"

"Mind your accusations, Your Highness," Merrick interrupted sharply. "Such claims without evidence are dangerously close to insubordination. And a Royal such as yourself should be extra cautious when voicing your opinion."

Vylaas's jaw tightened. "I'll be sure to present my evidence during the debriefing, Colonel."

"See that you do." The transmission cut abruptly, leaving Vylaas staring at the blank display.

----------------------------------------

Three hours, a healed bullet wound, and a disastrous debrief later, Vylaas stood beneath the shower's harsh spray in his quarters. The cold water bit into his skin, keeping his mind focused despite his shield arm's dull ache and split knuckles. His reflection in the steel mirror looked foreign—close-cropped auburn hair, eyes hardened to brittle ice.

He'd barely fastened his uniform clasps when an alert chime cut through the silence.

"Enter," he said.

The door hissed open. Helena stepped inside wearing standard fatigues instead of her medical whites. She extended a datapad without preamble, the Imperial seal glowing accusatory red on its display.

"New orders, Vylaas. Immediate deployment."

Their fingers brushed as he took the pad. Helena stood waiting as he read, the room filled with tense silence.

"Prince-Captain Vylaas 'Bastion' Orestes is hereby reassigned to Forward Operating Base Kestrel, effective 0800 tomorrow. Primary duties: perimeter defense and casualty stabilization operations in the Myrathi-Raxia border zone."

Helena exhaled slowly, whistling.

"Kestrel. Circe's tits, Vy. That's where they send careers to die—and not always metaphorically, either. Their most recent outgoing field commander, a guy named Karyndal, lasted just over a week before a Raxian rail sniper painted his office red."

"And he had a nice office job," Vylaas responded dryly. The text blurred before his eyes as cold settled in his gut. "My orders have me making a target of myself on front."

Helena moved closer, reading over his shoulder. "They're burying you, Vylaas. Kestrel's a slaughterhouse."

"Yeah," he responded, voice low. "It's even got all the right approvals; right there in the footnotes."

The authorization codes glowed with predatory brightness—High Command clearance, countersigned by the blandly named Office of Imperial Audits. There were no individual signatures, not for something like this; instead, there was just a bureaucratic rubber-stamping of his death certificate. Cold, clean, and completely inarguable.

"Handran lived through surgery, by the way," Helena whispered. "He's awake and... they say he's been talking. About what he saw."

Vylaas kept his eyes on the orders. "How much time before his report is... misplaced?"

"Seventeen hours at most. Probably less."

The datapad felt sudden heavy in his hand. He'd witnessed this pattern before—officers who asked uncomfortable questions vanishing into the Imperial system. Training accidents. Equipment malfunctions. Convenient friendly fire.

Helena fixed him with a steady gaze. "There are options, Vylaas."

Weariness washed over him. "Don't."

"You know what Handran was investigating," she pressed, voice softening. "What he was trying to expose. If we—"

"Enough," he cut her off. There were some things that couldn't be spoken out loud—especially not on-base.

Helena's expression tightened as she stepped back.

Vylaas turned to his desk and opened the lower drawer, fingers finding the familiar aged leather of Sister Myra's journal. He flipped to a dog-eared page, her spidery handwriting coming into focus.

'When they make you choose between duty and decency,' the passage read, 'remember—empires fall. Principles don't.'

He tapped the page, and Helena read it over his shoulder. When she finished, she nodded firmly, the lines of her face grim.

Another alert chime broke the silence. Chimera's voice came from the speaker in the corner.

"Command just flagged all medical transports in the hangar with a 'run diagnostics' label," she reported. "The Asklepios-3 is grounded until further notice."

Vylaas closed the journal with a soft thud. The orders on his desk seemed to glow with malevolent finality.

Outside, thunder rumbled as monsoon rain began lashing against the viewport, blurring base lights into indistinct color streaks. Beyond the perimeter, the war ground on, consuming lives without pause.

He stood motionless, shoulders bent under the weight pressing down on him. Helena remained silent beside him, her presence a point of quiet strength in the gathering darkness.

They shared in the silence together, contemplating the narrowing paths ahead, contemplating how their stories might end.