Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
KATELL
Katell turned into his arms, resting her head on his chest. She breathed in his familiar scent. “I had the strangest dream,” she murmured, her voice muffled.
His arms tightened around her, and he kissed her hair. “Oh? Tell me about it.”
“I dreamed I was in Achaea,” she replied. “I was sent for…” She couldn’t quite remember why she’d been there. “There was a magical barrier around a city. It seemed to reach the sky itself. I never knew the Achaean gods were so powerful.”
“They aren’t.” Dorias’ sharp tone cut through her dazed recollection. She pulled back to look up at him, and his expression softened. “Clearly, you were dreaming, Furia.”
Katell frowned. Furia. He’d never called her that before. The word ignited a memory from her time on the northern front.
One night, Arnza had joked that Tia was fierce and violent like a Fury—a Rasennan goddess of vengeance. She’d gone as pale as the snow surrounding their tent.
“Don’t ever call me that,” she’d spat.
When had that been exactly? Last month? Last week? Her memories blurred together, edges smudged like ink dissolving in water.
I just wanted to say… Tia’s voice filtered into her mind. Be careful out there.
Then came Pinaria’s tear-streaked face, followed by Arnza’s quiet, worried expression—images flitting through her mind like ghosts.
Her chest tightened, and she sat up.
“What’s wrong?” Dorias asked, trailing warm fingers over her bare hip.
“I don’t know,” she muttered, grabbing the nearest tunic and slipping it over her head. “I just… I need to see Pinaria.”
The air in the tent felt stifling, heavy with the scent of leather, sweat, and blood.
She closed her eyes, trying to steady her racing thoughts, when Dorias’ arms wrapped around her waist. With effortless strength, he drew her against his chest, his warmth both grounding and unsettling.
His lips caressed the curve of her neck, each kiss igniting a slow burn within her.
“Come back to bed, Furia,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing. “You can see her in the morning.”
Katell stiffened, her hand freezing mid-motion as she glanced over her shoulder. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“What?”
“Furia,” she said, the name twisting in her chest.
Dorias raised a brow and leaned closer. “Isn’t that what I’ve always called you?”
Was it? Katell hesitated, her thoughts spiralling as her memories slipped through her grasp like sand through her fingers. Everything was jumbled, disconnected.
“Katell,” Dorias continued in a soothing tone, as if calming a skittish horse. “I worry about you. Laran’s Tears can muddle your memories, and you used more than three during the battle today. Against the northerners.”
That’s right. She’d fought a giant of a commander who’d appeared from the shadows and healed just like her. He’d called her a demigoddess.
But hadn’t she also been injured?
She looked down at herself, but there were no bandages. No aches in her body, either.
Yet everything felt so odd.
She got to her feet and threw on her cloak before tugging on her boots at the entrance.
Behind her, Dorias let out a low, exasperated grumble. “Katell…”
She straightened, adjusting her cloak with sharp, deliberate movements, trying to silence the storm in her mind. “I’ll be right back. Don’t wait up for me.” She didn’t give him time to protest and slipped out of the tent, her heart pounding with a sense of urgency she couldn’t explain.
The camp was quiet, shadows cast by the dying embers of scattered fires, and the murmur of sleeping soldiers surrounded her.
When she reached the girls’ tent, she hesitated, then pushed the flap aside. The faint scent of herbs wafted out, mingling with the heavier musk of sweat and damp earth. Inside, the dim glow of a lantern illuminated the modest space.
Pinaria sat cross-legged on her sleeping mat, fingers working through her braid as she loosened it. She looked up, startled by Katell’s sudden entrance. “Kat! What’s wrong?”
“Are you all right?” Katell stepped closer, scanning her friend’s face and frame. There were no streaks of tears, no trembling hands—only the familiar sight of Pinaria winding down after a long day.
Pinaria tilted her head in confusion. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve just been chopping wood all evening.”
Katell’s frown deepened, unease prickling her senses. Arnza had taken over Pinaria’s wood-chopping duties days ago in exchange for her cooking his dinner—a trade they’d kept private, but one Katell had known about because they’d needed her approval.
Something was off.
“What about Arnza?”
Pinaria blinked. “What about him?”
Katell hesitated, doubt clawing at her resolve. Had she misremembered again? “I just thought…” She trailed off, rubbing her temples in frustration. “Never mind.”
Pinaria got to her feet, eyebrows pinched in concern. “What is it?”
“I don’t remember what happened today,” Katell admitted after a moment. “I remember going somewhere with you. And I think I met…”
“The Achaeans?” Pinaria asked, already filling in the gaps.
