Killgore summoned them back to the amphitheater on the day the forest phase concluded. They trudged in with the slow, stiff gait of the utterly spent. The cold air was so sharp it visibly misted their breaths, a shared exhalation of collective effort in the waning light. Above, in the seats, a handful of human Jaeger recruits from the regular intake watched in hushed silence. Ralaen could feel their gazes, not with judgment, but with a grim understanding.
Ten Asuari. Five Ssarathi. Five Drakari. Five Felari. Ten Azelari.
Everyone looked gaunt. Some bore the telltale signs of new muscle across their shoulders and arms. All of them seemed to have aged a decade.
Ralaen took her place among the other Asuari, her black fur fluffed against the biting cold, sky-blue eyes drawn to Killgore almost against her will. Her body ached, but she was still standing. That was something.
Killgore stood at the base of the steps, hands clasped behind his back, waiting until they had settled. The only sounds were the wind and the occasional shuffle of boots. No barked orders. No theatrics.
“Look at you,” Killgore said, his voice a low growl. “Still standing.”
A ripple of weary amusement passed through the group, almost imperceptible but palpable. Ralaen felt it more than heard it, a shared acknowledgment of their endurance.
“You started at eighty-five,” he continued. “Now you’re forty. The ones who left aren’t cowards. They just hit their limit. They rang out. It happens.” His voice took on a harder edge. “You haven’t. That means from this point on, you don’t get to quit so easily. You’ve paid too much for that already.”
He stepped up one row, his gaze sweeping over their faces, one by one. When his eyes met Ralaen’s, her spine straightened involuntarily.
“You wanted to see how we train,” he said. “Congratulations. For the next year, you get the full experience. We call it the Forge. You’re going to live in it. You will hurt. You will hate me. You will hate yourselves. You will think about leaving. And you will not.”
He jabbed a thumb into his own chest. “I will not have you dishonor my service or your dead by wasting what you’ve already done here. You made it through Hell Month. That was the entrance exam. Now we forge.”
Fredriksson’s voice boomed from the side. “FORGE, NOT FRAGILE, MAGGOTS!”
“Exactly,” Killgore said, his voice rising. “By Odínn, I will make proper fighting men and women out of you, or I’ll break you trying and send the pieces home with a note that says ‘could not keep up.’ Those are your options. Questions?”
No one moved.
“Good,” he said. “Tomorrow, the forging begins. Sleep. You’ll miss it later.”
The Forge had a schedule. It shifted every few days, but the core stayed the same.
Mornings began with conditioning that felt like a relentless punishment. The mud in the crevices of the obstacle course clung to everything, emitting a permanent, sour stench—a pungent mix of sweat, decay, and the metallic tang of equipment. Ralaen was starting to believe that this smell would be forever embedded in her fur, a constant reminder of the grueling mornings.
Midday shifted to weapons, tactics, and contact drills. The air on the ranges was crisp and clean, cut through by the sharp ozone crackle of pulsers and the high-pitched hum of plasma coils warming up. It was the scent of controlled violence, a stark and welcome contrast to the rotten odors of the morning.
Evenings were dedicated to hand-to-hand combat, simulation drills, or lessons in doctrine and history. The training dome's mats always carried the lingering scent of antiseptic cleaner and old sweat, an aroma that intensified with each thrown body and twisted limb. Inside the simulation pods, the air was sterile and recycled, tinged with the coppery tang of fear-induced adrenaline as virtual deaths painted the cockpit in a grim red.
Nights, if the body and mind allowed, were for sleep. The barracks were a never-ending symphony of aches and pains: the creak of a bunk shifting, the soft hiss of a Drakari's tail coiling, the muffled cough of a Felari whose lungs still burned from the morning's run. Sleep was a fragile, stolen luxury, always on the precipice of being shattered by a nightmare or a barked order.
Ralaen first noticed the change when her meal quota silently increased. Initially, it was just a bit more on her tray: extra protein, extra starch. Then, one morning, Hammond was waiting at the end of the breakfast line, his eyes fixed on her tray.
“Recruit Ralaen,” he said, his voice firm. “You’re light.”
She glanced down at her tray, already piled higher than she was used to. “It’s plenty, Instructor.”
“Wrong,” he replied, adding another scoop of protein mash and dropping two vacuum-packed bars onto her tray. “You’re building muscle now. You burn more calories. Eat for the body you’re creating, not the one you had.”
