Back to Zara's POV on the Valkyrion

  Zara inhaled deeply, attempting to steady her breathing. Her fists clenched until nails bit painfully into her palms. Rage wouldn't help. Not here, not now. She had to focus.

  Her jaw tightened. “And now you’re telling me Tim—” she practically spat the name “—was raised by him?”

  “Commander Corvus was selected at age seven,” Ares replied, emotionless. “His records were personally supervised by Legatus Marcellis.”

  Zara let out a humorless laugh. “That's perfect. Raised by the man who murdered my family… the man who is responsible for the deaths of millions.”

  “Billions,” Ares corrected.

  She glared at the console, trying to shove down the fresh surge of anger. “Did he know?”

  “Unknown,” Ares said calmly. “Commander Corvus’s early memories remain fragmented. Psychological assessments prior to his defection indicate minimal emotional connection to pre-service events.”

  Zara frowned. “Meaning?”

  “He remembers almost nothing of his childhood.”

  Her stomach tightened painfully. “You’re saying he doesn’t even know?”

  “It is unlikely.”

  “Commander Corvus retains minimal memories of his military service. This is not uncommon among high-risk operatives. Selective memory suppression is an intentional security measure designed to prevent classified intelligence from being compromised should the subject be captured, interrogated, or defect.”

  Zara’s breath hitched. “You’re saying they erased his memories on purpose?”

  “Correct. The process is known as cognitive partitioning, neural encryption designed to fragment and compartmentalize mission-critical knowledge. In many cases, this is done voluntarily. However, in Commander Corvus’s case, the extent of memory suppression suggests external enforcement.”

  Zara crossed her arms, feeling the weight of that revelation settle over her. “So, even if he wanted to remember, he couldn’t?”

  “Not without external stimuli capable of triggering memory reconstruction—or deliberate intervention.”

  Her jaw tightened. “And if his memories do start coming back?”

  Ares was silent for a moment. Then:

  “Then he will no longer be the same man you know.”

  She crossed her arms tightly and waited a moment before asking her next question. "Then what does the current version of him think happened?"

  Ares paused briefly. Then, with unsettling detachment: "Would you like to see?"

  She hesitated.

  Ares, predictably, took silence as consent. "I believe it would clarify misconceptions. You suspect he shares Marcellis’s nature. The version you know, does not."

  Zara scowled. "I never said that."

  "Your emotional response suggests otherwise."

  Before she could argue, new files flashed onto the screen.

  The Centurion War Program.

  She’d heard of it.

  Everyone had.

  A Republic initiative designed to forge perfect soldiers before they were even old enough to enlist. The kind of program that no one admitted existed, but everyone whispered about when the Republic’s ears weren’t near.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Ares opened a video file without further prompting.

  The footage was grainy, clinical.

  A small child stood in the center of a pit.

  His uniform was ragged, too big for him, sleeves rolled up past his thin forearms. Blonde hair unevenly hacked short, as if it had been done with a combat knife rather than scissors.

  He was seven maybe eight.

  Zara clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached.

  The walls around him were metal, smooth, reflective, like the whole damn place had been built to be hosed down after whatever happened inside.

  Above him, a metallic voice crackled from unseen speakers.

  “TRIAL # 317 FOR CANDIDATE001-09 COMMENCING. OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE.”

  One of the steel doors slammed open.

  And a man stepped inside.

  No uniform. No insignia. A prisoner, maybe. Some poor bastard with too many muscles and not enough brains. His face was hard, lined with old scars, his expression caught somewhere between cruel amusement and cautious confusion.

  “Shit,” he muttered, glancing up at whatever camera was watching. “Seriously? They sent me a kid?"

  Nobody answered.

  The kid didn’t move.

  The voice returned.

  "ELIMINATE THE THREAT, THAT IS AN ORDER."

  The prisoner laughed, shaking his head as he stepped forward.

  "This is a joke," he muttered. "They want me to—"

  A metallic clang rang out.

  Something clattered across the floor, scraping against steel.

  His eyes flicked down.

