Katell ignored the guffawing idiots and focused on their leader. “Which way did they go?”
“Oh?” His lips curled back, teeth bared in warning. “And why would we tell you? You think two women and a boy scare us?”
Arnza bristled, stepping forward. “You don’t know who you’re talking to.”
The soldiers’ laughter grew louder, mocking. Arnza’s face flushed deep red, but before he could move, Katell stopped him mid-step with one arm.
The cohort leader leaned in. “You want to know where your friends are? My advice—turn around and get the fuck out of our camp.”
Katell clicked her tongue, then slammed her boot into the stool, shattering its leg with a sharpcrack.
The leader pitched sideways, crashing onto the frozen ground. In one fluid move, she twisted his arm behind his back and pinned his neck under her knee.
“Wrong answer,” she hissed.
The man bucked beneath her, his curses muffled by the pressure on his throat. She tightened her grip until he let out a cry—and something cold and savage in her thrilled at the sound. The surrounding soldiers stilled, their laughter replaced by wide-eyed shock.
“It’s Laran’s Chosen,” someone breathed.
Katell skewered them with a glare. “Tell me where they went.”
A younger soldier swallowed hard and pointed down a side path. “The watchtower,” was all he said.
With a final shove, Katell released the cohort leader and strode away. Arnza and Pinaria fell into step behind her.
Anger prickled beneath her skin, heat rising through the cold. Her fingers clenched and unclenched at her sides, still twitching from the rush of adrenaline. She shouldn’t have lost control—not like that. But there was no time for restraint when surrounded by men too weak to earn her respect.
When she glanced back, Arnza was beaming, and even Pinaria’s worried expression had given way to a small smile. Neither of them said a word.
They pushed deeper into the camp. The glow of fires and drunken revelry dimmed behind them, replaced by cold silence as they skirted the Legate’s giant pavilion, its banners unmoving in the windless dark.
Then—a grunt, followed by the unmistakablethudof a punch landing and the scuffle of boots. The sounds of an ongoing fight cut through the night air.
“By the Moon…” Katell broke into a run.
The outline of the Eighth Legion’s inner palisade emerged from the darkness, punctuated by the torches blazing at the watchtowers. The fortifications, constructed from robust oak trees transported from Eluvia, had endured numerous attacks from the Ice Kingdoms over the years and remained unbreached—one of the many reasons the Eighth were so arrogant.
Near the base of the watchtower, two campfires cast flickering light over the packed snow, illuminating a grim scene. A figure was pinned between two soldiers, arms wrenched back, while a third stepped in and drove a fist into his gut with a brutalsmack.
The soldiers seated around the fires roared with laughter, mugs sloshing wine as they jeered and shouted.
“Lover boy thought he could stroll into our camp and take what’s ours,” the soldier crowed, flexing his bloodied knuckles for effect.
More laughter rang out until a low, cold voice sliced through the noise. “She’s not yours. She’s a Black Helmet.”
Larth.
“Vanth be damned…” Arnza groaned, already moving. Katell and Pinaria followed, weaving between tents, unnoticed in the chaos.
The soldier sneered. “Either way, she came to us for a good time, and we’re going to give it to her.” He gestured towards a lithe figure stumbling around a campfire with a cup in her hands, humming a tune only she could hear. “Take her back to the tent, boys!”
The figure giggled, a soft, throaty sound Katell had heard countless times.
Tia.
Blood trickled from Larth’s brow, carving a red line down his temple and catching in the stubble on his jaw. He looked wild in the firelight, his eyes locked on the soldier before him.
“You lay a single hand on her,” he growled, rage simmering in his gaze, “and I’ll make you regret it.”