Ralaen hesitated, looking at the bars. “I’m not sure I can stomach—”
Before she could finish, Fredriksson appeared beside her, adding a third bar to her tray. “JAEGER RULE,” he rumbled. “IF YOU’RE NOT HUNGRY, EAT. IF YOU ARE HUNGRY, EAT FASTER.”
Ralaen nodded, her eyes widening at the sudden influx of food. “Yes, Instructors.”
The attention didn’t end at the mess hall. On the range, after a block of drills, Wu shoved a bar into her hand. “Your ears are drooping,” Wu said, her tone sharp. “That means your blood sugar is low. Fix it.”
During a brief break on the obstacle course, Lee tossed her a hydration pouch and another bar. “You’re adapting well,” Lee said, her voice carrying a note of approval. “Don’t undermine your progress by trying to be stoic. Those who try to impress the floor often end up on it.”
The extra fuel was making a difference. Her legs no longer felt one step away from collapse during runs with full kit. Her arms steadied more quickly under the weight of heavy weapons. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the barracks mirror, she paused, taken aback by her own reflection.
Black fur stretched taut over thicker shoulders and arms. Her sky-blue eyes, always expressive, now held a new intensity, reflecting the trials she had endured. Her muzzle, with its short canine features, seemed more defined, as if the very structure of her face had been sharpened by the Forge, shaving away any excess fat. Her legs and hips had filled out, the lean lines of a hunter replaced by the dense, powerful musculature of a brawler. Her uniform clung tighter across her chest and thighs, the fabric stretched over newfound strength that still felt alien. She moved with the precision of an operator, but there was no denying the extra mass the Forge had forged onto her frame.
Fredriksson noticed the change too. One afternoon, after she single-handedly hauled a heavy training dummy across the obstacle course, he grunted in approval. “Not bad for a Confederacy stringbean,” he said, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Another three months and we might just get you up to proper human recruit weights.”
Ralaen bared her teeth in a fierce grin, her eyes sparkling with determination. “Race you there, Instructor.”
Fredriksson's laugh was short and sharp, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and respect. “Careful, maggot. I don’t forget bets, and I always collect.”
Weapons training became a brutal, mandatory tour of the ásveldi arsenal. There was no opting out. They started with the standard HA-CAR-19 pulse rifle. They’d used it during evaluation, but now they broke it down to its core components. Strip, clean, reassemble in the dark and under time. Transition from rifle to pulser sidearm while moving and calling out positions. Switch the fire selector from single to burst to auto by feel, without looking down.
Hammond stepped forward, his voice a low growl. “Listen up! This here HA-CAR-19 is your lifeline. It’s the only damn thing keeping you from becoming a bloody mess out there. You treat it with the same respect you’d give your own mother, because it’s the only thing that’ll keep you breathing when the shit hits the fan. If it jams, if it misfires, you’re screwed. And I ain’t sending any screw-ups into a fight. You feel me?”
The lesson was hammered home with a consequence: any recruit who fumbled a reassembly had their rifle taken away for the rest of the day, forced to run drills with only their sidearm.
Next came the K&B ASG-12 Trench gun. Lee hefted the weapon, her movements economical. "This is for tight spaces," she explained, giving the adjustable muzzle choke a sharp twist. "Boarding actions, ship corridors, urban CQB. A pulser dart punches clean through a hull. This doesn't. You master the spread, or you kill your own squad. Understood?"
The drill was a holographic ship corridor, narrow and unforgiving. "Move!" Lee barked. Ralaen advanced, the shotgun heavy in her hands. A target flickered in a side doorway—an enemy silhouette. She snapped the weapon up, twisted the choke to a wide setting, and fired. The hologram dissolved in a storm of projected impacts. "Good," Lee noted. "Now the next one."
Another target appeared, partially concealed behind a console. Ralaen fired again, but her pattern was still too wide. Most of the flechettes tore into the bulkhead around the target, leaving it largely untouched. "Too broad!" Lee's voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. "You just gave away our position to everyone on this deck. Tighten your aim. Make every shot count."
Lee pointed to a scorch mark on the nearby bulkhead. "See that? That's from a pulser. It pierced the armor and fried the wiring behind it. A burst from the ASG-12 rips through the plate but doesn't go any further. It's messy, but it keeps the ship intact. Understand the difference. It could save your life."
Then, the plasma weapons were introduced. The Mk.3 Plasma rifle came first, a massive, imposing weapon that required two people to move it. Only an Einherjar in armor could wield it single-handedly, its sheer size and weight a testament to its devastating power. “This is less common,” Wu stated, “but you will encounter it. It’s an area denial weapon, capable of slagging armor and clearing entire zones.” The Mk.5 Plasma carbine followed, a more compact and maneuverable version, though still brutally demanding. “Respect this one, or it will cook you,” Lee told them, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Ralaen, step up.”
