The Iceni camp was a whisper in the dark, its fires doused, its warriors cloaked in shadow beneath the ravine's thorns. Moonlight barely pierced the forest canopy, casting slivers of silver across Branna's face as she tightened her cloak, her auburn braid tucked beneath it. Her back burned, the whip's wounds seeping through her tunic, but her emerald eyes were fierce, fixed on the path to Kamlod. The iron dagger at her belt was a cold comfort, its edge honed by Carad's hands. Vira and Lia stood nearby, their breaths clouding in the night's chill, their faces marked by the square's shame—Vira's bruises, Lia's haunted gaze. Cato thinks us broken, Branna thought, her jaw tight. Tonight, we prove him wrong.
Carad knelt beside her, his scarred face taut as he traced a map in the dirt—Kamlod's square, its temple, the cells beneath the barracks. "The elders are held here," he said, his voice a low growl, pointing to a crude square. "Ten guards, maybe more. Lia's patrol tip gives us an edge, but it's tight—narrow alleys, no cover." His eyes met Branna's, heavy with trust. "Your call, Branna."
She nodded, her voice steady, empress-like despite the pain clawing her spine. "We go in small—me, you, Vira, five others. Free the elders, slip out before dawn. No heroics." Her mind churned with Lia's warning—Cato's planned executions, chieftains and elders to die in Kamlod's square. They're Nora's soul, she thought, picturing old Torin, who'd taught her spear-work, and Eithne, whose stories bound the tribe. Losing them would shatter the Iceni's will. The ambush's success—grain, swords, freed prisoners—had lit a spark, but this rescue was a gamble, its stakes etched in her daughters' trembling hands.
Vira's knife glinted as she stepped forward, her voice fierce. "I'm not staying behind," she said, her auburn hair loose, her eyes blazing. "I can fight, Mother. Let me prove it." Her arm, grazed in the ambush, was bandaged, but her grip was iron, her trauma fueling her rage.
Branna's gaze softened, but her tone was firm. "You'll come, Vira, but you follow orders. One mistake, and we're all dead." Vira's jaw clenched, but she nodded, her knife sheathed with a snap. Lia, pale and slight, clutched her cloak, her voice a whisper. "I'll watch the camp," she said, her hazel eyes steady despite her fear. "I… I can signal if Romans come."
Branna knelt, cupping Lia's face. "You're our eyes, Lia," she said, her voice warm. "Your courage holds us together." Lia's nod was small, but her shoulders squared, a quiet strength blooming. Branna stood, her resolve a fire no doubt could quench. "Move out," she said, and the team—Carad, Vira, and five warriors, their faces smudged with ash—followed her into the night.
The march to Kamlod was silent, the forest's rustle masking their steps. Branna's wounds throbbed with each stride, but she pushed forward, the square's memory—whip's crack, soldiers' hands on her daughters—driving her. Kamlod's walls loomed, its torchlit gates guarded by Romans in bronze. Carad led them to a drainage ditch, its stink of rot choking, but it hid their approach. They crawled, mud slick on their hands, until they reached an alley near the barracks. Lia's tip held—only two guards patrolled the cells' entrance, their spears lax.
Branna signaled, her dagger ready. Carad and a warrior struck first, axes silent but deadly, felling the guards before they could cry out. Vira slipped forward, her knife prying the cell door's lock, her movements swift but tense. Branna's pulse raced, the night's quiet a fragile veil. One sound, and we're done, she thought, her eyes scanning the alley's shadows.
The door creaked open, revealing a stone pit lit by a single torch. Six elders—Torin, Eithne, and four others—sat chained, their faces gaunt, their eyes flickering with hope as Branna entered. "Nora's here," she whispered, her voice a lifeline. Carad's axe broke their chains, the clank muffled by cloaks. Torin, his beard white, gripped her arm, his voice hoarse. "You're Prasut's fire, Branna. Lead us."
Before she could answer, Vira hissed, "Guards!" Footsteps echoed outside—three Romans, their armor clanking, drawn by the fallen sentries. Vira lunged, her knife slashing a guard's throat, but her strike was loud, the body thudding. The second guard shouted, his spear thrusting, and chaos erupted. Branna's dagger parried the spear, her spear snapping the man's neck, but the third guard fled, his cries ringing. "Intruders! To the cells!"
