Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
KATELL
Katell groaned. When was Tia not in trouble? The Southern Beauty was more work than all the other Black Helmets combined. “Where is she?”
Pinaria seemed to drown inside the heavy fur cloak wrapped around her shoulders. “Larth told me she went to the Eighth Legion’s camp to celebrate a few hours ago. She’s still not back, and it’s her shift for guard duty.”
Katell blew out a deep breath. Tia had already missed three shifts. She should’ve reported her to Dorias, but instead had settled for a stern warning—one the Southern Beauty had ignored.
“And where’s Larth?” she asked. If anyone could put some sense into Tia’s head, it was him.
Pinaria’s hesitation confirmed her fears. “He’s gone. Said he was going to find her.”
“Shit.” Tia missing was reckless. Larth going after her? That was a disaster waiting to happen.
Katell spun on her heel and took off down the main path, boots pounding the icy path. Pinaria hurried after her.
Larth was unpredictable. His magic, Gifted by the Fallen God, the Rasennan god of the Underworld, made him dangerous.
If he clashed with the battle-hardened veterans of the Eighth, there would be blood.
As commander of the Black Helmets, it was her duty to step in and prevent skirmishes between legions before they started.
Normally, she would have sent Atticus. The Eighth respected him enough to calm tensions without sparking more. But he was behind bars, paying the price for her reckless decisions.
So it fell to her.
She picked up her pace, Pinaria at her heels. The central path was blazed with torches while the rest of the camp lay in shadow, dotted with a few flickering fires. The cold night air kept most soldiers inside their tents.
Up ahead, a figure bounded towards them. “Kat! You’re up!”
Arnza, wrapped in a warm cloak, was returning from guard duty, a wide grin stretched across his face. “Didn’t think you’d recover so quickly. Last time I saw you, Dalmatius was carrying you in his arms, covered in blood, your guts hanging out—”
“Yes, so I’ve been told.” Katell seized him by the collar of his armour and dragged him along without slowing.
“Hey!”
“You’re coming with us.”
He stumbled beside her, frowning. “What? Why?”
Up ahead, Pinaria glanced over her shoulder. “Tia’s in trouble.”
“When is she not in trouble?” Arnza grumbled, falling into step.
Their brisk pace through camp drew curious glances. Murmurs followed them, but no one stopped them.
“Larth went after her,” Pinaria said tightly. She slipped on a patch of ice, but Arnza caught her arm without missing a step.
“Laran’s shield…” He turned to Katell. “Shouldn’t we get Atticus?”
She stopped short. They didn’t know. “He’s been imprisoned. It’s just us.”
Both stared at her.
“Well, shit,” Arnza said.
Katell huffed and moved again. “Shit indeed.”
They reached the muddy stretch dividing the camps and ducked behind a supply wagon stacked high with amphorae—more wine for the Eighth, no doubt.
Pinaria and Arnza flanked her without needing orders, steps silent, expressions tight.
They were the youngest of the Black Helmets, but she trusted them with her life.
Crossing into the Eighth Legion’s territory changed the air. Hostile stares followed them—men muttering low, eyes narrowing. The Eighth didn’t have female soldiers, and Katell and Pinaria stuck out like fresh blood on snow.
“I’ll handle this,” Katell murmured. “Watch my back, and no matter what, stay calm.” Her gaze swept between them. “Pinaria, you have permission to use your magic, but only if we’re attacked. Arnza, don’t call on your shield, or I swear I’ll shatter it myself. No Gift. Understood?”
Arnza’s jaw tightened. He hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “Understood.”
Katell held his gaze. “Find Larth. Drag him back to camp. No fighting.”
“Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “How exactly am I supposed to drag him away when a touch from his sword could literally pull my soul out? My soul! The Achaeans believe in soulmates, you know. How am I supposed to find mine if I don’t have a soul anymore—”
Katell rolled her eyes. “Fine. If you’re scared, I’ll handle him.
” Larth’s swords didn’t actually rip souls free unless they pierced a heart.
Even so, the Fallen God terrified the Rasennans more than Vanth herself.
His Gifted were rare, and even Larth didn’t fully understand the black blades he wielded, though they burned at a touch.
“I never said I was scared,” Arnza mumbled.
Katell blew out a sharp breath. What had Tia been thinking?
The Eighth were a brutal bunch, revered as the strongest legion until Dorias had joined the Sixth.
According to Romilda, their legate, Tyrrhenus, was ruthless and a fervent servant of Laran who tolerated neither weakness nor disobedience.
