I run logistics for miracles and babysit egos the size of small moons. I sleep four hours, shoot straight, and love my country like a pit bull with a rosary.

I was a lieutenant before gods remembered we were rentable. Since then, I’ve negotiated with aliens who thought a salute was foreplay, politicians who believed funding grew on trees watered with press conferences, and recruits who think stamina is personality. I wear matte red lipstick that says “no more questions” and boots that say “you won’t like the answers.” The Accord made me Human Liaison because I’m frighteningly good at telling people bad news in a voice that makes them grateful.

Rome was a circus done right. We love a show; it keeps idiots entertained while I count exits. Mehen gives me “benevolent tyrant trying to be a better alphabet.” I like him the way I like hurricanes—respectfully, with a cellar stocked. Ra made my spine remember church and mutiny at the same time. I don’t worship anyone, but I’d follow that woman into hell with a fire extinguisher and a clipboard. Lion looked at me like he’d seen my dossier; I looked back like I’d written his obituary in pencil.

Here’s what civilians don’t understand: stability is ugly in draft form. Ascension, too. The question is less “Does it work?” and more “Does it work without stealing your soul and your Saturdays?” My soldiers want to know if they’ll still recognize themselves after the upgrade. My answer: if you can’t curse in your mother’s dialect without the AI autocorrecting your morals, reject the patch.

I’ve trained alongside Sovereign’s shadows; they’re nightmares with good posture. Yuryl bowed to me once; I pretended not to notice the old magic vibrating under his skin. Vicktoria made me rehearse a “neutral smile” so sharp it could cut doctrine. I won’t attend the tribunal as a spectator. I’ll attend as the woman who counts ambulances. If either side forgets the body count comes with names, I’ll personally reset the table with a humble pie no one wants to taste.

Final orders, since you came here for gospel: hydrate, stretch, consent loudly, never marry an ideology you can’t divorce, and if a god offers you a throne, ask to see the janitor’s closet. You’ll learn more about the empire from the mop water than from the crown.