“Fine,” he growled, his steel gaze noting her sluggish movements and the faint tremor in her stance. “You want to ensure no one follows them, then you can do so from the watchtower. You have until sundown—if you can even make itthat long.” He gestured to the soldiers still holding Leywani. “But your friend stays with me.”
The soldiers hauled Leywani away towards the barracks.
“Kat,” she called over her shoulder in their Freefolk tongue. “I’ll be fine. Make sure they get away. Don’t worry about me.”
Before Katell could answer, Dorias stepped into her path, his gaze steady. “Keep your magic under control, and nothing will happen to her. I promise you.”
He gave a nod—the kind that would once have reassured her, but now made her stomach churn. Leywani disappeared into the stone building, and as much as it killed her, Katell turned on her heel and ascended the stairs to the parapet. Her limbs ached, her mind a storm of emotions, but she forced herself onwards. When she reached the top, the vast expanse of the meadow stretched before her, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon.
Below, the column of Freefolk snaked its way north, growing smaller with every heartbeat. If Dorias kept his word—a fragile hope—they would cross the Empire’s borders within three days. From there, the journey back to the Deep River would be gruelling, but Pinaria would shield them—and, with any luck, Arnza, too.
Katell gripped the rough wooden edge of the parapet, her knuckles bone-white. The last rider vanished into the horizon, and all that remained was the crushing weight of her mistakes.
If you don’t help them, if you don’t free them from the horrors they’re enduring, then you’re not the sister I thought you were.
Alena’s words tore through the fragile composure she’d managed to hold. Her knees buckled, and she sank against the parapet, her body trembling. The tears she’d fought so fiercely to suppress now streamed down her face. Her chest ached, the hollow, wrenching pain of betrayal and loss threatening toconsume her. Dorias had stolen everything—her trust, her love, her sense of purpose—but at least she’d done this one thing.
At least, she’d freed them.
She released her magic, fatigue tugging through her whole body, yet she stayed perched atop the palisade, a lone figure standing vigil through the night. The stars wheeled overhead, and the first pale light of dawn broke on the horizon. Katell remained rooted in place, hunger clawing at her belly and thirst searing her throat, yet she stubbornly watched over the gate.
When exhaustion claimed her in the early morning, she stumbled, her body crumpling against the parapet.
Strong arms caught her, hoisting her up. “You did well, my love,” Dorias murmured against her ear. “I give you my word—they’re safe. Sleep now.”
Though she wanted to pull away from him, her strength was gone. Darkness closed in, and with it came an uneasy, restless surrender.
INTERLUDE TWO
CAIUS
Caius rinsed his fingers in a shallow bowl of rose-scented water. The midday glare poured through the arches of the open courtyard, catching on the inlaid mosaics beneath his reclining couch—gods and monsters rendered in tiny stones of emerald and lapis. Outside, beyond the colonnade, the palace gardens blazed with colour: roses, oleanders, and tall cypresses swaying faintly in the early summer heat. A bronze brazier smouldered in the corner, its thin stream of perfumed smoke mingling with the fragrance of the flowers.
The sudden slap of hurried footsteps shattered the serene hum of the dining chamber. Caius narrowed his eyes. Few dared to disturb his meals.
His two Tarquinian guards stiffened, hands flying to the hilts of their swords, but then they recognised Velthur, commander of the guard, striding across the hall. At his heels came a breathless messenger, scrolls clutched in his hands, one parchment trailing loosely to the floor.
“Urgent news from Achaea!” Velthur called.
Caius stiffened. Dabbing his mouth with linen, he rose from the couch and seated himself on a gilded, throne-like chair. At once, slaves gathered, raising fans made of peacock feathers.
“Tell me everything.”
Velthur seized a scroll from the messenger and offered it. “The Twelfth Legion is gone.”
Caius snatched it. “Gone? What do you mean ‘gone’?”
He wrenched the scroll open, nearly tearing the parchment. His eyes devoured the inked lines from the Twelfth’s praefect:
The Twelfth defeated in battle. Attacked in the dead of night by Achaean rebels. Prince Leukos wielded ice magic. A girl with auburn hair Marked with a gold omega letter on her hand.
Caius froze. His hand slackened on the scroll, and a cold dread slipped beneath his ribs.
Velthur’s voice pressed on, each word heavier than the last. “We lost a third of the men outright. Another third surrendered—mostly the green recruits. The rest… deserted.”
“What about Tarchun?” he demanded.
“Legate Tarchun was killed,” Velthur replied. “The report says it was an Amazon who got him.”
