Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
KATELL
“Who are you, and what in Laran’s name did you do to my men?” Tyrrhenus barked, his voice snapping through the camp with fierce authority.
Katell exhaled slowly, bracing herself. The night was about to spiral into a storm of accusations and consequences. She already anticipated Tyrrhenus would summon Dorias, demand answers, and punish the Black Helmets.
She wouldn’t allow it. Not again. Not after what happened to Atticus.
If blame was coming, she’d take it all. She should have kept a closer watch on Tia and stopped Larth before he drew his swords.
Tyrrhenus approached with the confidence of a seasoned Rasennan commander. His red-plumed helmet caught the firelight, casting shifting shadows across his face. But when his stern expression fixed on Katell, all words flew out of her head.
His right eye was a typical dark brown, set in a weathered face scarred by war.
But the other… gleamed with an ethereal silver light.
The eye of an .
Unmistakable—and implanted in the legate’s eye socket.
Many seek to take our eyes for themselves.
The ground seemed to drop beneath her boots.
In an instant, the campfires faded, replaced by the suffocating dark of the arena’s underground.
The smell of blood and sweat clogged her nose.
The stifling heat in her cell by day and the biting cold at night enveloped her, dragging her back into a past she’d fought to forget.
Her jaw clenched so hard her teeth throbbed.
“State your name, soldier.” Tyrrhenus’ sharp words sliced through the haze.
His eye sparkled like a diamond. It was a beautiful Gift bestowed by the Huntress.
A sacred Gift.
Not some trophy ripped from an ’s skull and worn by a Rasennan.
Something deep inside her cracked. Fury surged, black, sudden, and rising fast.
When she didn’t speak, Larth shifted beside her. “Katell…”
“They’re Black Helmets, sir. From the Sixth,” another soldier cut in.
Tyrrhenus’ gaze snapped back to her. “Black Helmets?” His brow furrowed. “Then you are—”
“Where did you get that eye?” Katell stepped closer, peering at the silver gleam. Whoever had implanted it must have been Gifted; there was no visible scarring, nothing to indicate it had been stolen.
The legate recoiled in alarm. One of his men lunged forward, gripping her shoulder. “That’s close enough. Answer the legate’s question.”
No one is taking your eyes.
Katell shrugged off the soldier’s grip and took another step forward. “I said”—her voice was low and lethal—“where did you get that eye?”
Blades hissed from their sheaths. Shouts rang out. But Katell’s focus tunnelled down to Tyrrhenus—the tight line of his mouth, the deep frown between his brows, and that damn glittering eye.
An eye he had no right to claim.
“It was a reward,” the legate replied, holding her gaze without shame.
“Reward?” Katell’s voice sounded distant to her own ears, barely a whisper.
Fury swelled, bleeding through every vein until she thought she might drown in it. It mingled with her magic and pulsed at her fingertips, aching to be unleashed.
Amid the raging storm, Nik’s voice rang out, clear as on that fateful night they’d shared chained in their cells. You fight, and no matter what, you keep your promise to Sinope.
“For my loyalty,” the legate went on.
“Your loyalty?” she choked out.
Her vision swam. Tyrrhenus’ face warped, morphing into Sinope’s patron, Saturius—arrogant, preening, cruel.
He puffed out his chest, flaunting himself like a damn peacock before his men—those damned Samnites at his every beck and call—and sneered, “I took it from the bitch myself.”
Don’t let them take her Gift. Nik’s plea echoed in her ears until it was all she could hear. Don’t let them take her Gift.
But it was too late. They had already stolen Sinope’s eye.
Katell’s fury exploded. In a blink, the dagger was in her hand, her target the Rasennan noble who had turned Sinope’s life into a nightmare. Saturius had always coveted the ’s eyes, and now he had taken one for himself.
She lunged. A Samnite guard intercepted her at the last second, knocking the dagger from her grip. It clattered across the sand, spinning out of reach.
Her magic flared in the suffocating heat of the arena, and Saturius paled.
Kill him.
“She almost cut my face!” he shrieked. “Seize her!”
The arena erupted into chaos. Samnites surged around her, blades drawn.
In the melee, she lost sight of Saturius. Her pulse roared. He couldn’t get away, not after what he’d taken.
A spear came for her heart. She twisted aside and seized the attacker by the throat. With a brutal jerk, she yanked the blade from his hip and drove her elbow into his ribs. He crumpled, colliding with two others, all of them crashing to the ground in a tangled heap.
Let us kill him.
She wielded the blade, striking at any who came near. Failure was not an option.
Let us out.
Magic spilled through her, anger pulling from a pool deep within she’d never touched before—not even with Laran’s Tears. It flooded her veins, raw and ravenous.
And it spoke to her.
Voices called her name, pressing at the edges of her mind, pushing through the cracks. The same voices she’d heard in the Freefolk lands when fighting the stragglers. Or in Bruna’s arena during the First Trial.
They’d barely been a whisper before, a soft caress, but now they were impossible to ignore.
They were here, and they wanted to be released.
Her blade cleaved through another opponent, the hilt slick with blood.
Not theirs. Yours. We need yours.
Saturius was only a few paces away. She lunged and tackled him to the ground. He hit the sand with a grunt, and she flipped him onto his back, one hand clamping around his throat. Her fingers tightened. The implanted eye—Sinope’s eye—gleamed up at her.
The voices howled even louder. Let us out!
The earth trembled beneath her knees. Black smoke rose in slow, sinuous coils from the blood-soaked sand, curling around her legs and spreading into a circle.
