“Halt,” a guard barked, stepping into her path.
With a smooth, controlled motion, Katell dismounted, concealing the anxiety twisting in her gut. Another soldier swaggered forward—his strut marking him as the commanding officer.
Katell pulled Dalmatius’ scroll from her belt, holding it out. “Praefect Viridia, Sixth Legion. I’ve just come from Tiryns with orders to assist the siege and deliver an urgent message for the legate. If he’s here.”
From behind the stone buildings, another scream pierced the air, followed by laughter. Katell’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t flinch.
The officer scanned the scroll, smirked, and handed it back. “Oh, he’s here, all right. Keep to the main path—you’ll find the arena.”
“Arena?” Katell’s brow furrowed, a creeping sense of dread settling over her.
The soldier’s grin widened. “Something the boys set up. Hauled sand from the riverbank and roped off the area. Even built a dais for the legate to watch the?—”
More screams cut him off. Katell had heard enough. She strode in the direction he’d indicated, ignoring his disgruntled, “Oi!”
She moved past the stone buildings, searching for any sign of Freefolk slaves. A flicker of movement through an open window caught her eye: a streak of white-blonde hair.
She froze. Only one soldier in the legions had hair like that—Romilda. But she was supposed to be on the northern front.
Katell blinked, looking inside the stone house half covered in ivy, but there was nothing. The room beyond was empty. Shaking off her unease, she pressed on, boots sinking into the mud. When she reached the courtyard, her stomach plummeted.
The guard hadn’t exaggerated. A makeshift arena sprawled across the space—smaller than the one in Bruna, but no less brutal. Rough sand, stained with blood, filled the ring, encircled by wooden posts and rope. A dais stood at one end, a crude platform overlooking the pit.
Tarxi lounged at its centre like a king on a throne, a cold smirk playing on his lips. At his feet, two women knelt in gauzy fabric despite the biting chill. Their eyes were glazed, hollow, as though drained of life. Behind him stood a Northern warrior from the Ice Kingdoms in fur-lined armour, his battle axe heavy at his side, his expression equally empty.
Katell clenched her fists. The sight revolted her. Her blood roused, but she knew better than to act rashly. Not yet.
What stopped her cold wasn’t Tarxi—or the crowd of jeering soldiers—but the scene unfolding in the arena.
On one side, three slaves were bound to stakes, their skin marred with welts and dried blood, lips cracked from thirst. Nearby, a Freefolk man slumped against his chains, his back a raw mess from a fresh whipping. He whimpered, the sound almost lost to the noise of the crowd.
The screams she’d heard earlier—they had been his.
Two soldiers hauled the battered man away, his legs dragging in the dirt. A third rolled up the blood-streaked lash with casual ease.
The sight clawed at Katell, twisting her gut.
And at the centre of it all stood another Northern warrior—the towering male she’d glimpsed the previous summer—locked in brutal combat with a slave. The Freefolk clutched a ruddy sword and battered shield, left to defend himself as best he could. Two others already lay face down in the sand, blood pooling beneath their lifeless bodies.
The ring of soldiers encircling the arena erupted in a cacophony of jeers and cheers. Some shouted crude encouragements to the fighters, others laughed, revelling in the bloodshed. A few leaned against the railing, faces twisted with cruel amusement, while others exchanged coins.
The Freefolk man fought with surprising skill, his movements sharp and measured, betraying experience with a blade. But the Northerner was a formidable force, swinging his massive axe with terrifying precision. With one brutal blow, he brought it crashing down, splitting the man’s wooden shield in two. Shards flew across the sand. Despite the strike, the Freefolk fighter recovered quickly, feinting to the side and slashing upwards with his blade.
Katell froze.
She knew that move.
Her pulse quickened, thoughts racing. Once upon a time, she’d practised that exact manoeuvre beneath the shade of an old oak tree by Camp Bessi’s stream.
She pressed forward, weaving through the soldiers, unable to look away from the man fighting for his life. Though gaunt, his beard gone and body ravaged by hardship, there was no mistaking the golden-brown hair or the proud, familiar stature.
Her heart seized. Every muscle in her body tensed.
Scylas.
Emotions she’d long buried surged up—relief, fear, anger—all tangled and threatening to consume her.
By the Moon, he was here.
