She slipped past the curtain, returning to her bed and her lovers, and Katell took it as her cue to leave.
She drew her cloak tight around herself, but her hands had already started trembling. What began as a subtle twitch in her fingers spread into a crawling restlessness beneath her skin.
She stepped outside the pavilion, flexing her fingers as the cold hit her harder than before.
A sour feeling roiled in her gut. She wasn’t sure whether Romilda’s certainty had comforted or unsettled her.
So, she wasn’t a demigoddess. But the mystery of Laran’s Mark still remained. Someone must have made a pact with the god of war on her behalf, and she needed to know why.
Her breath ghosted into the frozen air, and the itch worsened, quickening her pulse.
Damn it.
Her hand moved on instinct, reaching for the small glass vial of Laran’s Tears tucked in her belt.The black stones shimmered faintly in the torchlight. She popped the stopper and swallowed one dry.
Within moments, her heartbeat steadied, and the storm of thoughts since leaving Romilda’s tent slowed, sharpening into a single, decisive thread.
Dorias was right. When the snow melted, she would travel to Kisra. She would kneel before Laran’s temple and demand the truth from the god himself—if he’d listen.
She’d barely made it to the camp’s main path when a figure came hurtling towards her, boots slipping on the packed snow.
“Kat!” Pinaria skidded to a stop, chest heaving, eyes wide with panic.
Katell’s heart leapt. “What is it?”
“It’s Tia,” Pinaria gasped. “Something’s wrong—I think she’s in danger.”
CHAPTER FOUR
KATELL
Katell groaned. When was Tia not in trouble? The Southern Beauty was more work than all the other Black Helmets combined. “Where is she?”
Pinaria seemed to drown inside the heavy fur cloak wrapped around her shoulders. “Larth told me she went to the Eighth Legion’s camp to celebrate a few hours ago. She’s still not back, and it’s her shift for guard duty.”
Katell blew out a deep breath. Tia had already missed three shifts. She should’ve reported her to Dorias, but instead had settled for a stern warning—one the Southern Beauty had ignored.
“And where’s Larth?” she asked. If anyone could put some sense into Tia’s head, it was him.
Pinaria’s hesitation confirmed her fears. “He’s gone. Said he was going to find her.”
“Shit.” Tia missing was reckless. Larth going after her? That was a disaster waiting to happen.
Katell spun on her heel and took off down the main path, boots pounding the icy path. Pinaria hurried after her.
Larth was unpredictable. His magic, Gifted by the Fallen God, the Rasennan god of the Underworld, made him dangerous. If he clashed with the battle-hardened veterans of the Eighth, there would be blood. As commander of the Black Helmets, it was her duty to step in and prevent skirmishes between legions before they started.
Normally, she would have sent Atticus. The Eighth respected him enough to calm tensions without sparking more. But he was behind bars, paying the price for her reckless decisions.
So it fell to her.
She picked up her pace, Pinaria at her heels. The central path was blazed with torches while the rest of the camp lay in shadow, dotted with a few flickering fires. The cold night air kept most soldiers inside their tents.
Up ahead, a figure bounded towards them. “Kat! You’re up!”
Arnza, wrapped in a warm cloak, was returning from guard duty, a wide grin stretched across his face. “Didn’t think you’d recover so quickly. Last time I saw you, Dalmatius was carrying you in his arms, covered in blood, your guts hanging out?—”
“Yes, so I’ve been told.” Katell seized him by the collar of his armour and dragged him along without slowing.
