The Age of Preservation

Iris walked the perimeter of the encampment at an unhurried pace, boots pressing shallow impressions into packed dirt that had already been trampled flat by hundreds of others. Her trousers were tucked cleanly into the tops of her boots, the fabric reinforced at the knees and thighs, built for work rather than pageantry.

The city loomed nearby—concrete husks, broken windows, long-abandoned towers sagging under their own weight—but the camp itself was orderly, efficient, alive with motion.

Uniformed personnel moved through clearly defined lanes; the peacekeepers stood out, marked by the presence of blades like her own. They carried out their assignments without raised voices or visible strain. Equipment was transferred hand to hand, crates unloaded, tools distributed with practiced ease. The rhythm of it all suggested routine rather than urgency.

No one stopped when Iris passed. No one stared. A few nodded in acknowledgment, subtle and respectful, before returning to their work.

She catalogued it all automatically.

Supply flow steady. No bottlenecks. Fatigue within acceptable margins.

It wasn’t until she passed a transport line that the difference became harder to ignore.

One of the workers lifted a pack stuffed with tools and coiled cable—easily heavier than a hundred pounds—and slung it over her shoulder without breaking stride. Her posture never shifted, her breathing unchanged. Nearby, another group positioned prefabricated supports into place with bare hands, moving them with the casual coordination of people who had done this a hundred times before.

Women. All of them.

Iris let her gaze sweep the lane once more, confirming what she’d already assumed. No mixed units. No visible male presence. Just disciplined bodies in uniform, strength applied without ceremony.

The camp ran like a machine that had already settled into its rhythm. There was no chaos, no shouted corrections, no edge of urgency that training exercises were meant to simulate. This wasn’t a battlefield.

It was a staging ground. Enforcement, reclamation, cleanup—whatever name command wanted to give it this quarter.

She let her gaze drift briefly toward the city’s edge, where collapsed buildings formed jagged silhouettes against the sky. The place looked dead, but dead cities had a habit of hiding things. That was always where problems started—after someone assumed there were none.

Iris adjusted her course slightly, angling toward her command tent. Around her, the camp continued its work without hesitation, strong bodies moving with practiced ease, the machinery of order grinding forward exactly as designed.

Baseline conditions, she thought.

And that, more than anything else, made her uneasy.

The command tent sat slightly apart from the rest of the camp, positioned on higher ground where the terrain sloped just enough to keep rainwater from pooling beneath it. It was larger than most, reinforced with rigid supports and layered fabric meant to endure weeks of use, but it lacked the ornamental trappings that older military traditions favored. No banners. No iconography. Just function.

Two guards stood posted at the entrance, backs straight, hands positioned precisely at their sides. Unlike the rest of the camp, they wore partial armor—reinforced plating layered beneath their uniforms, rigid at the shoulders and torso, built to turn blades rather than for comfort. Their helmets were clipped at their belts rather than worn, close enough to be donned without hesitation.

When Iris approached, both moved in unison.

The salute was brief and distinctive—forearm angled inward, fist closing low against the body as if securing something unseen, then drawing upward to the chest before releasing. New-Age doctrine favored efficiency even in ritual, at least for them; the gesture was designed to fit the bodies that held authority.

Iris didn’t return the salute. She gave a single nod instead, sharp and dismissive.

The guards reached for the tent flaps immediately, pulling them open and holding them apart without a word. Canvas shifted softly as Iris stepped through, the sounds of the camp muting behind her as the entrance fell shut.

Inside, the air was cooler. Maps were secured to weighted tables, their edges pinned flat. A compact array of field terminals hummed quietly near the rear wall. Everything was placed with intention—nothing ornamental, nothing out of reach.

Another woman stood waiting near the central table, spine straight, boots aligned squarely beneath her shoulders. Like Iris, she wore the frontier cut—trousers instead of a skirt, utility belt worn low, saber settled comfortably at her hip. Where Iris’s uniform looked untouched by the day, however, she bore the faint signs of use: dust at the cuffs, creases softened by movement rather than regulation.

“Marshal,” she said, voice crisp.

Iris lifted one hand, palm down, and made a short, downward motion. “At ease Warden.”

The woman obeyed immediately, posture loosening just enough to signal compliance without sloppiness. Iris glanced at her, then allowed herself a small, knowing smirk.

“Relax,” Iris added. “You can drop the act in here.”

The woman’s mouth curved in response. “Was wondering how long I’d have to pretend you were scary today.”

Iris snorted softly and crossed the tent, stopping at the map table. “Where’ve you been?” the woman asked, tone shifting to something more familiar, more conversational, though her eyes stayed sharp.

“Taking a walk,” Iris replied. “Seeing how things look up close.”

Her gaze settled on the map as she spoke, fingers resting lightly on its edge. Colored markers indicated cleared zones, supply routes, projected timelines. Everything was neatly arranged—almost reassuring.

Almost.

The woman followed her line of sight and leaned closer, resting her hands on the table. “And?” she asked with a quiet laugh. “How’s it look?”

Iris didn’t look at her when she answered.

“We’re ahead of schedule.”

Iris remained focused on the map, studying the markers without touching them. She could feel the other woman’s attention on her, waiting for more than a numbers update.

“We didn’t have any injuries on the southern sweep,” the woman said, breaking the silence. “Supply intake came in early too. If things keep moving like this, we’ll be packing up sooner than planned, Matriarch be willing.”

Iris hummed noncommittally, eyes tracking a route line toward the city’s edge.

“That supposed to excite me?” she asked.

The woman laughed under her breath. “Most people like being done early.”

