Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
KATELL
The ride to Dodona stretched endlessly, each day blurring into the next beneath unrelenting rain and frosty nights.
For days, Katell, Arnza, and Pinaria rode hard, halting only when their horses could no longer carry them.
Silence was their constant companion, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the thud of hooves or the patter of rain dripping through the canopy.
Their single respite came at a village Pinaria had marked on the map, where a Rasennan unit was stationed. Bearing Damocles’ seal and scroll, they secured food, replenished supplies, and swapped their exhausted mounts for fresh ones.
Pinaria stayed buried in her map, brow furrowed in concentration as she charted their course, tracing the most efficient routes through the treacherous terrain. She was an anchor for their small group, but Katell could see the fatigue etched into her features.
Arnza, however, was an enigma. He’d been unusually quiet, retreating into himself, his sharp gaze always scanning the horizon as he hunted or tended the fire.
Katell had tried to engage him—after all, he’d been nothing if not loyal to Rasenna, and since the incident with Tarchun, every step with her edged him closer to treason.
Perhaps he followed only for Pinaria’s sake.
Yet whenever she pressed, he gave nothing more than an easy smile and a quiet assurance that everything was fine.
At night, her mind refused to rest. Beneath the cold, star-filled sky, images of Alena and Nik plagued her thoughts. Her sister’s revelations, Nik’s words—they stirred painful memories long buried, now rising to the surface as they drew closer to Dodona.
Memories of Leywani and Scylas.
Had Alena spoken the truth? Had Leywani and Scylas been enslaved at the quarry all this time? What would she even say if she found them? Sorry felt useless in the face of such suffering.
No—there was only one thing she could offer now: freedom.
She would buy them back from the quarry, no matter the cost. Tear them away from the torment and bring them home to the Freefolk Lands.
It wouldn’t erase their scars, but maybe, just maybe, they could find peace again. It was the least they deserved.
“We’re almost there,” Pinaria announced quietly.
They rode in silence through ancient ruins, crumbled remnants of Achaean temples, half swallowed by creeping vines and wild grasses.
“When we arrive, we stay hidden,” Katell reminded them, her voice cutting through the steady rhythm of hooves. Over the past days, they’d pieced together a fragile plan, anticipating every danger. “We assess the situation first, then decide our next move.”
But as they neared the quarry, columns of smoke twisted into the sky—dark, heavy, far more than a few campfires. Katell’s pulse quickened.
The sprawling sight of dozens of tents came into view, clustered around the quarry like a fortress. Soldiers moved among the encampment, armour catching the pale morning light, banners of the Rasennan Legion snapping in the chilly breeze.
Katell’s stomach soured. The First Legion.
Arnza muttered a curse. “So much for sneaking in unnoticed.”
They left their horses to graze and crept through tall grasses, crouching low as the biting wind tugged at Katell’s cloak. The faint clink of armour and low voices drifted from the camp, underscoring the danger ahead.
Her mind raced. She needed to see what lay beyond the flimsy stakewall surrounding the quarry. If Tarxi had seized command, their plan had grown far more perilous. Yet the thought of turning back empty-handed was unbearable. If Leywani was inside, she had to get her out.
Someone would have to create a distraction.
“I’ll ride through camp,” she announced. Her Gifts had their limits, but she could still buy them time. “If Tarxi’s here, I’ll ask to meet him. I’ll keep him occupied while you slip inside. Find Leywani. Get her out. If I’m not back by sunset, you leave. Take her somewhere safe.”
She’d shared every detail she could about Leywani, hoping it would help them find her quickly among the Freefolk.
“There’s a lake north of here—you can’t miss it,” Pinaria said, strands of chestnut hair whipping across her face in the wind. “On the northwestern shore, caves nestle in the hills. We’ll hide there. We’ll wait for you.”
Katell nodded, though her gut twisted with doubt. “Don’t wait too long. Two days at most, or you risk being caught.”
“Kat—”
“I’ll be fine,” Katell cut in, unsure if she was convincing Pinaria or herself. “Worst case, they imprison me and send me to the Emperor. Whatever happens, you two find Leywani. Keep her safe.”
“We promise,” Arnza said, while Pinaria pinched her lips, struggling to hold back tears. Unable to speak, she pulled Katell into a fierce embrace.
“The gods be with you, Kat,” Pinaria whispered, voice choked with emotion. “Be safe.”
“You too,” Katell murmured, her chest tightening as they broke apart. Turning to Arnza, she set a firm hand on his shoulder. “Look after Pinaria.”
