Chapter 37 #2
Two soldiers hauled the battered man away, his legs dragging in the dirt. A third rolled up the blood-streaked lash with casual ease.
The sight clawed at Katell, twisting her gut.
And at the centre of it all stood another Northern warrior—the towering male she’d glimpsed the previous summer—locked in brutal combat with a slave.
The Freefolk clutched a ruddy sword and battered shield, left to defend himself as best he could.
Two others already lay face down in the sand, blood pooling beneath their lifeless bodies.
The ring of soldiers encircling the arena erupted in a cacophony of jeers and cheers. Some shouted crude encouragements to the fighters, others laughed, revelling in the bloodshed. A few leaned against the railing, faces twisted with cruel amusement, while others exchanged coins.
The Freefolk man fought with surprising skill, his movements sharp and measured, betraying experience with a blade.
But the Northerner was a formidable force, swinging his massive axe with terrifying precision.
With one brutal blow, he brought it crashing down, splitting the man’s wooden shield in two.
Shards flew across the sand. Despite the strike, the Freefolk fighter recovered quickly, feinting to the side and slashing upwards with his blade.
Katell froze.
She knew that move.
Her pulse quickened, thoughts racing. Once upon a time, she’d practised that exact manoeuvre beneath the shade of an old oak tree by Camp Bessi’s stream.
She pressed forward, weaving through the soldiers, unable to look away from the man fighting for his life. Though gaunt, his beard gone and body ravaged by hardship, there was no mistaking the golden-brown hair or the proud, familiar stature.
Her heart seized. Every muscle in her body tensed.
Scylas.
Emotions she’d long buried surged up—relief, fear, anger—all tangled and threatening to consume her.
By the Moon, he was here.
The Northerner’s axe struck with brutal force, sending Scylas crashing into the ground. He barely rolled out of its path. Katell’s nails dug into her palms. He wouldn’t survive another blow.
The Northerner raised his weapon for a final strike, and Katell—unable to watch any longer—sprang forward. Ignoring the shouts and chaos around her, she vaulted over the ropes of the makeshift arena and caught the Northerner’s wrist in an iron grip before the axe could descend.
Blood roared in her ears as she faced him.
Then her gaze dropped.
Scylas lay crumpled in the sand, chest heaving, eyes wide and shining with disbelief. The chaos around them faded until only unbearable silence remained.
“Kat,” he rasped.
Her name on his lips nearly broke her. What had they done to him?
Before she could speak, Tarxi’s voice shattered the moment. “Praefect Viridia!”
The jeering soldiers fell silent at once.
On the dais, Tarxi leaned forward, a predatory smile curling his lips. “Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise?”
The Northerner wrenched free of her grip, his face still blank. Scylas staggered upright, shuffling to retrieve his sword. His gaunt figure—collarbones jutting beneath his tunic, skin pale and stretched thin—was a painful sight, a shadow of the once-proud form he had been.
Katell clamped down on her emotions, forcing her expression into a neutral mask. Tarxi couldn’t see her rattled. He couldn’t know how seeing Scylas—broken, but alive—shook her to her core. She had to play her part, stall for time, and trust Pinaria and Arnza to find Leywani.
Tarxi’s gaze was sharp, assessing, waiting for a crack in her facade. One wrong move, one slip, and her ruse would crumble.
She cleared her throat, swallowing the rapid thrum of her pulse. “The Twelfth sent me,” she said, her voice edged with the authority she’d honed as a praefect. “They requested reinforcements to assist with the siege of Tiryns.”
Tarxi’s smile widened. “Did they, now?”
“They plan to attack the surrounding villages to force the Achaeans’ hand.” Katell hoped her information was still fresh. Almost ten days had passed since she left Tiryns, but it was the only ploy she had.
Tarxi’s silence stretched, fraying her nerves. He was studying her, amusement giving way to something colder. He was toying with her.
“You’re too late,” he said at last. The female Northerner stepped forward and handed him a small scroll—the kind used for swift communication between legion outposts.
Tarxi unfurled it. “The Twelfth’s camp is gone.
Attacked in the night by the Achaeans. Legate Tarchun is dead, and his soldiers are either dead or captured. ”
“Then why are you still in Dodona?” Katell asked. She was stalling, scrambling for a plan—anything to get herself and Scylas out of this alive.