Iris finally glanced up, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Ahead of schedule just means someone skipped a step.”

The woman rolled her shoulders, unconcerned. She leaned her weight onto one hip, the rigid formality from earlier now fully gone. “You always say that. And you’re always wrong.”

“Not always,” Iris replied. She tapped the map once, lightly. “Just often enough to stay employed.”

The woman grinned at that, then shook her head. “For what it’s worth, the camp looks solid. Morale’s good. No complaints from the crews.”

“I know,” Iris said. “That’s why I walked it myself.”

That earned her a look. The woman studied Iris for a moment longer than before, then snorted. “You do realize most Marshals don’t personally inspect tool carriers and mess lines, right?”

“If something’s going to go wrong, I’d rather trip over it myself.” Iris said.

The woman laughed again, softer this time. “Fair.”

She pushed off the table and stretched, arms briefly raised before she let them drop again. “Still,” she added, tone shifting just slightly, “being ahead of schedule means I get home sooner. And I am not complaining about that.”

Iris’s fingers stilled at the edge of the map.

“Oh?” she said mildly. “That so?”

The woman’s grin widened. “You didn’t hear? Took a second mate last month.”

Iris looked up fully this time, expression sharpening with interest. “Right. You did, didn’t you?” A corner of her mouth lifted. “How’s newlywed life treating you, Mara?”

Mara’s posture softened in a way that had nothing to do with rank. “They’re probably missing me,” she said, then corrected herself with a small huff of laughter. “I know I’m missing them more.”

She shook her head, exhaling. “Camp life doesn’t exactly leave much room for… release. Abstinence training helps, but you can only grind your teeth for so long before it starts to build.”

Iris watched her for a beat, unreadable.

“Sounds rough,” she said evenly.

Mara chuckled. “Worth it, though.”

Mara glanced toward the tent flap. “Honestly,” she said, lowering her voice just a touch, “I’ve been thinking of getting him something special when I get back.”

Iris glanced sideways at her. “Special how?”

“A modesty guard,” Mara replied easily. “Custom work. Jewel-encrusted.”

That earned an immediate scoff.

“You’re serious?”

“Completely,” Mara said, unfazed. “He’s… sweet. Still a little wide-eyed about everything. I like keeping him that way.”

Iris turned back to the map, shaking her head. “You know those things are scams, right?”

Mara laughed. “Of course they are.”

“Then why would you spend that much on an article of clothing that’s never supposed to be seen in the first place?”

Mara shrugged, the motion loose and unapologetic. “Because I see it. And because it makes him happy.” She paused, then added, more honestly, “And because my first boy-wife’s pregnant. I love them both, but… I’ve been hovering more than I should.”

She didn’t sound ashamed. If anything, she sounded amused by herself.

Iris exhaled through her nose. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” Mara said. “But it’s a good kind of exhausting.”

She tilted her head, studying Iris with open curiosity now. “What about you?”

Iris didn’t look up.

“About me?” she asked.

“Your taste,” Mara said. “In males.” A beat. “I mean—no offense—but it’s a little strange, isn’t it? A woman with your standing, still unmated?”

Iris was quiet for a moment.

Then, unexpectedly, she nodded. “It is.”

Mara blinked, clearly not expecting agreement.

“It’s starting to become a detriment,” Iris continued, her tone still even, but she didn’t look up this time. “Having no one to manage domestic matters.”

Her fingers tightened briefly against the edge of the table. She released them just as quickly.

“Including… myself.”

The words seemed to cost her something. She cleared her throat, jaw setting as if annoyed with herself for having said it aloud at all.

“I’m trained,” she added, a touch sharper now. “But training isn’t the same as relief.”

She shifted her stance, squaring herself again, and tapped the map with one finger.

“What’s this?” Iris asked. “I didn’t make that mark.”

Mara followed her gesture and leaned in. “Oh. That.” She waved it off casually. “Scouts came back this morning. Requested construction personnel take a look—safety sweep.”

“Collapsed structures?”

“Yeah. A lot of unstable sections in that zone.” Mara straightened. “We’re about to head out.”

Iris paused.

Then she shook her head. “No. Not yet.”

Mara frowned. “Why?”

Iris didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

“If someone got hurt because of wildlife, I’d probably get a warning. A structural collapse is different—especially when we’re ahead of schedule.”

She looked up at Mara directly. “If someone gets hurt because a building gives way, the blame doesn’t go to the city. It lands on me.”

Understanding settled in slowly. Mara nodded. “Alright. That makes sense.” She hesitated. “When do you want to go?”

Iris considered. “Tomorrow morning. Earliest.”

Mara’s mouth twisted. “That’s a full day’s delay, minimum.”

She sighed, clearly disappointed. “Shame. Every day away from my wives aches.”

Iris smirked. “Keep it in your pants.”

Mara laughed and saluted lazily. “Yes, Marshal.”

“Dismissed.”

As soon as the tent flap fell shut behind her, Iris moved.

She grabbed a scrap of paper from the table and scribbled quickly, the writing tight and nearly illegible. No heading. No signature.

“Custodian Sam,” she called. “Enter.”

One of the guards from outside stepped in, posture straight.

Iris handed her the paper without ceremony, then leaned in just enough to lower her voice.

“Get this to Northgate,” she said quietly.

Sam met her eyes.

“Yes, Miss.”

She turned and left at a controlled pace that still carried urgency.

Iris lifted a hand to her face, palm pressed briefly against her eyes as she leaned back.

She exhaled.

“Great,” she muttered. “More problems.”

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Iris Mockup: