Dawn broke over Nora, gray and heavy, the sky bruised with clouds that mirrored Branna's dread. The longhouse's hearth smoldered, its faint glow casting shadows across the woven mats where Vira and Lia slept, their breaths uneven in the morning chill. Branna stood by the door, her cloak pulled tight, her emerald eyes fixed on the village beyond. Smoke curled from distant steadings, not from hearths but from ruin—Roman taxmen had struck again, their greed a blade in Nora's heart. Her palm, scabbed from the splinter's sting, throbbed as she gripped the iron dagger she'd taken from the hearth last night. They take everything, she thought, her jaw tight. Our grain, our homes, our future.
The hall's events lingered like a wound—Carad's report of burned farms and dead boys, Sevo's sly smile, Prasut's untouched cup shimmering with menace. Branna hadn't slept, her mind churning with Lia's whisper: Poison. If Prasut fell, Rome would seize Nora outright, claiming debts he'd sworn to pay with his oaths to Nero. She'd vowed to protect her daughters, to keep Nora's spirit alive, but each day tightened Rome's chains, and Sevo's treachery loomed like a storm ready to break.
Vira stirred, her auburn hair tangled as she rose, her knife already in hand. "Mother, you're still up?" Her voice was sharp, her eyes scanning Branna's face. "What's happened?"
Branna's lips pressed thin. "Nothing yet," she said, her voice low. "But the village is too quiet. Cato's men are out there, and Sevo's plotting. We need to move." She glanced at Lia, still curled under a blanket, her pale face etched with the fear she'd carried from the hall. My gentle girl, too fragile for this, Branna thought, her heart twisting.
Lia's eyes fluttered open, catching the dim light. "Father," she murmured, sitting up. "His cup… we have to warn him, Mother. Sevo's smile—it was wrong."
Branna nodded, her resolve hardening. "We will," she said, kneeling to brush Lia's hair back. "But we need proof, or Prasut won't listen. Stay close, both of you." She rose, her cloak sweeping the floor, and unbarred the door. The village sprawled before her, its thatched roofs slick with dew, its paths churned to mud by Roman boots. A few warriors lingered near the training grounds, their spears glinting, but their faces were grim, their numbers too few. Nora bleeds, she thought, her fingers tightening on the dagger.
The council hall loomed at the village's heart, its oak doors scarred from years of war and truce. Branna led her daughters through the muddy paths, her boots sinking, her senses sharp for any sign of Cato's soldiers. A woman knelt by a well, her hands trembling as she filled a bucket, her eyes darting to Branna. "They took our grain," she whispered, her voice raw. "My children haven't eaten in days."
Branna's blood boiled, the memory of Carad's words—two boys dead, their mother wailing—burning in her mind. "We'll fight back," she said, her voice fierce, empress-like in its certainty. "Nora won't starve." The woman nodded, hope flickering in her hollow eyes, but Branna felt the weight of her promise, heavy as iron.
At the hall, the doors were ajar, the air inside stale with the feast's remnants—spilled mead, charred bones, the faint tang of fear. Prasut sat alone at the high table, his gray beard framing a face sunken with exhaustion. His untouched cup from last night was gone, replaced by a fresh one, but his hands trembled as he gripped the throne's arms, the iron bands glinting like shackles. He knows, Branna thought, her stomach lurching. But does he care?
"Prasut," she said, striding forward, her daughters at her heels. "We need to speak. Now."
His eyes lifted, shadowed with ghosts. "Branna," he rasped, his voice thin. "You shamed me last night, defying Cato. Do you want Rome's legions at our gates?"
She stopped, her cloak falling back, her voice steady despite the fire in her chest. "Rome's already here, burning our farms, starving our people. Carad spoke true—your oaths to Nero buy us nothing but chains. And that cup—" She pointed to the table, her gaze narrowing. "Why didn't you drink last night?"
Prasut's hand twitched, his throat bobbing. "You see enemies everywhere," he muttered, but his eyes flicked to the new cup, and fear flashed in their depths. "Cato's a guest. Sevo's loyal. You're stirring trouble we can't afford."
Vira stepped forward, her knife glinting. "Loyal? Sevo's selling us to Rome! I saw him pass something to a servant—smirking like a fox. Father, listen to Mother!"
Prasut's face darkened, his voice a growl. "Enough, Vira. You're a child, not a warrior. Sit silent, or I'll send you both away."
Lia whimpered, clutching Branna's arm, but Branna didn't flinch. "You're blind, Prasut," she said, her voice low, cutting. "Sevo's no friend, and Cato's no guest. They're wolves, and you're offering them our throats. If you won't act, I will."
The doors creaked, and Cato entered, his crimson cloak sweeping the floor, his scar-twitching smile a blade unsheathed. Two Roman soldiers flanked him, their hands on sword hilts, their armor clanking in the quiet. "Trouble in the royal house?" Cato said, his voice smooth, mocking. "I'd hoped for harmony after last night's feast."
Branna's blood ran cold, but she faced him, her stance unyielding. "Harmony?" she said, her voice ringing. "Your men burn our homes, kill our children. Where's the harmony in that, Cato?"
His smile tightened, the scar twitching sharper. "Order requires sacrifice," he said, stepping closer, his fingers tapping his belt—once, twice. "Nora's debts to Rome are heavy. Prasut understands this." His eyes flicked to the king, then back to Branna, lingering too long. "Defiance, though… that carries a heavier price."
Prasut rose, his voice trembling. "Cato, my wife speaks out of turn. Nora honors its oaths. The tithe will be paid."
