“Hey!”
“You’re coming with us.”
He stumbled beside her, frowning. “What? Why?”
Up ahead, Pinaria glanced over her shoulder. “Tia’s in trouble.”
“When is shenotin trouble?” Arnza grumbled, falling into step.
Their brisk pace through camp drew curious glances. Murmurs followed them, but no one stopped them.
“Larth went after her,” Pinaria said tightly. She slipped on a patch of ice, but Arnza caught her arm without missing a step.
“Laran’s shield…” He turned to Katell. “Shouldn’t we get Atticus?”
She stopped short. They didn’t know. “He’s been imprisoned. It’s just us.”
Both stared at her.
“Well, shit,” Arnza said.
Katell huffed and moved again. “Shit indeed.”
They reached the muddy stretch dividing the camps and ducked behind a supply wagon stacked high with amphorae—more wine for the Eighth, no doubt. Pinaria and Arnza flanked her without needing orders, steps silent, expressions tight. They were the youngest of the Black Helmets, but she trusted them with her life.
Crossing into the Eighth Legion’s territory changed the air. Hostile stares followed them—men muttering low, eyes narrowing. The Eighth didn’t have female soldiers, and Katell and Pinaria stuck out like fresh blood on snow.
“I’ll handle this,” Katell murmured. “Watch my back, and no matter what, stay calm.” Her gaze swept between them. “Pinaria, you have permission to use your magic, but only if we’re attacked. Arnza,don’tcall on your shield, or I swear I’ll shatter it myself. No Gift. Understood?”
Arnza’s jaw tightened. He hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “Understood.”
Katell held his gaze. “Find Larth. Drag him back to camp. No fighting.”
“Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “How exactly am I supposed to drag him away when a touch from his sword could literally pull my soul out? My soul! The Achaeans believe in soulmates, you know. How am I supposed to find mine if I don’t have a soul anymore?—”
Katell rolled her eyes. “Fine. If you’re scared, I’ll handle him.” Larth’s swords didn’t actually rip souls free unless theypierced a heart. Even so, the Fallen God terrified the Rasennans more than Vanth herself. His Gifted were rare, and even Larth didn’t fully understand the black blades he wielded, though they burned at a touch.
“I never said I was scared,” Arnza mumbled.
Katell blew out a sharp breath. What had Tia been thinking? The Eighth were a brutal bunch, revered as the strongest legion until Dorias had joined the Sixth. According to Romilda, their legate, Tyrrhenus, was ruthless and a fervent servant of Laran who tolerated neither weakness nor disobedience. But he knew how to reward his men after a victory. Wine and women.
She remembered an incident just before the snows came. A group of local women had brought baskets of food and furs to the outskirts of the Sixth’s camp, desperate for trade before the worst of winter set in. Katell had accompanied Pinaria to peruse their goods, only for a pack of Eighth Legion soldiers to arrive and start harassing the women as if it were their right.
Katell had put a stop to it by crushing a cohort leader’s arm.
Atticus had smoothed things over with the Eighth’s praefect, ensuring no other soldier dared approach their camp since. Katell had also issued a clear order for the Black Helmets to stay away from them.
And they had—except for Tia.
Katell veered towards the nearest campfire, where five soldiers sat hunched over mugs and skewered meat. Conversations faltered as they noticed her. Five pairs of eyes narrowed.
“Soldiers,” she greeted them. “I’m looking for two of my companions, a man and a woman who came to join the celebrations.”
Dorias had taught her to always address by rank, especially when out of armour, to command respect. But these soldiers didn’t care. To them, she was just a woman, not an officer.
A man with cropped black hair, perched on a wooden stool, sneered over the rim of his cup. “If they came this way, they’re either blind or stupid.”
Laughter rang out around the campfire, except from the black-haired soldier. His red armband marked him as a cohort leader, one rank below praefect, commanding roughly one hundred men. He exuded a dangerous calm, the kind that fed on intimidation.
