“Tell me this doesn’t get worse every time,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.
No one answered. They were all too disoriented, and wordlessly, they pushed on through the frost-hardened mud towards the next shadow, their silence more telling than any complaint.
The third jump hit harder.
When Katell emerged into the sunlight again, her knees buckled and she nearly collapsed. The air was noticeably warmer, but it did little to soothe the nausea curling in her gut. How far south were they now?
A squad of soldiers spotted them, weapons half-drawn before Romilda thrust the permission scroll into their hands, her tonecurt. The men relented, allowing them space to rest beneath the outpost’s sloping wall.
By the fourth jump, it was sheer will that kept Katell upright.
She stumbled out onto a stone rampart, squinting into harsh daylight. The pounding in her skull was a steady drumbeat behind her eyes, and for a breathless moment, the world tilted sideways. She bent double, hands on her knees, lungs dragging in air.
“Stop right there!”
A sharp, commanding voice cut through the haze, and a blade flashed inches from her face.
Katell recoiled on instinct, nearly slamming into Pinaria behind her.
Arnza wasn’t so lucky. He veered off to the side and vomited against the rampart’s brick wall with a miserable groan.
It was clear now—they’d reached a larger settlement, its ramparts guarded by alert city soldiers.
“We’re with the Sixth Legion,” Katell announced in a faint voice to the two guards blocking their path.
Their eyes widened in surprise. “With Dalmatius? The Undefeated?”
The reverence in their voices drew a faint, tired smile from Katell. Romilda stepped forward, producing the scroll and explaining their mission.
One guard studied Dorias’ seal, blinking several times before carefully unfolding the parchment. “Take this to the praefect,” he ordered the other. “I’ll stay here and keep watch.”
The second guard nodded and hurried down a wooden stairway, clutching the scroll.
Romilda lowered herself against the rampart, pulling a waterskin from her belt and taking small, measured sips. Across from her, Arnza was still wiping himself clean, grimacing, while Pinaria gazed out over the bustling city spread beneath them.
“Where exactly are we?” she asked.
Katell followed her line of sight. At the city’s centre, a massive circular stone amphitheatre rose above every other building, casting long shadows in the afternoon light.
Her stomach dropped.
“The Noric city of Bruna,” the guard answered.
A tense silencesettled over the group. Katell wasn’t sure if Romilda knew her history, but Pinaria and Arnza certainly did, and their glances told her they hadn’t forgotten.
The air felt heavier, the weight of memory pressing against her ribs as she stared down at the city she had once sworn never to return to.
Did Dorias know Bruna was on their route? Had he deliberately chosen it, or was it just an unfortunate coincidence?
“Are you familiar with Bruna?” the guard asked, glancing between them. He looked barely older than twenty, all nervous energy and wide-eyed admiration.
“Not really,” Katell replied just as Arnza blurted, “What happened to the arena?”
Upon closer inspection, the amphitheatre’s sandstone appeared scorched in places, and a whole section of the wall was missing. Jagged edges bit into the sky, surrounded by a tangle of wooden scaffolding and the distant movement of tiny figures—probably stone masons.
The guard lit up, seizing the opportunity to explain. “A fire broke out during the slave rebellion,” he said with enthusiasm. “Part of the arena came down in the chaos. It was madness—flames, shouting, people pouring into the streets.”
Katell wheeled around to face him. “The slave rebellion?”