Ralaen took the carbine. The charge coil vibrated against her forearm, a deep hum that felt more alive than the sharp crack of the pulser’s grav-driver. Targets appeared at varying ranges: armored silhouettes, Rilethi walkers, and hardened points. “Short charges for light armor,” Wu instructed over the net. “Full dumps for fortified positions. Watch the heat. Melt the barrel, and you’ll spend a week with extinguishers and lectures.” Ralaen locked into the rhythm. Charge. Fire. Vent. Move. Once her body internalized the cadence, it felt natural. Direct. Honest. The true test came when Wu ordered them to fire while moving. The carbine’s bulk made it unwieldy, and more than one recruit stumbled, the weapon’s plasma bolt searing the ground where they fell.
Finally, they were marched to the last rack. The weapons sitting there were imposing, unlike anything they had seen before. Thick, armored casings, three massive barrels, and a heavy-duty feed chute. Some were mounted on tripods with a stationary ammo box, while others had a carrying harness and a backpack for mobile use. They looked less like personal arms and more like mobile fire support systems, built to lay down a relentless barrage of fire.
Fredriksson didn't bother with an introduction. He just stood there, arms crossed, watching them process the sight. The silence stretched, filled by the nervous shifting of the recruits. He let the weapon's sheer, brutal presence do the talking.
He stepped forward and slapped the side of the nearest casing. The metallic clang echoed in the bay. “This is the HMDSG-227. Some call it the Two-Two-Seven. It’s a belt-fed, high-rate-of-fire infantry support pulser. Its job is to turn cover into confetti and provide suppressing fire for your squad.”
He looked them over, his gaze lingering on the smaller Felari and Azelari. “It has no safety and no manners. It is a tool with one purpose, and it does not care if you are tired, if you are hurt, or if you can’t lift it. It will fire until you run out of ammo or you burn out the grav-drivers, whichever comes first. You will carry it using a harness, or we will mount it on a tripod. And by the end of this cycle, you will despise it. That is fine. The weapon does not require your affection, only your strength and your obedience. Now, get them off the racks.”
There was no mount set up for the mobile version. Only carry harnesses. “Deadlift it to firing position,” Fredriksson barked. “Drakari first. Move.” The first Drakari, a mountain of scaled muscle, heaved the HMDSG-227 from the rack and secured it in the harness. The weapon settled into place, ready for action. "Not bad," Fredriksson grunted. "Move out."
Then it was the turn of the others. A Ssarathi recruit, his tail lashing in frustration, tried to compensate. The weapon’s mass pulled him forward, ruining his posture. He took a stumbling step, his tail whipping down to slap the deck in a desperate bid for balance that never came. A Felari recruit got the weapon off the rack with a grunt of effort, clearly possessing the raw strength. But the weapon's awkward distribution fought their natural center of gravity. They could hold it, but as soon as they tried to aim, the muzzle would drift, their powerful arms unable to find the leverage to control the sway. The Azelari, so fluid and precise with their pulse rifles, became clumsy statues. They gritted their teeth, their bodies rigid with strain, but the Two-Two-Seven simply refused to be held steady.
"Ralaen," Hammond called.
She stepped into the space left by the failing Azelari. The weapon hit her arms like a physical blow, a dead weight that tried to fold her in half. Every instinct screamed to drop it, to give in to the crushing load. But the memory of forced marches and the ache of extra rations pushed back. "Stop trying to lift it," Hammond growled, his voice low and impatient. "Just hold on. Let your legs do the work." She spread her paws, locked her hips, and adjusted her elbows. The weight didn't disappear, but it shifted. It settled into her bones instead of pulling at her muscles. Still brutal. Now manageable. "Better," Hammond said. "Now walk."
They drilled positions with the weapon in carried mode: standing, advancing, kneeling, shifting targets without losing control. Any muzzle climb brought Fredriksson’s voice on them. Any loss of balance ended with someone in the dirt and an instructor in their ear.
Live-fire came next. “Short bursts,” Wu ordered. “Three to five. You’re cutting, not spraying. Correct between bursts. Move. You hold the trigger down, and I will make you regret it more than the barrel will.” Ralaen squeezed the trigger. The HMDSG-227 didn't roar; it shrieked, a high-pitched wail that cut through the air. The grav-drivers spun up to a pitch that vibrated in her teeth, a relentless hum that felt more alive than the sharp crack of a pulser’s grav-driver. The weapon hurled its darts downrange with a force that was almost visceral.