Of course. Tiryns. She’d been their prisoner. A faint sense of relief threaded through her confusion. “Yes, they were there, and also—”
“The blond one? Your lover from the arena?”
Katell blinked, stunned. “Nik? No, he was never my—” The denial died on her lips, freezing mid-sentence as realisation hit her like a thunderclap.
She stared at her friend, heart pounding.
She’d never told Pinaria about Nik. She’d never told anyone.
Her pulse quickened, and a cold weight settled in her gut. Something was wrong—horribly, impossibly wrong.
The tent felt too small, too still, the air pressing against her like a suffocating shroud. Her instincts roared, demanding action.
She couldn’t trust this.
She couldn’t trust her.
With a sudden, fluid motion, Katell’s hand shot out, closing around Pinaria’s throat. Her fingers dug into her skin, drawing blood. “Who are you?”
Pinaria’s eyes widened, her hands clawing at Katell’s wrist. “Katell, what are you—”
“Don’t lie to me!” Katell snarled, slamming her against the nearest pole. The whole tent shuddered.
Pinaria gasped in pain, her expression flickering with fear. And then, like a snapped tether, reality unravelled.
In an instant, the tent was gone. The blinding glare of sunlight replaced the warm, dim glow, revealing the arena once more. The acrid tang of sweat and blood clung to the air, and sand shifted beneath her boots.
Katell blinked, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness. Her sword hung in one hand, but her other was clenched tightly around a throat—not Pinaria’s.
It was Tia.
“Please don’t kill me,” the Southern Beauty croaked, voice strained. Her blackened gaze, filled with magic, faded back to its usual dark brown. And yet the air still throbbed with the taint of her Gift.
Katell’s grip slackened. She released Tia, the girl’s coughing drowned by the rush of blood pounding in her ears. Her breath hitched, and she stumbled back, her knees threatening to give out.
Tia had used her Gift—crafted an illusion to subdue her, just as Katell had seen her do countless times to their enemies.
“I tried to warn you,” Tia wheezed, clutching her bruised throat. Her face was ashen. She looked… terrified.
Dread crawled up Katell’s spine. She spun around, taking in her surroundings. Scylas lay bleeding in the sand near the arena’s edge, his unconscious body dragged into a corner by a couple of Freefolk crouched at his side.
Beyond him, the barracks loomed, its shade packed with slaves huddled together. Freefolk, surrounded by soldiers. So many of them staring at the arena, at Scylas, at her. Sickness rose in her throat at the sight.
But then all thoughts scattered the moment Katell’s gaze landed on the figure in the middle of the arena.
Standing a few feet away, flanked by Tarxi and Romilda, was Dorias.
“She broke free,” Tarxi remarked, sounding almost bored.
“What happened?” Dorias barked, his focus fixed on Tia. “You were supposed to keep her under control.”
Tia wilted under his voice, her defiance crumbling. Romilda crossed her arms, lips curling into a smirk. “Clearly, she’s turned on you.”
Katell barely registered the exchange. The buzzing roar in her ears swelled, drowning out everything.
Keep her under control.
The phrase hammered in her mind, over and over, each repetition louder and heavier.
The world rocked. Nausea twisted in her stomach as realisation crept in, insidious and unwelcome.
No. He must have meant something else.
Because the alternative…
The alternative…
But Dorias offered no explanation. He simply stood there, arms crossed and expression blank. No warmth, no regret, nothing. Just silence.
Standing with them. Against her.
Katell locked eyes with him, desperate to find even a flicker of the man she knew, the man she trusted.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, hating how fragile her voice sounded. Her legs threatened to give way beneath her.
Dorias exhaled slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I followed you.” He tipped his chin towards her. “That armour you’re wearing? It’s woven with enough magic to track you anywhere.”
Katell’s gaze dropped to the black leather cuirass he’d given her back in the Western Lands. All this time… He could track her?
“Dorias…” His name snagged in her throat as panic tightened her chest. “What’s going on?”
Tarxi’s chuckle slithered between them, his smirk curling at the edges. “Dorias? You told her your real name?”
Dorias shot him an irritated look before uncrossing his arms and stepping forward. “Katell—”
Beside her, Tia stiffened, edging back as Dorias closed the distance. She’d always been drawn to him—so why was she suddenly afraid?
Katell’s heart urged her to trust Dorias, but instinct drove her hand to her sword. Confused and torn, she asked again, voice firmer: “What’s going on?”