It was time for the next jump.
Before Katell could make her way down, Pinaria caught her arm. “Kat, are you all right? That was the arena where Legate Dalmatius found you, right? And that girl he mentioned… was your sister. She came after you in Bruna.”
Katell’s jaw locked tight. “Yes. She did.”
“And then again in the Western Lands. She must love you very much.”
Please… don’t do this…
Memories surged—Alena screaming her name as Leukos held her back.
Katell turned away, her breath suddenly shallow. On instinct, she reached behind her breastplate to retrieve her vial of Laran’s Tears. Pinaria didn’t speak, just watched with quiet concern as Katell uncorked the vial with shaking hands and swallowed two Tears.
She chased them with a swig of water. A familiar, numbing tide of relief swept in, and the pressure in her chest eased.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Pinaria stepped beside her. “I’m sorry Romilda brought us here.”
Katell glanced over her shoulder at the crumbling husk of the arena. “I’m not. I got to see that awful place get torn down. Good fucking riddance.”
After their sixthand final jump, Arnza and Pinaria collapsed on the ground, panting heavily and unable to move. Despite her healing magic, Katell didn’t feel much better—her head throbbed with every heartbeat, and the harsh glare of sunlight stabbed at her eyes—but at least she was still on her feet.
They’d landed just outside a modest Achaean border village. A legion outpost and a weathered watchtower stood nearby, stone and timber casting long shadows over packed earth. The warm, mouthwatering scent of roasting meat drifted from a nearby tavern, stirring a low, impatient growl in Katell’s stomach.
Romilda stood behind them, her face flushed, sweat cutting clean tracks down her temples. She took a long pull from her waterskin, then tipped the rest over her face and scalp with a relieved gasp, droplets catching the sun as they rolled down her neck.
Katell drank deeply from her own pouch, the water cool against her dry throat. “Thank you for your help.”
Romilda shrugged. “Just following orders,” she said breezily, her attention shifting to a cluster of soldiers lounging outside the tavern, their eyes fixed on the new arrivals with open curiosity.
“I suddenly feel an overwhelming thirst,” she announced, flashing a sly smirk. “Until next time, Viridia.” Without waiting for a reply, she strode towards the tavern, hips swaying as she called out something that made the soldiers laugh and close in around her like moths to flame.
Arnza watched her go, frowning. “She didn’t even give me a second look,” he muttered, half to himself, half in indignation.
Pinaria shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, then marched off.
“Pinaria—wait!” Arnza called, scrambling after her. “I’m sorry!”
While they sorted out their lovers’ quarrel, Katell made her way to the outpost and handed over Dorias’ scroll to the officer on duty. By the time Arnza and Pinaria returned, still avoiding each other’s eyes, they were ushered into a supply tent, where they exchanged their fur cloaks and heavy boots for thinnercloaks, linen tunics, and leather sandals better suited to the region’s warm, sea-kissed air.
Fresh horses stood saddled and waiting. A map was pressed into Katell’s hands, along with provisions for the road.
When they reached the Twelfth Legion’s camp days later, the sun was already dipping behind the hills. Dusty banners flapped overhead, and the watchtower guards signalled their arrival with a sharp call. The gates opened without delay, and a lean, grizzled praefect named Ennius stepped forward to greet them, his bronze cuirass polished to a mirror shine. He welcomed them with brisk efficiency and led them to a tent already prepared. The cots inside were standard issue—thin blankets over scratchy straw sacks—but to Katell, they may as well have been featherbeds.
Once settled in, Pinaria, Arnza and her gathered around a modest campfire outside their tent, steam rising from bowls of lentil stew. The stars scattered the twilight sky.
“We’ll meet the Twelfth’s Legate, Tarchun, in the morning,” Katell said, stirring the fire with a stick, the embers flaring. “Dalmatius said he could be hotheaded. What do you know of him?”
“Other than he’s Legate Tyrrhenus’ brother? Nothing,” Pinaria answered. “The Twelfth have been stationed in Achaea for years. We’ve never crossed paths.”
“Tarchun’s got a reputation,” Arnza added, leaning back on his elbows. “He’s put down several rebellions in Achaea and Illyria. His methods are brutal—public torture and executions, entire villages razed… effective, but brutal.”
“No matter what he says, we keep our calm,” Katell said, repeating Dorias’ advice. “We can ride straight to the city walls afterwards and start working on a plan.”
Arnza gave a low snort. “Keeping calm shouldn’t be an issue. Unless, of course, he’s already heard about how you attacked his brother.”
Katell winced. With any luck, word wouldn’t have reached him yet. Otherwise, their mission might end before it even began.
