“I don’t remember what happened today,” Katell admitted after a moment. “I remember going somewhere with you. And I think I met…”
“The Achaeans?” Pinaria asked, already filling in the gaps.
Of course. Tiryns. She’d been their prisoner. A faint sense of relief threaded through her confusion. “Yes, they were there, and also?—”
“The blond one? Your lover from the arena?”
Katell blinked, stunned. “Nik? No, he was never my—” The denial died on her lips, freezing mid-sentence as realisation hit her like a thunderclap.
She stared at her friend, heart pounding.
She’d never told Pinaria about Nik. She’d never told anyone.
Her pulse quickened, and a cold weight settled in her gut. Something was wrong—horribly, impossibly wrong.
The tent felt too small, too still, the air pressing against her like a suffocating shroud. Her instincts roared, demanding action.
She couldn’t trust this.
She couldn’t trusther.
With a sudden, fluid motion, Katell’s hand shot out, closing around Pinaria’s throat. Her fingers dug into her skin, drawing blood. “Who are you?”
Pinaria’s eyes widened, her hands clawing at Katell’s wrist. “Katell, what are you?—”
“Don’t lie to me!” Katell snarled, slamming her against the nearest pole. The whole tent shuddered.
Pinaria gasped in pain, her expression flickering with fear. And then, like a snapped tether, reality unravelled.
In an instant, the tent was gone. The blinding glare of sunlight replaced the warm, dim glow, revealing the arena once more. The acrid tang of sweat and blood clung to the air, and sand shifted beneath her boots.
Katell blinked, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness. Her sword hung in one hand, but her other was clenched tightly around a throat—not Pinaria’s.
It was Tia.
“Please don’t kill me,” the Southern Beauty croaked, voice strained. Her blackened gaze, filled with magic, faded back to its usual dark brown. And yet the air still throbbed with the taint of her Gift.
Katell’s grip slackened. She released Tia, the girl’s coughing drowned by the rush of blood pounding in her ears. Her breath hitched, and she stumbled back, her knees threatening to give out.
Tia had used her Gift—crafted an illusion to subdue her, just as Katell had seen her do countless times to their enemies.
“I tried to warn you,” Tia wheezed, clutching her bruised throat. Her face was ashen. She looked… terrified.
Dread crawled up Katell’s spine. She spun around, taking in her surroundings. Scylas lay bleeding in the sand near thearena’s edge, his unconscious body dragged into a corner by a couple of Freefolk crouched at his side.
Beyond him, the barracks loomed, its shade packed with slaves huddled together. Freefolk, surrounded by soldiers. So many of them staring at the arena, at Scylas, at her. Sickness rose in her throat at the sight.
But then all thoughts scattered the moment Katell’s gaze landed on the figure in the middle of the arena.
Standing a few feet away, flanked by Tarxi and Romilda, was Dorias.
“She broke free,” Tarxi remarked, sounding almost bored.
“What happened?” Dorias barked, his focus fixed on Tia. “You were supposed to keep her under control.”
Tia wilted under his voice, her defiance crumbling. Romilda crossed her arms, lips curling into a smirk. “Clearly, she’s turned on you.”
Katell barely registered the exchange. The buzzing roar in her ears swelled, drowning out everything.
