Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
KATELL
Katell floated on a bed of clouds. The warmth surrounding her was a sharp contrast to the terrible cold she’d felt on the battlefield. Her limbs felt like wool, her body numb.
She opened her eyes to find the dim ceiling of her tent, its canvas roof draped in shadows and swaying gently with the wind outside.
“Welcome back,” a voice murmured beside her. “How are you feeling?”
She raised a hand, soft fur brushing against her skin.
She was swaddled in blankets, the air laced with the scent of medicinal herbs and the metallic tang of blood.
Turning her head, she squinted through the flickering candlelight, half expecting Dorias at her side, but it was Thocero’s lean face that greeted her.
The Gifted healer, slighter in build than his brother Larth, had pulled more than one Black Helmet back from the brink of death.
Katell tried to sit up, but her limbs were slow to obey, her body heavy. “I feel fine.” Her words were slurred. “Numb.”
“Don’t move.” Thocero’s cold hands eased her back gently against the furs. “Your body’s been fighting to heal itself for hours. The numbness is a side effect of my Gift. It’s keeping the pain at bay, but it’ll wear off soon.”
She lifted her linen tunic, stained with blood, and peered down her cleavage at her abdomen.
A thick bandage, tinged with red, wrapped her from hips to chest, reminding her of the mummies from Kemet.
She remembered Tia once explaining how members of the royal family were bound this way, their bodies prepared for the afterlife.
She grimaced and shifted, trying to sit up despite the dull ache blooming beneath her ribs.
Thocero swore under his breath. “Katell. You might be my leader, but if you undo all my hard work, so Laran help me—”
She sank back into the furs with a huff. Though calmer than Larth, Thocero often lost his temper when it came to stubborn patients.
He placed his palm over her chest, just above the bandages.
A pale light swelled beneath his fingers—as soft and cool as dawnlight on fresh snow.
It shimmered, spreading in tendrils through the linen.
His brow knitted in concentration. “Your heartbeat is steady again, and your body has almost replenished the blood you lost.”
He pulled back, the glow fading from his palm and plunging the tent into shadow once more. Only a few oil lamps flickered along the wooden support poles, their flames casting long, wavering silhouettes across the canvas walls.
The black leather breastplate Dorias had given her lay in pieces on the floor, crusted with dried blood—a stark reminder of her near-fatal encounter.
“That must have been some Gifted weapon to puncture your armour,” Thocero said, following her gaze.
She managed a faint smirk. “A gigantic axe with a wicked blade. Did anyone recover it?”
Thocero shook his head.
“Shame.”
Katell scanned the tent. Bloodied footprints marred the woollen rugs around her cot, dark smears ruining the intricate Rasennan patterns. At the foot of the bed lay a heap of discarded bandages, stiff with dried blood.
Her servant, Ladina, slipped past the wooden partition to gather them, offering Katell a wan smile.
But Dorias was nowhere in sight.
Disappointment twisted deep in her gut. She told herself it didn’t matter, that she didn’t need him hovering at her bedside. But the ache in her chest said otherwise. She’d felt him in her dreams—his warmth, his low voice—but maybe it had only been the fever.
“He stayed by your side the whole night,” Thocero said gently, as if reading her thoughts. “But he had to leave about an hour ago.”
Her breathing eased. He had been with her. She hadn’t imagined him.
Thocero reached into his satchel and withdrew a vial of Laran’s Tears, the black stones catching the flicker of a nearby lamp.
“He left these for you. Take one now. It’ll help you recover faster and soothe any lingering pain.”
He deposited a single Tear in her palm and handed her a cup of water. “If you feel any more discomfort this evening, call for me.”
She swallowed the Tear and, within moments, the familiar surge of power trickled through her body, soothing her aching muscles and mind.
She thanked him, but just as Thocero turned to leave, Dorias’ voice filtered in from outside—low, clipped, and unmistakably irritated as he exchanged words with the guards.
Katell winced. “How angry is he?”
Thocero gave her a weary smile. “Hard to tell. When he brought you in, you were on the brink of death.”
“It was just a cut.”
He snorted. “Your guts were hanging out.”
“A deep cut then,” she grumbled.
He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
She sighed. “Fine… Send him in.”
“As you wish, Praefect Viridia.”
Katell scowled at the Rasennan name she’d been given following her promotion to leader of the Black Helmets.
Viridia. Green, in reference to her eyes.