“I will.” His unwavering stare met hers with quiet resolve. “I’d do anything for her.”
“I know.” Katell gave a final nod, her heart heavy with unspoken fears. She didn’t linger. With one last glance at Pinaria, she swung onto her horse.
As she led it down the winding path towards the camp, she checked her armour and weapons: the black leather cuirass Dorias had given her, the Rasennan sword at her hip taken from the Twelfth—leaving behind Nik’s Achaean blade—and two daggers tucked into her belt.
That was all.
Her status as Laran’s Chosen would grant some protection, but for how long? She had her Gifts, yes, but she suspected she’d need more than brute strength to handle someone like Tarxi.
The dirt path led to the quarry’s looming entrance gate, towering above the First Legion’s camp. Oddly, all the tents were clustered to one side of the road, leaving the entrance clear—as if even the soldiers feared venturing too close.
Katell rode nearer, and heads turned. Soldiers looked up from their tasks, tracking her with undisguised curiosity. None of them seemed to recognise her, yet their stares prickled her skin. She pressed on, the distant murmur of the quarry a dull hum in her ears.
Near the gate, the shadows she’d mistaken for tattered banners revealed their true horror. Corpses, tied to stakes, flanked the entrance, their twisted forms bathed in sunlight.
Katell’s blood ran cold. Though grotesquely decomposed, the bodies still bore the unmistakable marks of who they had been.
Hemp trousers. Colourful woollen jackets.
Freefolk.
Her stomach lurched at the acrid stench of decay. No wonder the soldiers’ tents were pitched upwind, far enough to escape the unbearable reek.
By the Moon… Alena hadn’t lied.
Katell’s chest tightened, each breath a struggle. The Freefolk had been torn from their lands. The Emperor had come for them, and they hadn’t stood a chance. How could this have happened? Could it really have been—?
A scream tore through the air—raw with pain—followed by raucous laughter.
She urged her horse through the gates and whatever horrors lay beyond.
“Halt,” a guard barked, stepping into her path.
With a smooth, controlled motion, Katell dismounted, concealing the anxiety twisting in her gut. Another soldier swaggered forward—his strut marking him as the commanding officer.
Katell pulled Dalmatius’ scroll from her belt, holding it out. “Praefect Viridia, Sixth Legion. I’ve just come from Tiryns with orders to assist the siege and deliver an urgent message for the legate. If he’s here.”
From behind the stone buildings, another scream pierced the air, followed by laughter. Katell’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t flinch.
The officer scanned the scroll, smirked, and handed it back. “Oh, he’s here, all right. Keep to the main path—you’ll find the arena.”
“Arena?” Katell’s brow furrowed, a creeping sense of dread settling over her.
The soldier’s grin widened. “Something the boys set up. Hauled sand from the riverbank and roped off the area. Even built a dais for the legate to watch the—”
More screams cut him off. Katell had heard enough. She strode in the direction he’d indicated, ignoring his disgruntled, “Oi!”
She moved past the stone buildings, searching for any sign of Freefolk slaves. A flicker of movement through an open window caught her eye: a streak of white-blonde hair.
She froze. Only one soldier in the legions had hair like that—Romilda. But she was supposed to be on the northern front.
Katell blinked, looking inside the stone house half covered in ivy, but there was nothing. The room beyond was empty. Shaking off her unease, she pressed on, boots sinking into the mud. When she reached the courtyard, her stomach plummeted.
The guard hadn’t exaggerated. A makeshift arena sprawled across the space—smaller than the one in Bruna, but no less brutal. Rough sand, stained with blood, filled the ring, encircled by wooden posts and rope. A dais stood at one end, a crude platform overlooking the pit.
Tarxi lounged at its centre like a king on a throne, a cold smirk playing on his lips.
At his feet, two women knelt in gauzy fabric despite the biting chill.
Their eyes were glazed, hollow, as though drained of life.
Behind him stood a Northern warrior from the Ice Kingdoms in fur-lined armour, his battle axe heavy at his side, his expression equally empty.
Katell clenched her fists. The sight revolted her. Her blood roused, but she knew better than to act rashly. Not yet.
What stopped her cold wasn’t Tarxi—or the crowd of jeering soldiers—but the scene unfolding in the arena.
On one side, three slaves were bound to stakes, their skin marred with welts and dried blood, lips cracked from thirst. Nearby, a Freefolk man slumped against his chains, his back a raw mess from a fresh whipping. He whimpered, the sound almost lost to the noise of the crowd.
The screams she’d heard earlier—they had been his.