Cato's gaze didn't waver from Branna. "See that it is," he said, his voice low, laced with threat. "Rome's patience is not endless." He turned to leave, his soldiers following, but paused at the door, glancing back. "And Prasut—drink deeply today. Unity strengthens us all." His smile was a viper's, and then he was gone.
Lia's breath hitched, her voice a whisper. "Mother, he knows about the cup."
Branna's heart pounded, Cato's words a confirmation of her fears. Poison. She turned to Prasut, her voice urgent. "You heard him. That cup last night—was it tainted? Tell me, Prasut, or we're all dead."
Prasut sank back, his face ashen. "I… suspected," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "A servant warned me—said Sevo spoke of 'easing burdens.' I didn't drink, but…" He trailed off, his hands shaking. "If I die, Rome takes everything—our lands, our girls. I thought my oaths would protect us."
Branna's rage flared, her voice a whip. "Your oaths are chains, Prasut! They protect Rome, not us!" She stepped closer, her dagger glinting in the torchlight. "Sevo's betrayed you. We need to act—now."
Before Prasut could answer, shouts erupted outside, sharp and frantic. Branna spun, her pulse racing, and rushed to the doors, Vira and Lia behind her. The village was chaos—warriors running, women screaming, smoke rising from the eastern fields. A rider galloped through the mud, his face bloodied, his horse lathered. "Romans!" he shouted, reining in. "They're seizing the eastern steadings—burning what they can't take! They've got Veni men with them!"
Branna's blood ran cold. Veni men. Sevo. The traitor's plot was unfolding, his alliance with Rome now clear. She turned to Prasut, who'd staggered to the door, his face pale. "This is your peace," she said, her voice bitter. "Sevo's sold us, and you let him."
Prasut clutched the doorframe, his breath ragged. "I'll confront him," he said, but his voice was weak, his body swaying. Branna grabbed his arm, steadying him, and noticed a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. Poison, her mind screamed, but there was no time to confirm.
"Vira, Lia, stay with me," she ordered, her voice commanding, empress-like. She led them into the village, where warriors were gathering, their spears and axes raised, their faces grim. The rider dismounted, his voice hoarse. "They're headed for the granaries. If we lose those, winter will kill us."
Branna's mind raced, her resolve a fire no fear could quench. "We stop them," she said, her voice carrying over the chaos. "Warriors of Nora, to me!" Men turned, their eyes lighting with hope at her call. She wasn't their king, but in that moment, she was their leader, her auburn hair a banner, her dagger a promise.
Vira gripped her knife, her eyes blazing. "I'm with you, Mother." Lia, trembling, nodded, her fear giving way to determination. Prasut staggered behind, his voice faint. "Branna, wait—Rome will crush us."
She rounded on him, her voice fierce. "Rome's crushing us now, Prasut. Stand with us, or step aside." She didn't wait for his answer, striding toward the granaries, her daughters and warriors at her back. The smoke thickened, the distant clash of steel growing louder. Sevo's Veni men, she thought, her grip tightening on the dagger. Traitors and Romans together.
The granaries loomed, their wooden walls blackened by fire, Roman soldiers and Veni warriors hauling sacks of grain to carts. Branna's heart pounded, memories of Elara's death and Carad's dead boys fueling her rage. "For Nora!" she shouted, raising her dagger, and her warriors roared, charging into the fray.
Steel met steel, the air filling with grunts and screams. Branna fought beside Vira, her dagger slashing a Veni warrior's arm, her movements swift despite her lack of training. Vira was a whirlwind, her knife drawing blood, while Lia stayed back, her eyes wide but alert, shouting warnings. Prasut joined the fight, his sword heavy, his strikes slow but fierce. He's still Nora's king, Branna thought, but her eyes caught his faltering steps, his face graying.
A Roman soldier lunged at her, his gladius flashing. Branna dodged, her dagger parrying, but the blow jarred her arm. Vira's knife found the man's thigh, and he fell, cursing. "Mother, behind you!" Lia screamed, and Branna spun, barely blocking a Veni warrior's axe. The fight was desperate, Nora's warriors outnumbered but fueled by rage.
Then, Prasut stumbled, his sword clattering to the ground. He clutched his chest, his breath a wet gasp, and collapsed, his eyes rolling back. Branna's scream tore free, her dagger dropping as she ran to him. "Prasut!" She knelt, cradling his head, his skin clammy, his lips tinged blue. Poison, she realized, horror choking her. Sevo's work.
The fight faltered, Nora's warriors faltering at their king's fall. The Romans and Veni men pressed forward, their shouts triumphant. Vira pulled Branna back, her voice urgent. "Mother, we have to go! Now!" Lia's sobs mingled with the chaos, her hands tugging at Branna's cloak.
Branna's eyes burned, her resolve a blade forged in grief. "Retreat!" she shouted, her voice carrying over the din. "To the hills!" Her warriors obeyed, dragging their wounded, their faces grim. She lifted Prasut's limp form, her strength fueled by rage, and fled with her daughters, the granaries burning behind them.
In the hills, they hid, Prasut's breaths shallow, his life fading. Branna held him, her daughters sobbing beside her. Rome's taken everything, she thought, her gaze drifting to the smoke rising from Nora. But she wasn't broken. Carad's vow, her warriors' loyalty, her daughters' courage—they were Nora's heart, and she'd wield it. Sevo's betrayal and Prasut's death were Rome's final mistake. Branna would lead her people to vengeance, no matter the cost.