Chapter 8 #3
The world narrowed to the sound of her own pulse.
“She freed the Gifted first,” the guard went on, oblivious. “They launched an attack on the guards, broke open the cells, and soon the rest were escaping. Then the household slaves joined in.”
Katell couldn’t believe her ears.
Alena had come for her. And she hadn’t been there.
She turned away from the others, boots striking stone as she walked a few paces to the edge of the rampart.
Amid the hazy sprawl of Bruna, the amphitheatre loomed in the distance, cracked and hollow.
Katell’s breath caught, her fingers curling around the handrail until the wood creaked. Her chest ached with a tangled knot of guilt.
No wonder her sister had been with Nik when they reunited at the Western hillfort. She must have freed him from the arena.
Well done, little star.
But a darker thought crept in.
Had Dorias known? He’d left men behind to find Alena, yet they’d come up empty…
Had she arrived after they’d already gone?
Or worse, had Dorias kept it from her all this time, afraid to reveal her sister had turned rebel?
Her jaw clenched. The wind stung her eyes, and still she didn’t turn back. Not yet.
“Took us weeks to clear up the city and bring back the peace,” the guard’s voice drifted to her. “And even then, we only recovered a third of the slaves. Anyway, they have orders to tear it down now.”
Katell whirled around. “They’re tearing down the arena?”
“Yes. The arena master was killed by the slaves, and no one has wanted to take over since. The cost of repairs alone is too daunting. The Emperor ordered it to be taken down and the stone reused for his temple.”
Pinaria frowned. “The Emperor’s cult has reached as far as Bruna?”
“Absolutely,” the guard replied with a proud nod. “I heard Emperor Tarquinius has commissioned temples to be built all over the Empire.”
The other guard returned, confirming they were indeed allowed passage.
Romilda, who’d been silent until then, rose gracefully and cast the young guard a teasing wink. “Thank you for the hospitality, soldier.”
His cheeks flushed a deep red, and Arnza snorted behind them. Romilda headed towards the wooden staircase leading down from the rampart. Below, long shadows pooled beneath the stone walls, swallowing the edges of the narrow path.
It was time for the next jump.
Before Katell could make her way down, Pinaria caught her arm. “Kat, are you all right? That was the arena where Legate Dalmatius found you, right? And that girl he mentioned… was your sister. She came after you in Bruna.”
Katell’s jaw locked tight. “Yes. She did.”
“And then again in the Western Lands. She must love you very much.”
Please… don’t do this…
Memories surged—Alena screaming her name as Leukos held her back.
Katell turned away, her breath suddenly shallow. On instinct, she reached behind her breastplate to retrieve her vial of Laran’s Tears. Pinaria didn’t speak, just watched with quiet concern as Katell uncorked the vial with shaking hands and swallowed two Tears.
She chased them with a swig of water. A familiar, numbing tide of relief swept in, and the pressure in her chest eased.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Pinaria stepped beside her. “I’m sorry Romilda brought us here.”
Katell glanced over her shoulder at the crumbling husk of the arena. “I’m not. I got to see that awful place get torn down. Good fucking riddance.”
After their sixth and final jump, Arnza and Pinaria collapsed on the ground, panting heavily and unable to move.
Despite her healing magic, Katell didn’t feel much better—her head throbbed with every heartbeat, and the harsh glare of sunlight stabbed at her eyes—but at least she was still on her feet.
They’d landed just outside a modest Achaean border village.
A legion outpost and a weathered watchtower stood nearby, stone and timber casting long shadows over packed earth.
The warm, mouthwatering scent of roasting meat drifted from a nearby tavern, stirring a low, impatient growl in Katell’s stomach.
Romilda stood behind them, her face flushed, sweat cutting clean tracks down her temples. She took a long pull from her waterskin, then tipped the rest over her face and scalp with a relieved gasp, droplets catching the sun as they rolled down her neck.
Katell drank deeply from her own pouch, the water cool against her dry throat. “Thank you for your help.”
Romilda shrugged. “Just following orders,” she said breezily, her attention shifting to a cluster of soldiers lounging outside the tavern, their eyes fixed on the new arrivals with open curiosity.
“I suddenly feel an overwhelming thirst,” she announced, flashing a sly smirk. “Until next time, Viridia.” Without waiting for a reply, she strode towards the tavern, hips swaying as she called out something that made the soldiers laugh and close in around her like moths to flame.
Arnza watched her go, frowning. “She didn’t even give me a second look,” he muttered, half to himself, half in indignation.
Pinaria shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, then marched off.
“Pinaria—wait!” Arnza called, scrambling after her. “I’m sorry!”
While they sorted out their lovers’ quarrel, Katell made her way to the outpost and handed over Dorias’ scroll to the officer on duty.
By the time Arnza and Pinaria returned, still avoiding each other’s eyes, they were ushered into a supply tent, where they exchanged their fur cloaks and heavy boots for thinner cloaks, linen tunics, and leather sandals better suited to the region’s warm, sea-kissed air.
Fresh horses stood saddled and waiting. A map was pressed into Katell’s hands, along with provisions for the road.
When they reached the Twelfth Legion’s camp days later, the sun was already dipping behind the hills.
Dusty banners flapped overhead, and the watchtower guards signalled their arrival with a sharp call.
The gates opened without delay, and a lean, grizzled praefect named Ennius stepped forward to greet them, his bronze cuirass polished to a mirror shine.
He welcomed them with brisk efficiency and led them to a tent already prepared.
The cots inside were standard issue—thin blankets over scratchy straw sacks—but to Katell, they may as well have been featherbeds.
Once settled in, Pinaria, Arnza and her gathered around a modest campfire outside their tent, steam rising from bowls of lentil stew. The stars scattered the twilight sky.
“We’ll meet the Twelfth’s Legate, Tarchun, in the morning,” Katell said, stirring the fire with a stick, the embers flaring. “Dalmatius said he could be hotheaded. What do you know of him?”
“Other than he’s Legate Tyrrhenus’ brother? Nothing,” Pinaria answered. “The Twelfth have been stationed in Achaea for years. We’ve never crossed paths.”
“Tarchun’s got a reputation,” Arnza added, leaning back on his elbows. “He’s put down several rebellions in Achaea and Illyria. His methods are brutal—public torture and executions, entire villages razed… effective, but brutal.”
“No matter what he says, we keep our calm,” Katell said, repeating Dorias’ advice. “We can ride straight to the city walls afterwards and start working on a plan.”
Arnza gave a low snort. “Keeping calm shouldn’t be an issue. Unless, of course, he’s already heard about how you attacked his brother.”
Katell winced. With any luck, word wouldn’t have reached him yet. Otherwise, their mission might end before it even began.