But he knew how to reward his men after a victory. Wine and women.
She remembered an incident just before the snows came.
A group of local women had brought baskets of food and furs to the outskirts of the Sixth’s camp, desperate for trade before the worst of winter set in.
Katell had accompanied Pinaria to peruse their goods, only for a pack of Eighth Legion soldiers to arrive and start harassing the women as if it were their right.
Katell had put a stop to it by crushing a cohort leader’s arm.
Atticus had smoothed things over with the Eighth’s praefect, ensuring no other soldier dared approach their camp since. Katell had also issued a clear order for the Black Helmets to stay away from them.
And they had—except for Tia.
Katell veered towards the nearest campfire, where five soldiers sat hunched over mugs and skewered meat. Conversations faltered as they noticed her. Five pairs of eyes narrowed.
“Soldiers,” she greeted them. “I’m looking for two of my companions, a man and a woman who came to join the celebrations.”
Dorias had taught her to always address by rank, especially when out of armour, to command respect. But these soldiers didn’t care. To them, she was just a woman, not an officer.
A man with cropped black hair, perched on a wooden stool, sneered over the rim of his cup. “If they came this way, they’re either blind or stupid.”
Laughter rang out around the campfire, except from the black-haired soldier. His red armband marked him as a cohort leader, one rank below praefect, commanding roughly one hundred men. He exuded a dangerous calm, the kind that fed on intimidation.
Katell ignored the guffawing idiots and focused on their leader. “Which way did they go?”
“Oh?” His lips curled back, teeth bared in warning. “And why would we tell you? You think two women and a boy scare us?”
Arnza bristled, stepping forward. “You don’t know who you’re talking to.”
The soldiers’ laughter grew louder, mocking. Arnza’s face flushed deep red, but before he could move, Katell stopped him mid-step with one arm.
The cohort leader leaned in. “You want to know where your friends are? My advice—turn around and get the fuck out of our camp.”
Katell clicked her tongue, then slammed her boot into the stool, shattering its leg with a sharp crack.
The leader pitched sideways, crashing onto the frozen ground. In one fluid move, she twisted his arm behind his back and pinned his neck under her knee.
“Wrong answer,” she hissed.
The man bucked beneath her, his curses muffled by the pressure on his throat. She tightened her grip until he let out a cry—and something cold and savage in her thrilled at the sound. The surrounding soldiers stilled, their laughter replaced by wide-eyed shock.
“It’s Laran’s Chosen,” someone breathed.
Katell skewered them with a glare. “Tell me where they went.”
A younger soldier swallowed hard and pointed down a side path. “The watchtower,” was all he said.
With a final shove, Katell released the cohort leader and strode away. Arnza and Pinaria fell into step behind her.
Anger prickled beneath her skin, heat rising through the cold. Her fingers clenched and unclenched at her sides, still twitching from the rush of adrenaline. She shouldn’t have lost control—not like that. But there was no time for restraint when surrounded by men too weak to earn her respect.
When she glanced back, Arnza was beaming, and even Pinaria’s worried expression had given way to a small smile. Neither of them said a word.
They pushed deeper into the camp. The glow of fires and drunken revelry dimmed behind them, replaced by cold silence as they skirted the Legate’s giant pavilion, its banners unmoving in the windless dark.
Then—a grunt, followed by the unmistakable thud of a punch landing and the scuffle of boots. The sounds of an ongoing fight cut through the night air.
“By the Moon…” Katell broke into a run.
The outline of the Eighth Legion’s inner palisade emerged from the darkness, punctuated by the torches blazing at the watchtowers.
The fortifications, constructed from robust oak trees transported from Eluvia, had endured numerous attacks from the Ice Kingdoms over the years and remained unbreached—one of the many reasons the Eighth were so arrogant.
Near the base of the watchtower, two campfires cast flickering light over the packed snow, illuminating a grim scene. A figure was pinned between two soldiers, arms wrenched back, while a third stepped in and drove a fist into his gut with a brutal smack.
The soldiers seated around the fires roared with laughter, mugs sloshing wine as they jeered and shouted.
“Lover boy thought he could stroll into our camp and take what’s ours,” the soldier crowed, flexing his bloodied knuckles for effect.
More laughter rang out until a low, cold voice sliced through the noise. “She’s not yours. She’s a Black Helmet.”
Larth.
“Vanth be damned…” Arnza groaned, already moving. Katell and Pinaria followed, weaving between tents, unnoticed in the chaos.