The recoil wasn't a single, sharp kick; it was a brutal, continuous shove that hammered into her shoulders and hips. For a moment, the weapon fought her grip, its power threatening to tear it from her hands. She held on, boots grinding into the firing line, her muscles straining against the force. First burst: high. Adjustment. Second burst: closer to center. Third: a rough but effective pattern across the target’s upper area.
She lowered the weapon, her arms trembling with exertion. The air around the firing position felt... strange. It was a subtle distortion, a thin, metallic taste on the back of her tongue left by the weapon's grav-drivers. There was a sharp, clean scent of ozone from superheated particles and the faint, unsettling hum of residual energy that made the fur on her arms stand on end. It was an echo of the weapon's fury, a physical sensation that lingered in the air long after the last dart had been fired.
Ralaen paused, her senses heightened by the unfamiliar experience. The grav-driver darts were nothing like the precise, almost surgical cuts of laser rifles. There was a raw, untamed power to them, a brutality that left a tangible mark on the environment. The lasers she was used to left no such residue, their energy dissipating into the air without a trace. This was different, a primal force that demanded respect and left an indelible impression on everything it touched.
“Confederacy is improving,” Fredriksson said, his voice a low rumble. “You’re still not at Jaeger standard. Don't let your head get ahead of your arms.” He was right. Most Federation recruits clearly disliked the HMDSG-227. The Ssarathi struggled with balance, their tails lashing in frustration. The Felari simply lacked the mass to control the weapon effectively. The Azelari gritted their teeth and forced their bodies through the drill, their precision compromised by the weapon's sheer power. The Drakari handled it best, breathing hard but solid, their scaled muscles absorbing the recoil. Ralaen, to her own annoyance, started to find a workable rhythm. The extra food, the marches, the corrections from instructors all converged on this: she could bring the weapon up and hold it for one more burst today than yesterday. When she finished a run without dropping control, Fredriksson’s expression shifted a fraction. “Not useless,” he said once. “You keep this up, and we might trust you with something actually important.” Her arms shook. Her shoulders burned. She reset to the line and picked up the weapon again.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
The day wasn't over. Fredriksson gestured to the last rack, where a sleek, shoulder-braced launcher sat. “And this,” he said, a rare grin touching his lips, “is the Reaper. A portable missile. For when you absolutely, positively need to kill something from very, very far away. Today, you just carry it. Tomorrow, you learn which end the angry part comes out of.” The launcher was light compared to the HMDSG-227, but carrying it after the pulser felt like a final, cruel joke. As they marched back to the barracks, Ralaen’s muscles screamed in protest, the weight of the day settling into her bones. She was learning, but the cost was etched into every aching fiber of her being.
The ones who were left started talking more.
Not about scores or times. About why they were on Earth in the first place.
It was late. The mess hall had thinned. Outside, dark and wind. Inside, humming lights, the clatter of a few trays far away.
Ralaen sat at a corner table with the same small group she kept ending up with: Sari the Felari. Hissthar the Ssarathi. Vorrek the Drakari. Maelis the Azelari.
They ate in silence for a while.
Then Sari, a pink haired felari let out a rough breath.
“My mother sent another message,” she said, stabbing at her food. “This one had a list of ‘eligible candidates’ attached.”
“Candidates?” Ralaen asked.
“Bond-partners,” Sari grimaced. “Sons of people my parents owe favors to. ‘Strong families with excellent social standing.’ Her words. Apparently once I’m done ‘playing soldier,’ I’m supposed to come home, pick one, and start having kits on a timetable they’ve already written.”
“How old are you?” Ralaen asked.
“Old enough to decide that myself,” Sari said. Her tail flicked. “Too young, according to them, to know when I’m ruining my life.”
Hissthar’s hood shifted. “At least they say what they want,” he said. “The Conclave wraps it in duty schedules.”
Ralaen turned her ears toward him. “You never talk about home,” she said.
“We Shadow Fangs don’t get out much,” Hissthar said. “We guard assets. Relay stations. Vaults. Council chambers. We go where the Conclave says is important. We do not go to ‘culturally destabilizing’ places.”
He took a drink, throat working.
“Earth was on the forbidden list,” he went on. “Too much human media, too much mixed population, too much risk that we might start asking questions. Then the exchange program alert hit our internal system. It stayed up for twelve minutes before someone tried to bury it.”
He looked around the table.