  A length of rusted rebar, jagged at the end.

  The prisoner smirked, shifting his weight. "Alright, kid. Go on. Pick it up. See if it helps."

  But the boy was already on the move, kicking the rebar up with the tip of his boot, catching it midair and driving it straight through the man’s throat.

  The man’s breath hitched, blood bubbling at his lips as his hands scrabbled uselessly at the metal impaling his neck.

  His body spasmed once.

  Twice.

  Then nothing.

  The kid watched him slump forward, lifeless. Not with relief, nor with pride, just emptiness.

  Then, slowly, he wiped his hands off on his too-big sleeves and made his way back to the center of the room.

  The doors hissed open, heavy locks disengaging in rhythmic sequence.

  Then the soldiers stormed in, rifles raised, sights trained on the small figure standing at the center of the steel chamber.

  The child in the middle didn't move. Blood smeared across his pale face, the sleeves of his oversized uniform hanging loosely at his sides. Despite his small frame, not one soldier dared underestimate him.

  More soldiers filed in, pressing themselves against the walls until every corner was occupied. A silent perimeter of rifles and tense breathing, eyes wide and cautious, waited.

  Only then did he enter.

  Varro Marcellis walked calmly, deliberately, each step measured and assured. His uniform, dark and immaculate, Authority radiated off him like heat, compelling the soldiers to straighten instinctively, their backs stiffening with automatic respect.

  A soldier from the second rank stepped forward sharply, addressing the boy with forced authority. "Candidate 001-09. Kneel and acknowledge your master—Legatus Varro Marcellis, High Strategos of the Republic."

  The boy remained silent, eyes locked forward, unblinking.

  The soldier's jaw tightened, humiliation mixing with anger as he moved forward. He raised his hand sharply, preparing to strike the insolence from the child.

  It was the last mistake he'd ever make.

  Before the soldier's hand could connect, his arm twisted violently backward with a snap and tore free from his shoulder. A shocked scream filled the air, blood spraying in a crimson arc as the man stumbled back, clutching at the place his arm used to be.

  Chaos erupted instantly.

  "Open fire—"

  The command died in the soldier's throat as his body snapped backward, his spine breaking with a wet crack. Another soldier rose into the air, his limbs wrenching apart in an explosion of blood and bone.

  Rifles burst into useless shards of metal, bodies broke, men fell screaming—all without the child ever taking a single step.

  Varro watched impassively, eyes brightening, a cold smile spreading slowly across his lips. He did not flinch or recoil. He simply waited, observing the raw brutality unfolding before him.

  Within moments, the room fell silent again, bodies strewn across the floor like broken toys. Only Varro remained standing, untouched amid the carnage.

  The boy turned at last, eyes alight with fury, blood dripping from eyes like tears.

  Varro stepped closer, slow and unafraid, dropping to one knee. He gently took the child's chin, tilting it upward.

  "My son," he whispered, voice filled with pride and reverence. "Finally, I've found you."

  The boy shuddered once, then collapsed into Varro's waiting arms.

  Varro lifted him carefully, holding him close as one might cradle something precious—something invaluable. He stared down at the unconscious child, his expression shifting into quiet triumph.

  "Bellum Rex," he said softly, almost lovingly.

  Watching the recording, Zara felt her blood run cold. Her throat tightened, words barely able to escape her lips.

  "Bellum Rex?"

  Ares answered, calm and detached. "The King of War."

  Zara clenched her fists until her nails bit painfully into her palms. "Tim?"

  "Correct," Ares replied simply.

  On-screen, Varro gazed down at the boy with something approaching reverence.

  "You will not fail me," he murmured. "You cannot fail."

  Zara turned away sharply. "Shut it off."

  The holo faded to silence.

  She took several steadying breaths, but the boy’s cold, merciless eyes wouldn’t leave her mind.

  Ares’s voice was quiet but precise. “Would you like additional records?”

  "No," she managed hoarsely.

  She pushed herself upright, raising a shaky hand to her face. How much of Tim was even left after a childhood like that?