Saturius’ face twisted in panic. “No, not here!” he gasped. “Don’t summon them here!”
The voices weren’t whispering anymore. They were screaming.
Let us out! Let us out!
They latched onto her magic, begging to be summoned into the mortal world.
Blood! Give us your blood!
Katell’s grip tightened.
Saturius choked, eyes bulging in sheer terror—
“Katell!”
Through the thick haze of her rage and the swirling black smoke, a tall figure emerged, golden armour shimmering across his broad chest.
Dorias.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t draw his sword. He simply looked at her, slate-grey eyes full of quiet understanding.
His presence washed over her with the sudden relief of a lungful of air after drowning, threading through the chaos, the smoke, and the screaming voices clawing inside her skull.
“Katell,” he said gently. “Let him go.”
But her grip didn’t loosen.
She couldn’t take in Dorias’ warmth.
Not now. Not when it felt like a betrayal.
Because his warmth reminded her too much of Sinope—fierce and kind and gone.
Tears welled, unbidden. Her fingers trembled around Saturius’ throat.
“I failed her,” she choked out, pressing the back of her sword hand to her mouth as though it could muffle her grief. “He took Sinope’s eye.”
Dorias took a step closer. “No, you didn’t fail her.”
Katell shook her head, furious tears streaking her cheeks. Why couldn’t he see what she’d done? Why wasn’t he as disgusted by her failure as she was?
“I promised her…” The words broke apart in her throat. “I—I swore no one would ever take them. But he killed her and took her eye!”
She raised her blade, holding it inches from Saturius’ glimmering eye. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She couldn’t let him keep it.
But Dorias moved, kneeling beside her, and wrapped a warm hand over hers, steadying the shaking blade.
“No, my love,” he murmured for her ears alone. “You destroyed her eyes in the arena. You made sure no one could ever take them. And then we buried Sinope together, remember? That isn’t her eye.”
His words cut through the haze, unlocking a memory that surged forward—the sombre burial at Bruna’s necropolis crashing into her mind.
The blade slipped from her fingers, but Dorias deftly caught it and slid it through his belt.
The voices went silent.
“I—” She blinked, and the arena faded from her vision. Blood-soaked sand gave way to frozen snow and sodden earth, the black smoke drifting in thin wafts.
Around her, the groans of soldiers she’d wounded in her frenzy pierced the stillness of the night. Thocero knelt beside a young man, barely older than Arnza, whose eyes were wide with pain and fear. The crowd stood frozen in horrified silence.
Dorias’ thumb stroked the back of her hand. “You were confused, caught off guard. But you’re safe now. Just let him go.”
Her hand remained clasped around the legate’s throat. One by one, she forced her fingers to release him. Tyrrhenus coughed and scrambled back, dragging in rasping breaths as he put distance between them.
Katell’s gaze drifted past him to the ground.
Thick black smoke coiled over the frozen earth, spreading in a circle around her.
A living, pulsing thing, it swirled with eerie grace.
Tendrils licked outwards from the centre where her rage had ignited it, curling along the blood-smeared ground and brushing against the boots of the watching soldiers, who dared not step closer.
Her voice shook. “I… I don’t know what happened.”
“That’s all right,” Dorias said softly. “We’ll figure it out—together.”
He cupped her face in both hands, his calloused fingers warm against her chilled skin. Gently, he turned her eyes back to his. “Don’t look at the smoke. Just focus on me. Take a deep breath and centre your magic like I taught you. Bring it back within yourself.”
She focused on the warmth of his hand, and with each deep breath, she gathered the wisps of magic that had spilled from her. It had never surged from her like this before—so untamed and hungry.
Slowly, the smoke dissipated, revealing the camp of the Eighth Legion and its watchtower looming over them. To the side, Arnza and Pinaria stood frozen, their faces drawn with worry. Nearby, Larth knelt in the packed snow, cradling an unconscious Tia against his chest, his expression stricken.
“Let’s get you back to your tent.” Clasping her arms, Dorias helped her to her feet. “Can you walk?”
She nodded, though her body trembled all over. Whatever had happened had drained her, leaving her exhausted as if she’d fought a fierce battle.
“Good. Then let’s go.”
Tyrrhenus staggered upright, supported by two of his men. “Now just wait a moment, Dalmatius. You can’t just leave—”
Dorias stiffened, his arm tightening around Katell. “Not now, Tyrrhenus.”
“She almost tore my throat out! And Laran only knows what she would’ve done to my eye—”
“I said not now!” Dorias snapped. “We’ll settle it later.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned. “Arnza, Pinaria, help Thocero with the wounded. Larth, get Tia to the infirmary, then report to me.”
No one questioned him. Silence rippled through the camp as orders were obeyed. With one arm firm around Katell’s waist, Dorias guided her through the quiet, firelit paths, back to their camp and her tent.
He dismissed Ladina with a curt nod. Katell, too drained to protest, let him ease her out of her clothes before collapsing on her bed.
Without a word, Dorias removed his cloak and armour, the soft rustle of leather and metal the only sound in the tent.
Then his familiar weight dipped the mattress behind her, and a moment later, his strong arm wrapped around her.
He pulled her close, tucking her against his chest as if to shield her from everything else.
His breath was soft against her hair, his presence anchoring her.
“I’ll stay with you,” he murmured. “Get some rest.”
Sleep drifted over her in a heavy haze, but peace eluded her.
She’d lost control. All of Dorias’ training, and when it most mattered, she’d lost control. But beyond that, a more haunting thought circled through her mind.
What if she had given in to the voices and spilled her own blood to feed that hunger?
What would have become of her then?