Tarxi leaned back in his chair. “Because,” he drawled, his eyes never leaving hers, “the Emperor has ordered me to capture something far more valuable than Tiryns.”
Katell’s heart slammed against her ribs, every instinct screaming danger. He watched her like a wolf stalking prey, while the weight of soldiers closing in around the arena made her muscles coil tight.
It was a trap. The realisation struck her like a hammer, but there was no room for panic now. She needed to get out—get them all out.
The soldiers encircling the arena watched with hard, unfriendly eyes, hands hovering over their weapons. The weight of their stares bore down on her, tension thickening with every passing moment, ready to explode at the slightest misstep.
Scylas could barely walk, much less fight, and urgency surged hot through her veins.
The time for pretence was over. She stepped forward, her voice ringing clear. “Why are these people here?”
Amusement flickered in Tarxi’s dark eyes. “Surely it’s obvious. They are slaves, working the quarry.” His tone was mocking, a casual dismissal of the lives he toyed with. The soldiers chuckled.
Katell’s anger flared. “Why. Are. They. Here?” Each word was sharp, a warning that she was done playing his game.
The air crackled with magic—hers or Tarxi’s, she wasn’t sure—but the laughter faded as the soldiers sensed the shift.
“For years, we’d heard whispers,” Tarxi began, rising to his feet.
“Rumours of non-worshippers gathering beyond the Deep River. Pathetic little villages with no gods, no magic. Weak.” He jerked his chin at Scylas, panting at her side.
“When the Emperor learned their location, he sent me. They were easy pickings.”
Katell’s fists clenched, every word stoking the fury building inside her.
Tarxi’s expression hardened, steeped in malice. “But I don’t know why I’m bothering to tell you all this, when you already knew.”
A cold spike of dread pierced her anger. “Already knew—?”
“Well, yes.” His smile twisted into something cruel. “It was you who revealed their existence to us.”
The ground seemed to shift beneath Katell’s feet. A chill crept through her veins, coiling around her like ice. Her hands trembled, pulse pounding in her ears. “No,” she whispered. “That wasn’t—”
“Ah,” Tarxi interrupted, feigning realisation.
“That’s right. I wasn’t supposed to tell you.
” He waved a hand dismissively. “But let’s not spoil the fun any longer.
I believe it’s time for this one to be whipped.
” His icy gaze cut to Scylas. “I have a hunch he had something to do with the slave uprising.”
At his command, soldiers moved into the ring, sandals crunching on sand.
Katell’s body stiffened, anger surging back in a fiery wave. “No one is touching him,” she snarled.
Tarxi cocked an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
Her answer was immediate. In one fluid motion she unsheathed her sword. The blade sang as it cleared the sheath, catching sunlight in a deadly gleam. The murmurs stilled, every eye fixed on her. “You heard me,” she said, the promise of violence simmering beneath the surface. “The games are over.”
Tarxi gave a dark chuckle. “Oh, no, Katell. They’ve only just begun.”
Before she could react, the Northerner—the warrior who had fought Scylas—lunged, his axe swinging in a wide arc.
Instinct kicked in. Katell sidestepped, brandishing her blade.
His glazed eyes locked on her with eerie detachment, as if his mind was somewhere far away.
But he was fast—faster than she’d expected for someone so heavily built—and his next strike came hard and relentless.
Metal clashed against metal, her sword ringing with the impact.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the female Northerner vaulting into the arena, heading straight for Scylas.
On the dais, Tarxi reclined in his chair, chin propped on his fist, watching with smug satisfaction.
Scylas scrambled to his feet, snatching up a shield from a fallen soldier. He raised it just in time to block her first strike, but her second cut deep, blood spilling across the sand.
“No!” The cry tore from Katell’s throat, fear and adrenaline surging.
She shoved it down. She had to focus, end her fight fast—or Scylas wouldn’t survive. She ducked beneath the Northerner’s next swing and drove her blade upwards, piercing the gap beneath his shoulder plate. He grunted but refused to fall.
He hauled his axe high again, but Katell was done wasting time.