“I filed my application at minute three,” he said. “By the time they pulled it from the public boards, my request was already in the queue and tagged. They called me into an office. Told me I was ‘well-suited to represent Conclave interests’ and ‘unlikely to be overly influenced by human propaganda.’ That was their read.”
“Were they wrong about that?” Sari asked, her tail flicking with curiosity.
Hissthar’s mouth pulled tight. “They were right about one thing,” he said. “This was the only door off my world that led to Earth. So, I took it.”
Vorrek ate another bite, finished it, then set his fork down.
Ralaen looked at him. “You?” she asked.
He paused for a heartbeat.
“My youngest brood-sister died two years ago,” he said. His voice was flat but there was weight behind it. “Outpost world. Joint operation. The news feeds called it an ‘unexpected escalation.’”
The air around the table felt heavier.
“I watched every report,” Vorrek said. “Helmet-cam fragments. Orbital footage. Interviews with the ones who made it back. We were sent in light. Someone wanted to prove a point about what the Royal Guard could handle with ‘minimal support.’”
His claws tapped once on the tray.
“When the bodies came home, the council spoke about ‘sacrifice’ and ‘resolve,’” he went on. “They did not say ‘this should not have happened.’ They said, ‘this was the price.’ The officers who approved the plan kept their chairs.”
He met Ralaen’s eyes.
“I am tired of digging graves for people whose only mistake was trusting the wrong plan,” he said. “Later, when they showed ásveldi units on the feeds, I saw something else. Their officers in the footage were on the line. Their after-action talks admitted where things had gone wrong. They sounded less proud of dead soldiers.”
He shrugged, a slow, heavy motion.
“I do not know if they are better,” he said. “I know I preferred the way they spoke about loss. When the chance came to train here, I volunteered. If there is a way to waste fewer lives, I want it. If there is not, I want to know that too.”
No one argued with that.
Maelis’s hands tightened a little around her mug.
“The Directorate doesn’t like admitting humans get anything right,” she said. “That is also a reason I am here.”
Ralaen looked at her more closely. Maelis’s posture was straight as always, but there was strain at the edges.
“There was a ridge,” Maelis said. “Khar’eth. Two Azelari companies. One Jaeger platoon. Local militia.”
Her eyes unfocused slightly, not in a distant way, just remembering.
“Rilethi attacked harder than the projections,” she said. “We took more pressure on the left than we were told to expect. Our captain ordered a fighting withdrawal to the next prepared line. It was a correct call. Clean, by doctrine. We moved.”
She took a breath.
“The Jaegers got the same order,” she said. “They did not move.”
Sari frowned. “They disobeyed?”
“Not exactly,” Maelis said. “Their lieutenant acknowledged the order, told his people what it meant, and then told command they were holding as long as they physically could. The militia followed us. The Jaegers stayed. They lost more than half their number. When we regrouped, we still had a ridge to fall back behind because they refused to give it up.”
She stared into her drink.
“Back home, the Directorate debrief called it ‘predictable human overcommitment,’” Maelis said. “One of the analysts said, ‘They’re useful, but they don’t value their own lives properly.’ They filed it under ‘cultural tendencies.’”
Her mouth tightened.
“I couldn’t stop seeing one of the sergeants down there,” she said. “He knew what he was doing. He wasn’t confused. He made the choice anyway. That didn’t fit with the neat phrases.” She looked at each of them in turn. “So, when the Directorate asked for volunteers for this program, they dressed it up as ‘observe and report on human doctrine’ and ‘support counter-influence strategy.’ I said yes because I wanted to know whether that sergeant was an outlier, or whether there is something in their culture our people are too proud or too afraid to say out loud.”
Ralaen’s chest ached a little. She understood that kind of question.
Sari bumped Ralaen’s arm with her elbow. “Your turn,” she said. “You didn’t come here because you love Jaeger rations.”
Ralaen snorted softly. “No.”
They waited. No one rushed her.
“My parents started sending me housing listings,” she said. “Nice places near home. Plenty of room. ‘Good schools for future kits.’”
Sari visibly winced.
“At first it was, ‘We worry when your deployment orders come in,’” Ralaen said. “Then it turned into, ‘You’ve done your duty, it’s time to think of the family.’ Then it became very direct. ‘We want you to come home, leave special forces, find a partner, and start a family before it’s too late.’”
Her paws flexed against the underside of the table.
“They’re not bad people,” she said, her voice tinged with a mix of affection and exasperation. “They’re just masters at twisting love into a gilded cage. If I’d stayed, they would have worn me down, piece by piece, until I was a shadow of myself. I know that. So, when the call for volunteers for Earth flickered across my terminal, I signed before I even finished reading the fine print. By the time they realized the depth of my resolve, my application had soared through channels where even Uncle Talven’s influence couldn’t reach.”
