February 28, 221 AD, Civitas Aurelia, Gallia.
The sunlight of the Gallic winter spilled across the floors of the praetorium’s dining chamber. Lucius sat near the hearth, peeling an orange, while Isolda reviewed a stack of reports over a cup of watered wine.
It was a quiet morning in the capital. However, as Isolda reached across the table for a wax tablet, she let out a hiss of breath.
Her hand flew to the base of her spine, her knuckles white as she massaged the muscles.
Lucius dropped his fruit, his eyes narrowing in concern. "Are you injured?"
Isolda waved him off, though her jaw remained clenched.
"I am fine, Lucius. It is the reality of carrying your heir while wearing fifteen pounds of iron."
As the Director of the Shadows, Isolda refused to walk the palace halls without her concealed chainmail vest.
But the rings hung from her shoulders, driving a weight down into her lower back.
Lucius stared at the outline of the chainmail hidden beneath her tunic.
His mind, operating on the frequencies of structural engineering and load-bearing physics, visualized the stress points.
He realized that Roman armor was atrocious at weight distribution.
A flash of inspiration hit him like a blow.
"The load is wrong," Lucius muttered, his eyes widening.
He slammed his hand against the table, rattling the cups. "By the gods, the suspension is backward! Isolda, you solved a logistical flaw!"
Without another word, Lucius vaulted out of his chair and sprinted out of the dining chamber, his boots echoing down the corridor.
Isolda watched him vanish, a smile touching her lips.
She had learned long ago that when the Forge Master caught the scent of a new invention, it was useless to stand in his way.
For the next five hours, Lucius barricaded himself inside his drafting room. He ignored the edicts and ledgers, his stylus flying across a sheet of parchment.
He was designing something that did not exist in the ancient world: a tactical corslet.
Instead of hanging weight from the collarbones, this garment utilized ribs of spring-steel.
These ribs would redistribute the weight of the armor away from the lower spine and transfer it across the hips and abdomen.
To ensure it remained impenetrable to assassins, the outer layer would feature a matrix of micro-chainmail, sandwiched between layers of silk to catch the edge of a blade.
It was a masterpiece of engineering.
But more than that, Lucius intentionally designed it to look fierce.
Blueprints in hand, Lucius bypassed the foundries and marched into the capital’s artisan district. He sought out Bion, a Greek tailor whom Lucius had poached from the Guilds for his expertise in textiles.
Bion was inspecting a bolt of wool when Lucius slapped the schematics onto his cutting table.
"I need this fabricated by nightfall," Lucius demanded, tapping the lines. "Spring-steel boning, woven silk, and micro-riveted iron rings."
The tailor adjusted his spectacles, peering down at the drawing.
For a moment, his face remained stoic.
He traced the curves of the steel ribbing and the lacing system at the back. Bion looked up, a grin breaking across his face.
"Dominus," Bion whispered in awe. "This defies tailoring. It is armor, yet it flows like a second skin. The way these steel ribs curve... it will support the lumbar perfectly while stopping a dagger."
Lucius felt a surge of validation.
Roman blacksmiths understood blunt force, but they understood nothing about ergonomics.
"Exactly. It takes the weight off the shoulders and turns the torso into a flexible fortress."
Bion rubbed his hands together, his pride ignited. "I assume this is a bespoke piece for your bride? I will need her measurements to bend the spring-steel to the correct tolerances."
Lucius didn’t blink. He rattled off Isolda’s proportions with the accuracy of an engineer, detailing the curvature required to accommodate her womb without compromising the armor’s tensile strength.
Bion’s eyebrows shot up toward his hairline.
He let out a whistle. "May the gods have mercy on any man who crosses her in this garment. Give me six hours, Dominus. I will rivet the silk."
Lucius spent the rest of the afternoon pacing through the industrial sectors, managing the production lines for the Decimus Engines, but his mind was fixed on the garment taking shape in Bion’s shop.
When the sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows over the capital, Lucius returned to the praetorium carrying a lockbox.
He found Isolda in the peristyle gardens. She was kneeling on the grass, playing tug-of-war with Fenrir using a knotted rope.
The Ovcharka puppy was growing at an alarming rate, possessing the shoulder mass of a hound, and he was growling as Isolda hoisted him off the ground.
Lucius leaned against the colonnade, watching the Director of the Shadows laugh as the puppy tackled her into the grass.
"If he gets any larger, I will have to start issuing him legionary rations," Lucius called out, stepping into the garden.
Isolda looked up, brushing the dirt from her skirts.
She released the rope, allowing Fenrir to trot away with his prize, and offered Lucius a smirk.
"He is a northern beast, Lucius. He requires a challenge." She stood up, brushing a braid over her shoulder. "Have you finished rewriting the laws for the day?"
Lucius smiled, holding up the box by its handle. "I believe I have. Walk with me to our quarters. I have a tactical upgrade for you."
Isolda’s eyes sparked with curiosity.
She fell into step beside him, ordering the *Custodes* in the corridors to hold their positions and ensure they were not disturbed.
The moment they entered the chambers and the doors clicked shut, Lucius set the box on the edge of their bed.
He popped the latches and opened the lid.
Isolda stepped closer, her breath catching. Resting on a bed of velvet was the corslet.
The exterior was tailored from silk, tightly fitted and seamless. But interwoven through the fabric was a lattice of chainmail.
The internal spring-steel ribs gave the garment a structure, tapering at the waist before flaring over the hips.
"Put away that iron you are wearing," Lucius instructed, stepping back and leaning against the vanity table. "Try it on."
Isolda did not hesitate. She unbuckled her belt, pulling the chainmail over her head with a metallic clatter.
She stripped down to her under-tunic, shivering in the cool evening air, before lifting the corslet from the box.
She slipped her arms through the shoulder straps, pulling the garment against her chest.
The front panels snapped into place with clasps, but the lacing at the rear required assistance.
"Help me," Isolda requested, turning her back to him, pulling her hair out of the way.
Lucius stepped forward, his fingers working the laces.
As he pulled the bindings taut, the spring-steel ribs engaged.
The corslet compressed against her ribs, the steel bowing outward just enough to cradle her lower abdomen while transferring the weight of the armor onto her hips.
Isolda let out a gasp.
Lucius froze, his hands lingering on the laces. "Is it too tight? Does the steel pinch?"
"No," Isolda breathed, her voice filled with wonder.
She rolled her shoulders, twisting her torso side to side.
"Lucius... the pain is gone. The weight is gone. I feel like I am wearing nothing, yet it is solid iron."
She turned around to face him, and Lucius felt his pulse hammer in his throat.
The silk and mesh clung to her, accentuating her silhouette. It looked less like protective gear and more like the regalia of a war goddess!
She stepped up to the mirror standing in the corner of the room, running her hands over the silk over her stomach. The spring-steel supported her spine with comfortable pressure.
"You are a genius..." Isolda whispered, watching his reflection as he stepped up close behind her.
Lucius laughed, wrapping his arms around her waist, feeling the strength of his invention beneath his hands.
Isolda turned in his embrace, her eyes burning with a heat.
She reached up, framing his jaw with her hands, and pulled him down into a kiss.
The peace of their chamber stood in contrast to the war raging outside their walls.
For the rest of the night the threat of the Roman Senate, and the encroaching march of Legate Rufinus were forgotten...
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