Carad cursed, his axe bloodied. "We're blown," he growled, helping Eithne stand. "Run, now!" Branna led the elders out, Vira at her side, the warriors covering their rear. The alleys were a maze, torchlight flickering as Roman horns blared, summoning more soldiers. Branna's wounds screamed, her breath ragged, but she pushed forward, Torin's arm over her shoulder, Vira guiding Eithne. We can't lose them, she thought, her heart pounding.
A Roman squad—eight men, swords drawn—blocked the alley's end. Branna's team was outnumbered, the elders frail. Vira charged, her knife flashing, but a sword grazed her thigh, and she stumbled. "Vira!" Branna roared, her dagger slashing the soldier's arm, her spear finishing him. Carad's axe cleaved another, but a warrior fell, a gladius in his gut, his scream cut short. The elders cowered, Eithne's prayers a faint murmur.
Branna's rage surged, the square's shame—whip's bite, Lia's sobs—fueling her. "For Nora!" she shouted, her spear piercing a Roman's chest. Her warriors rallied, their axes and spears a desperate tide, and the Romans fell, their blood pooling in the dirt. But horns sounded closer, more soldiers coming. "To the ditch!" Branna ordered, dragging Vira, whose thigh bled but held her weight.
They reached the drainage ditch, its mud a slog, and crawled out, the elders gasping but alive—except Eithne. The old woman lay still, her heart failing in the chaos, her eyes open to the stars. Branna's chest tightened, grief a blade, but there was no time to mourn. "Move," she hissed, leading them into the forest, Roman shouts fading behind. The ravine welcomed them, Lia's signal—a low whistle—guiding them home.
At camp, the warriors collapsed, the elders tended by Lia, who wept over Eithne's body. "I failed her," Lia whispered, her hands trembling. Branna pulled her close, her voice fierce. "You saved us, Lia. Your signal, your eyes—we'd be dead without you." Lia's sob was quiet, but she nodded, her resilience a spark.
Vira, her thigh bandaged, glared at the fire. "I messed up," she muttered, her voice bitter. "That guard—I should've been quieter." Her knife lay beside her, bloodied, her recklessness a wound as deep as her flesh.
Branna knelt, her hand on Vira's shoulder. "You fought, Vira. You learned. Next time, you'll be sharper." Her voice was firm, but her eyes softened, pride mingling with fear. She turned to Torin, who sat wrapped in a cloak, his gaze heavy. "What now, Branna?" he asked, his voice worn but steady. "Cato'll hunt us harder now."
She stood, her wounds a dull roar, her resolve iron. "We grow," she said, her voice ringing, empress-like. "More warriors, more tribes. Carad's Kati, others wronged by Rome. We strike again—harder, smarter." Her eyes flicked to Kamlod's distant glow, where Cato's executions loomed. He'll kill more, she thought, Sevo's smirk flashing in her mind, his Veni warriors aiding Rome's grip. But we'll cut deeper.
Lia's voice, small but clear, broke the silence. "Mother, the guards… they spoke of a legion. From Londinium, marching north. Cato's calling them." Her eyes were wide, her fear tempered by courage, her words a weight.
Branna's blood ran cold, the stakes sharpening. A legion—thousands of Romans, disciplined, armored—could crush Nora's spark before it flared. She faced her warriors, their faces grim but loyal, the elders' eyes burning with hope. "We saved our kin," she said, her voice a blade. "But Rome's coming. We fight, we hide, we grow. Nora doesn't break."
Carad nodded, his spear raised. "To Nora," he said, and the warriors echoed, their voices a low roar. Vira gripped her knife, her eyes fierce, while Lia stood beside Branna, her hand steady. The ravine's shadows held them, a fragile bastion, but Branna's gaze pierced the dark, fixed on Kamlod's glow. Cato thought Nora humbled, its queen shamed. He was wrong. Branna's blood, her daughters' fire, her warriors' steel—they were a storm brewing, and Rome would feel its wrath.