Hissthar’s hood dipped. Vorrek gave a slow nod.
“That’s the main reason,” Ralaen said. “The pressure from my parents and command—the shove—that finally pushed me to act.”
She paused, then went on, her voice lower. “I’ve been in special forces long enough to see a lot of ‘successful’ missions. We do the job. Hit a patrol. Blow a depot. Pull people out of bad places. The reports say we ‘buy time’ or ‘disrupt enemy operations.’ And then you come home and watch the front line on the news, and it keeps creeping the wrong way.”
She didn’t look up, her gaze fixed on the table. “I started to feel like we were scratching at the edges. Busy. Brave. Not changing the outcome. I didn’t have words for it. I just knew I was tired of it.”
Vorrek’s eyes met hers, a silent understanding passing between them. That was enough.
“And then there’s my cousin,” Ralaen said, a hint of a smile softening her features. “She works at our embassy in Uppsalír. She sends vids. Streets after dark with no curfew. Concerts where loud noises are just music. Interviews with Jaegers who talk about war as something they chose to learn, not something that just happens to them. Kids in parks running in and playing without looking nervous.”
Sari’s ears lifted a little, her curiosity piqued.
“My cousin kept telling me, ‘If you want to know what it looks like when people are not just surviving, come visit,’” Ralaen said. “I couldn’t take leave for a visit. This program was the next best thing.”
She picked up her cup, took a sip, and set it down, her movements deliberate. “So that’s why I’m here. Parents pushing. Command feeling stuck. A cousin dangling a different way of living in my messages. Put it together, and when the door to Earth opened, I walked through it.”
Sari let out a breath, her expression a mix of relief and understanding. “Better than ‘I was bored,’” she said.
“I was bored too,” Ralaen admitted. “Just not only bored.”
Vorrek raised his cup. “To reasons that weren’t good on paper but got us here,” he said, his voice steady and resolute.
Hissthar lifted his, a rare smile touching his lips. “To doors they tried to keep small, and we still fit through.”
Maelis raised hers last, her eyes reflecting a depth of emotion. “To not wasting what it cost to walk through,” she said, her voice filled with a quiet intensity.
Ralaen looked at them—Sari’s tired defiance, Hissthar’s watchful focus, Vorrek’s slow certainty, Maelis’s controlled intensity—and raised her own cup. They drank, the moment heavy with unspoken understanding and shared resolve.
For a short stretch of time, they were not representatives of five powers. They were just recruits who had all decided that this freezing place and these relentless humans were still better than where they had been. It made the weight of the next day a little easier to face.
They got weekend leave at the three-month mark.
“Don’t get arrested,” Killgore said as they loaded into transports. “Don’t lose your kit. Don’t come back with anything you can’t explain to the medic. Beyond that, enjoy pretending the galaxy isn’t on fire.”
The nearest town sat just outside the perimeter. The tavern had low ceilings, scarred tables, and a hammer-shaped sign over the door.
Inside, noise hit hard. Jaeger recruits, regular infantry, a few off-duty instructors, locals. Voices in several languages. Music from a speaker in the corner. Smell of spilled drinks, cooked meat, perfume, sweat.
Ralaen stayed close to her group at first. Her black fur prickled under the heat and noise. Her ears pressed down against the volume. Her eyes adjusted slowly from J?tunheim’s clean lines to the tavern’s clutter.
“Relax, recruit,” a human voice said at her shoulder. “Worst threat in here is the song list.”
She turned.
The speaker was a human male around her age, maybe a little older. Broad shoulders. Blond hair tied back. Jaeger trainee patch on his sleeve.
“Eirik Andreassen,” he said, offering a hand. “We’ve been on opposite ends of the firing line for months. Figured I should learn your name before one of us ends up hauling the other out of a shell hole.”
“Ralaen,” she said, shaking his hand. “You’ve already seen enough of me in the dirt to know how that’ll go.”
He laughed once. “Fair.”
They ended up at the same table with a mix of humans and Federation recruits. Sari, Maelis, Hissthar, and Vorrek joined them, each bringing their unique perspectives and a shared sense of camaraderie. Someone kept buying rounds, and the human alcohol hit harder and cleaner than Asuari brews.
It took Ralaen a few drinks to realize she was drunk. Not out of control. Just loose. Her shoulders dropped. Her ears relaxed. Words came easier.