Calling on her Gift, she seized his wrist. He tried to wrench free, but her hold was ironclad.
With one swift, brutal twist, the joint gave way with a sickening crunch.
The axe dropped, clattering to the ground, his strangled cry echoing in the arena.
Katell didn’t give him time to recover. She slammed her knee into his chest, sending him sprawling into the sand. The impact knocked the fight out of him, and he lay there, unmoving.
In the next breath, she pivoted to Scylas. He teetered on the verge of collapse, his shield raised in a desperate guard, jaw clenched against the pain. Blood streamed from a deep gash in his thigh. The female warrior pressed her advantage without pause, each strike heavy and merciless.
Katell grabbed a dagger from her belt, muscles coiled, ready to throw. But as she drew her arm back, it wouldn’t move.
The dagger remained in her grip, fingers frozen.
Her body screamed to act, yet her limbs refused to obey.
Stay.
The command echoed through her mind, slithering like poison. She didn’t want it—fought against it—yet the order was there, sharp and undeniable. Stay.
Helpless, she stood rooted in place, forced to watch as the female Northerner swung her sword at Scylas with lethal precision. He caught it on his shield, but the blow drove him back a step, his arm trembling.
Katell’s focus shifted to Tarxi. He remained seated on his dais, fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair, watching her struggle with dark, twisted amusement. His lips curved into a knowing smile.
His Gift.
He had reached into her mind and taken control.
She wanted to scream, to force him out, but her limbs betrayed her. Get out of my head.
A cruel laugh reverberated through her skull. Tarxi dug his psychic claws deeper, tightening his hold. She fought to move, but her body stayed rigid, trapped in the iron clasp of his will.
Before her, the Northern woman closed in on Scylas. He scrambled aside, but not fast enough. The axe sliced through the air and caught his side. Scylas’ sharp gasp echoed through the arena.
Her heart dropped.
Hot fury surged within her. Panic tangled with rage, blooming deep in her gut like a violent storm, boiling her blood. Her magic roared to life, pulsing through her veins, building and swelling until it threatened to explode.
Get. Out. Of. My. Head!
Her will tore Tarxi’s grip from her, magic surging in a burst of raw power that cracked through the arena. Tarxi’s confident smirk faltered, panic flickering across his face as the invisible chains binding her shattered.
In one fluid motion, Katell’s arm snapped forward. The dagger sailed through the air and lodged in the woman’s throat, cutting her scream short.
Her eyes went wide. She clawed at the hilt, but it was too late. A beat later, she collapsed, the axe slipping from her limp fingers.
The arena sank into stunned silence. Scylas staggered back, breath ragged, blood seeping between his fingers as he clutched his side. His skin was pale, lips quivering.
Katell darted to his side and tore off her cloak, pressing it against the wound. It oozed beneath her hands, the sight of his blood sending a sickening wave of guilt crashing over her.
Scylas tried to sit up, but winced and fell back. Sweat streaked his temples, and when their gazes locked, the raw anguish in his expression tightened her chest.
“Kat,” he choked out. “Why… why did you do this to us?” Pain and betrayal carved deep into his features. “I let you live… you and Alena, both.”
The accusation hit her like a blow to the gut. She couldn’t face him and focused on his wound instead. It wasn’t deep enough to kill him outright, but the bleeding was bad—and if she didn’t find help soon—
“I didn’t… I never—” She swallowed hard, a knot forming in her throat. Her hands, slick with blood, shook as she worked to save him. “I’m going to fix this,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “I swear it.”
But before she could finish, the male Northerner crashed into her like a battering ram, his elbow smashing her face. Pain exploded through her skull, blinding and sharp.
Katell hit the ground hard. The world spun, blurring into darkness as she fought to regain her bearings.
When her eyes blinked open again, the smell of blood and sweat was gone. She was no longer in the arena but in the comforting confines of her tent, the soft flicker of candles casting shadows across the walls.
She lay in her bed, wrapped in plush furs that cocooned her in warmth.
It was all so… pleasant.
Calloused fingers brushed her cheek—a touch she welcomed without hesitation. Dorias lay beside her, his muscular arm propped under his head as he watched her.
The shadows etched across his face softened. “Welcome back, my love.”