Thocero left with a soft chuckle, his calm voice drifting towards the front of the tent, where he exchanged a few quiet words with Dorias.
A moment later, Dorias stepped through into her private space, his crimson cloak swishing behind him and his armour polished.
He must have taken the time to clean up before returning to her—ever the disciplined soldier.
Ladina moved to greet him. “Legate Dalmati—”
“Leave.”
His tone was clipped, his face unreadable, but his eyes—locked on Katell—burned with barely restrained emotion.
Ladina bowed and exited. As soon as she did, Dorias crossed the space in three quick strides and pulled Katell into his arms, one hand gripping the back of her head. He pressed a fierce kiss to her hair.
“Laran’s shield,” he muttered. “I thought you were dead.”
Katell’s heart twisted. She wrapped an arm around his torso, her fingers grazing the cold metal of his breastplate before curling into the warm fabric beneath. She closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of cedar oil and fire-smoke clinging to his armour. “I’m glad you found me.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her. One calloused hand cradled her face, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. His slate-grey eyes searched hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch.
“I’ll always find you when you need me.”
Then he kissed her, his hand sliding into her hair. She leaned into the touch, drawing strength from it, even as the rigid tension in his frame betrayed the storm he was holding back.
“And the Northerner?” she asked.
“Gone.” His tone turned colder. “Laran’s flame reduced him to ash.”
“Good.”
Silence settled between them, thick as smoke. His eyes drifted over her, noting every wound, every bruise. She swallowed a stab of guilt. Although she wanted to reassure him, the ache deep in her core told a different story. Her healing Gift had been pushed to its limit.
Thocero was right. She was lucky to be alive.
Dorias sat beside her on the carved wooden stool, his crimson cloak pooling in rich folds like spilled wine. He didn’t speak right away, just stared at her with a weariness that went bone-deep, the mask of command slipping.
“What happened?”
She hesitated. Memories of the fight flickered through her mind, and fragments of the Northerner’s words returned. Deep down, his questions had stirred something uncertain.
“He was the same as me,” she said at last.
Dorias frowned. “What do you mean?”
She reached for his hand, and he took it without hesitation, steadying her as she eased upright. Pain tightened her jaw, but she pressed on.
“He healed fast. Like I do. He said he had immortal blood—that he was a descendant of some god—”
Dorias shook his head, his mouth tugging into a weary half-smile. “The Northerners have a flair for exaggeration—especially when it comes to their exploits and lineage.”
She’d heard that before, ever since joining the front lines. But the image of the man’s flesh knitting back together lingered. More than that, it was the confused look on his face, as if she should’ve known.
“He mentioned demigods,” she murmured.
That made Dorias’ smile fade. He didn’t speak right away, but the slight shift in his expression didn’t escape her.
“Demigods?” he echoed. “Like in the stories?”
The Achaean legends Damocles had told her as a child flooded her mind—tales of the children of gods wielding exceptional magic. Could that have been another secret Damocles had kept all along? Something he’d shielded her from out of fear, or shame?
Her heart thudded in her chest.
But then—why had her Gifts only awakened recently, rather than at birth? Why now, after so many years? And why had the Mark appeared on her neck at all, if immortal blood already ran in her veins?
Questions tumbled through her mind, too heavy to ignore. In the heat of battle, it had been easy to dismiss the Northerner’s words as desperate lies. But now, they returned with sharp clarity.
What if he’d been telling the truth?
All her life, she’d never met someone like her—someone who healed as she did. The Northerner was the first to offer an explanation. One that, no matter how she looked at it, made sense.
She glanced at Dorias. “Could it be true?”
With a calm that felt more practised than natural, Dorias gave a small shrug. “We can ask the priests when we reach Kisra. If there’s any truth to it, they’ll know.”
Kisra—the Empire’s capital, and the centre of the world, as some called it. It was home to Laran’s Great Temple, where Katell was sure to find answers.
Dorias leaned forward, taking both her hands between his warm ones. “But until then, there’s no need to worry about it.”
Katell wished she had his steady confidence. But even if she were a demigoddess, it didn’t change her circumstances.
So did it really matter, then, what the answer was?
The response came from deep within.
Yes.
She couldn’t silence the gnawing unease curling through her chest. Not until she had answers.
She offered Dorias a small nod and decided to change the subject. If she wanted the truth, she’d have to seek it elsewhere.