At some point, Hissthar asked how humans had managed to stop fighting each other long enough to reach the stars. It was the kind of question that would have been rude sober. Drunk, it just hung there, waiting.
Eirik leaned back, his eyes taking on a distant look. "Back in the 2080-2130 era," he began, "there were three major superpowers left. The West, the Center, and the East. Old Europe in the Center, held by ásveldi. The Americas in the West, and Asia in the East. The old world powers fell one by one. An old Russian power fractured in the 2040s due to a coup that then fell apart, an old Asian power's economy imploded in the 2080s, and the old American power fell apart in 2127 due to political dogma and widespread mistrust in the system."
The group leaned in, captivated by his narrative. Sari’s ears perked up with curiosity, while Maelis’s expression remained thoughtful, processing the historical context. Hissthar’s hood dipped slightly, a sign of his deep engagement, and Vorrek’s eyes narrowed as he considered the implications of Eirik’s words.
“Then the Allfather stepped in,” Eirik continued, circling his glass with a thoughtful expression. “Right when everything was starting to crack for real. Instead of placing his throne on a pile of rubble, he gave the remaining countries of the UN an out. Submit to his rule and sign the Charter of Unification. They lost their identities as countries but became part of the new ásveldi Imperium. The Allfather then rolled up his sleeves and started rebuilding the broken remains of Earth. It took years. Hurt a lot of people anyway. But it didn’t end with ash.”
He paused, his gaze distant as if remembering. “The Allfather focused on the basics first. Food, water, power, schools. He knew that without a stable foundation, nothing else mattered. It was a slow process, and there were sacrifices, but he was methodical. He didn’t just throw money at problems; he addressed the root causes. Corruption, inefficiency, and old grudges were swept aside. It was brutal, but effective.”
Ralaen listened intently, her ears twitching with curiosity. “And the people? How did they react?”
Eirik shrugged. “It was a mixed bag. Some welcomed the change, seeing it as a chance for a fresh start. Others resented the loss of their national identities and the imposition of a single rule. There were riots, protests, and even attempts at secession, but the Allfather was firm. He offered a choice: unite under his banner or face the consequences. Most chose to unite.”
He took a sip of his drink, his expression turning somber. “The rebuilding wasn’t just about infrastructure. It was about healing the wounds of the past. The Allfather promoted unity, encouraging intermarriage and cultural exchange. He broke down the barriers that had divided people for centuries. It wasn’t easy, and there were setbacks, but slowly, Earth began to heal.”
Ralaen nodded, her mind racing with the implications. “And after that?”
“After that,” Eirik said, a spark of pride in his eyes, “he pointed up. Once we weren’t falling apart at home, we looked to the stars, he had the drives made, the ships built, and told us we were done staring at one world. So, we left. Some excited, some dragged along. Didn’t matter. In the end we all reached for the stars.”
He leaned back, his expression softening as he shifted to a different tone. “You know, all this talk about unification and progress, it’s easy to forget the stories that shaped us. The old tales, the myths, they’re woven into the fabric of who we are.”
Eirik's voice shifted, taking on the cadence of someone reciting something learned in childhood. "Odínn. The Allfather. He's been with us since the beginning—since before we left Earth, since before we had writing to record his deeds. Every human child grows up hearing the stories. The one-eyed wanderer who traded half his sight for wisdom. The king who refuses to sit on his throne while his people still bleed."
He took a slow drink, then continued. "And the Norns—his daughters. Urd, who remembers everything that has ever been. Verdandi, who sees the world as it is, in this very moment. Skuld, who knows what is yet to come." He set his glass down carefully. "Past, present, future. The three threads that weave all fate."
"The stories say different things about them," Eirik said, his voice dropping lower. "Some claim they're reborn each generation—that they come into the world through the Valkyrja, carrying their memories and their gift forward into new bodies. Others say they've always been exactly who they are. That they've stood beside the Allfather since the beginning, unchanging, while the rest of us age and die around them."
He met Ralaen's eyes. "Nobody knows for certain. That's the thing. They're real—I've seen footage, like everyone else. Odínn addressing the fleet. Skuld walking through Nidavellir. They exist. But what they are..." He shook his head slowly. "That's something else entirely."
Ralaen turned her glass slowly on the table. "And the Valkyrja?"
"They keep the oldest promise." Eirik's voice was steady now, sure. "Soldiers who die with the Allfather in their heart, fighting for something worth dying for—they don't just end. The Valkyrja come for them. They're carried to Valhalla, to feast at the Allfather's table for eternity." He was quiet for a moment. "That's the reward. That's what you earn when you give everything and trust your soul to something greater than yourself."
