Chapter 3 #2
“I’d never met an opponent like that before,” she admitted. “He was… stronger than I imagined.”
Dorias’ gaze sharpened. “Did you have the Tears with you?”
“I did. But they didn’t make a difference.”
A shadow crossed his face. “You should’ve stayed back.”
Katell released a long breath. “I made a strategic decision.”
“A strategic decision?” Dorias snapped, rising to his feet.
His cloak flared as he turned away, pacing the narrow space between her cot and the wooden partition that cordoned off her private area.
“Is that what you call disobeying orders? You could’ve been killed.
I had to rush you back to camp half-dead and I had no choice but to summon Atticus for interrogation. ”
Katell’s heart lurched. “What? Why?”
“He had strict orders to keep you behind the lines.” Dorias dragged a hand down his face before raking it through his hair with a sharp exhale. “Legate Tyrrhenus wants to know why he failed.”
Guilt slammed into her. She pushed herself up with a wince, her hands balling into fists in her lap. “By the Moon, Dorias. He didn’t fail—I forced his hand. The scouts never came back, and I assumed the worst. It was time to make a move before we lost all our men.”
He stopped at the edge of the bed, staring down at her, his eyes burning.
“You are Laran’s Chosen, and you almost died.
” He leaned in just enough to cast a shadow over her.
“Tyrrhenus wants answers. And right now, he’s not interested in excuses.
He wants someone to punish, and that someone is Atticus. ”
Her throat tightened. “What will happen to him?”
Dorias exhaled through his nose, his expression shadowed. “It depends on what Tyrrhenus decides. He’ll remain in confinement for now. Maybe worse. I’ll do what I can, but…”
Katell’s stomach twisted. The thought of Atticus paying the price for her recklessness made her chest ache. “Dorias—”
“Get some rest,” he interrupted, brushing a hand down her cheek in that quiet, possessive way that had become so familiar over the months. “I need to check on the others. The Eighth are celebrating, and you know what they’re like when wine’s involved.”
She managed a weak smile. He lingered a moment longer, then turned and left through the divider.
She sank back against her pillows, the ache in her body nothing compared to the unrest in her mind. She stared up at the tent’s canvas ceiling, haunted by the thought of Atticus locked away because of her.
She woke drenched in sweat, her tunic clinging damply to her skin. Sleep had offered little relief—only flashes of Atticus chained and bloodied, haunting her dreams.
Ladina arrived to assist her with a bath, and when they peeled back the bandages, her wounds were gone. The skin beneath was smooth, and though her muscles still ached, she was healed.
After forcing down a bowl of camp porridge thickened with meat, she dressed in a clean woollen tunic over riding leathers and fur-lined boots. The outfit deviated from regulation, but as praefect, no one dared to berate her—so long as she wore the black breastplate and helmet into battle.
Wrapping herself in a deep red cloak lined with fur, she slipped out of her tent just as night descended upon the camp. Her boots crunched through frozen snow as she followed a torch-lit side path past silent rows of symmetrical tents.
Though winter was nearing its end, the night air still bit at her cheeks. The sky stretched above her in a deep indigo expanse, dotted with twinkling stars. Her breath hung in the air in small, frosty puffs. She pulled her cloak tighter and made her way towards the distant, firelit pavilion.
Romilda’s tent.
Of all the officers Katell had met, the Fourth Legate spoke of the gods and Gifts with the most ease. Her insights into the Ice Kingdoms and their old deities made her Katell’s most promising lead. Perhaps she would know something about demigods.
And more importantly, she could be trusted to keep quiet.
Katell had considered asking Pinaria as her sister had once been a priestess, but since the Sixth Legion had come north, Pinaria had grown close to Arnza. The two were now inseparable.
And Arnza couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut.
Romilda’s quarters were nearly four times the size of Katell’s—matching Dorias’ in status—though both paled beside Legate Tyrrhenus’ monstrous pavilion looming at the centre of the Eighth Legion’s camp.
The two guards outside gave her familiar nods; she’d visited often enough to be expected. But the moment they parted the tent flaps, warmth spilled out—along with unmistakable sounds of pleasure.
Katell groaned, already guessing what she was about to stumble upon.
A servant parted the thick curtain leading to Romilda’s private space, revealing the luxurious interior filled with plush cushions and soft rugs.
The beautiful blonde legate was atop her lavish bed, straddling a muscled warrior with flaming red braids.
His hands gripped her hips as he drove into her at a relentless pace.
Romilda’s head was thrown back, moaning with wild abandon.
Her long blonde curls were splayed across the broad chest of a second man kneeling at her back, one hand on her breast while the other slipped between her legs.
Katell cleared her throat, and Romilda glanced over her shoulder with heavy-lidded eyes. Catching sight of Katell, a wicked smile curved her lips.
“Viridia, don’t just stand there,” Romilda called out between heavy pants, waving her over. “Come join us.”
Katell huffed, crossing her arms. “Your guards really shouldn’t allow anyone inside while you’re… celebrating.”
Romilda held up a hand, and at once the men stopped their ministrations.
She rose from the bed in a fluid, feline motion, hips swaying with effortless confidence.
A servant hurried forward with a silk robe, draping it over her shoulders.
The fabric clung to the curves of her body before cascading down over long, sculpted legs.
The Suebi woman was just as striking as Tia, but the calculating glint in her icy blue eyes always put Katell on edge.
“I told them that you were always welcome,” Romilda said with a sly wink, already pouring herself a cup of wine. “Care for a drink?”
Katell shook her head. “Not tonight.”
Romilda’s sharp gaze swept over her. “I heard you took a nasty hit—guts hanging out and everything. I’m surprised to see you on your feet.”
Katell winced. News travelled fast around camp, and by now she was sure every legion knew how the new praefect had almost died facing a Northerner. “I’m healed now.”
“And I’m glad to hear it.” Romilda reclined onto a curved couch strewn with furs and embroidered cushions. A servant stepped forward and unfurled a curtain from a polished wooden pole to give them some privacy. “Tell me, what can I do for Laran’s Chosen?”
The faintly mocking tone was a reminder that, though their dealings were cordial, they weren’t allies. Romilda’s loyalties lay with the Fourth Legion, and Dorias’ presence—along with the Sixth and the Black Helmets—threatened the balance of power she’d long maintained along the northern front.
Katell stayed standing. She wasn’t here to linger. “I need to know about demigods.”
Romilda raised a thin eyebrow. “Demigods?”
“Yes,” Katell replied. “The Northern leader I fought claimed to be one. He had a similar healing skill to mine and said it was due to the immortal blood he carried. I came to ask what you knew about them.”
Romilda leaned back, her cup of wine resting lightly between her fingers.
“I’ve met a couple among the Suebi—descendants of gods who once fell in love with mortals and lay with them.
Depending on the strength of their Gifts, they were even worshipped themselves.
” She gave a faint, knowing smile. “The Achaeans have plenty of stories. Their gods were fond of stealing mortal women and forcing themselves on them, after all.”
That part had never appeared in Damocles’ bedtime tales. And as a child, she’d never thought to question the gaps.
Katell hesitated, the words feeling absurd the moment they left her mouth. “The Northerner suggested I could be a demigoddess… How can I know for sure?”
Romilda’s response was immediate. “You’re not.”
Katell blinked, caught off guard by the certainty in her tone.
“Demigods have magic from birth,” the legate went on, swirling her wine. “If you were one, you’d have shown signs as a child. But your Gifts only manifested last year, did they not?”
Katell had suspected as much, but she needed to hear someone else confirm it. How could she be a demigoddess if Laran’s Mark had only appeared a little under a year ago? She’d never shown the slightest hint of magic before.
Romilda’s mouth quirked into a dry smile. “Don’t make that face. You might not be a demigoddess, but you are still Laran’s Chosen and more powerful than any of us here. Even that gorgeous man of yours.”
Katell stiffened. “He’s not my—”
Romilda waved a dismissive hand. “You’re not fooling anyone, so don’t even pretend. I know you two are fucking. Trust me, the whole camp knows it.”
Katell clenched her jaw, heat rising to her face. Dorias had been adamant about discretion, and she’d agreed. Their relationship wasn’t meant to be fodder for gossip.
Romilda leaned back with a grin. “But don’t worry, my lips are sealed.”
Katell gave a curt nod. “Thank you.”
Romilda drained her wine with a flourish and stood, brushing past Katell in a flurry of silk and heady perfume.
“Now, are you going to join me for the second round? I assure you, I have the best lovers in the whole camp. They’re very well trained.
Although I have a feeling that dashing legate of yours has quite a talent for fulfilling a woman’s needs. ”
Katell’s cheeks flushed. Romilda wasn’t wrong—Dorias knew how to please her—but that wasn’t what made her heart tighten at the mention of his name.
He was the man who’d pulled her from Bruna’s arena, who’d seen potential in her before she’d even understood the shape of her own power. He’d encouraged her to hone her magic, sharpen her blade, and believe in what the Black Helmets were fighting for.
Dorias believed in peace. He didn’t revel in conquest, but fought to protect the Empire’s borders from chaos and raids. While others schemed for power, he bore the weight of duty as though it were his calling.
He was her lover, yes—but also her saviour, her commander, and her confidant.
And yet, she still didn’t truly know him.
He kept so much behind that calm, disciplined mask—wounds he never spoke of, burdens he carried alone. She only hoped that one day he would let her in fully, as she’d let him in.
Catching Romilda watching her with a knowing smirk, Katell cleared her throat and straightened. “I’ll let you get back to your… activities.”
The legate’s smile turned sly. “Just say fucking, Viridia. Life is too short to dwell on propriety, particularly when we face death every day.”
She slipped past the curtain, returning to her bed and her lovers, and Katell took it as her cue to leave.
She drew her cloak tight around herself, but her hands had already started trembling. What began as a subtle twitch in her fingers spread into a crawling restlessness beneath her skin.
She stepped outside the pavilion, flexing her fingers as the cold hit her harder than before.
A sour feeling roiled in her gut. She wasn’t sure whether Romilda’s certainty had comforted or unsettled her.
So, she wasn’t a demigoddess. But the mystery of Laran’s Mark still remained. Someone must have made a pact with the god of war on her behalf, and she needed to know why.
Her breath ghosted into the frozen air, and the itch worsened, quickening her pulse.
Damn it.
Her hand moved on instinct, reaching for the small glass vial of Laran’s Tears tucked in her belt. The black stones shimmered faintly in the torchlight. She popped the stopper and swallowed one dry.
Within moments, her heartbeat steadied, and the storm of thoughts since leaving Romilda’s tent slowed, sharpening into a single, decisive thread.
Dorias was right. When the snow melted, she would travel to Kisra. She would kneel before Laran’s temple and demand the truth from the god himself—if he’d listen.
She’d barely made it to the camp’s main path when a figure came hurtling towards her, boots slipping on the packed snow.
“Kat!” Pinaria skidded to a stop, chest heaving, eyes wide with panic.
Katell’s heart leapt. “What is it?”
“It’s Tia,” Pinaria gasped. “Something’s wrong—I think she’s in danger.”