She listened, the words settling somewhere behind the alcohol. "You believe that?"
Eirik shrugged. "It's less about believing and more about acting like it's true. If you're standing on some rock in the middle of nowhere with Rilethi coming in, and there's nothing between them and your people except you and a wall—it helps to know that if you fall, it mattered. That there's something waiting for you on the other side."
He paused, his gaze distant as if seeing visions of the past. "You know, in a way, the Einherjar embody that spirit. They're the ones who stand on that rock, who face the impossible and keep going.
"Who are the Einherjar?" Ralaen asked.
Eirik leaned in, his voice taking on a reverent tone. "The Einherjar are the Allfather's chosen warriors. They carry the will of the Allfather and the wrath of humanity. They are the shield against the darkness, standing where others falter and rising where others fall. Their oath is to never turn their hands to cruelty and never raise their blade against the innocent. If they fall, it is with the knowledge that they march into Valhalla, where they will receive their reward for their sacrifice."
He swirled his drink. "Most of what I know comes from stories. But I met one once—an old Einherjar named Simon Dietrich, living out his days on a colony world. There was something about him. A presence. Like the weight of everything he'd done was still there, just... quiet."
Ralaen watched him. "What happened to him?"
"He stayed inactive. He'd given enough." Eirik shrugged. "But the legend never really leaves them."
Ralaen laughed, the sound a little uneven. "You make it sound almost appealing."
"It's not just glory," Eirik said, his voice low and serious. "It's pain and suffering. The ones who keep fighting do so not for themselves, but because it is their duty. They bear the weight of humanity's hopes and fears, and they do not falter. That is worth telling stories about."
The words settled in behind the alcohol and did not move.
Later, with help from more sober Jaegers, they made it back to base. Ralaen remembered the cold air on her face, the crunch of gravel under her feet, and Eirik's steadying hand when she misjudged a step. As they reached the door to her quarters, he turned to her, his expression thoughtful.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you might feel like every choice you've ever made was a mistake. But remember, you're here. You chose this path, and that choice, no matter how hard, is what makes you who you are."
Ralaen nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "I know. Thanks, Eirik."
He returned the smile, a glint of understanding in his eyes. "You'll be alright, Ralaen. We all will."
The stories stayed with her.
Once the hangover faded, they lingered at the edge of her thoughts during drills. Valhalla. The Valkyrja. The idea that falling could mean something more than a name on a memorial screen.
On a rest day, Eirik found her sitting under a tree near the obstacle course, watching clouds drift past.
"There's a chapel on base," he said. "Small place, tucked away. The Valkyrja stationed here runs it." He sat down beside her. "You've got that look. The one that says you're chewing on something that won't go down easy. She's good with people like that."
Ralaen's tail flicked. The Asuari had their own beliefs—she'd grown up with them, let them fade into the background when the war demanded her attention. But Eirik's words had cracked something open, and the questions that spilled out weren't going to settle on their own.
"Show me," she said.
The chapel sat in a quiet corner of the base. Stone walls. Wooden beams. A plain door that looked older than the building around it. Inside, a carved figure stood behind the altar—a woman in armor, spear in one hand, the other open and waiting.
The Valkyrja who stepped out from a side room had silver threading through dark hair and fine lines at the corners of her eyes. She moved like someone who had long ago made peace with herself.
"Eirik." Her voice was warm, dry. "Bringing me more work?"
"The curious kind," he said. "Recruit Ralaen. Asuari. She's been thinking."
"Dangerous habit." The Valkyrja turned to Ralaen, studying her with eyes that missed nothing. "I'm Sigrun. Valkyrja attached to J?tunheim. I look after the ones who think too hard about why they're here—and the ones who avoid thinking until it catches up with them."
Ralaen's ears flattened slightly. "I don't know what I believe. But what he told me won't leave."
"Good," Sigrun said. "Sit. Tell me what's stuck."
They talked.
About Valhalla. About what made a death worthy. About whether any of it applied to someone who wasn't human.
"I'm not here to convert you," Sigrun said at one point. "I'm here to help you carry what you carry. If the stories of Odínn and the Norns make the weight easier, we use them. If not, we find something else." She leaned forward. "But hear me on this: if you stand for your people, for something worth protecting, and you do it when it hurts—when it costs you—then no honest Valkyrja closes a door in your face. Not on this side of death or any other."
That stayed too.
Ralaen started finding her way to the chapel after hard days. Sometimes with Eirik. Sometimes alone. Sometimes she talked. Sometimes she just sat in the back and let the silence push against the noise in her head.
