The Iceni camp was a fragile pulse in the forest's heart, its warriors scattered among gnarled oaks, their spears and axes hidden beneath bracken. Dawn's gray light filtered through the canopy, catching the sweat on Branna's brow as she stood over a crude map scratched into a flat stone. Her auburn braid was frayed, her cloak stained with mud and blood, the whip's wounds on her back a constant ache beneath her tunic. Her emerald eyes traced the map's lines—Kamlod's walls, the river path, Londinium's distant roads—where a Roman legion marched, Lia's warning from the elders' rescue a weight in her gut. Vira sharpened her knife nearby, her thigh bandaged from the night's gambit, while Lia tended old Torin, his cough a rasp in the morning chill. Cato's tightening the noose, Branna thought, her fingers gripping the iron dagger at her belt. But Nora's not caught yet.
Carad returned from scouting, his scarred face grim as he dropped beside the map. "Veni lands are stirring," he said, his voice low. "Some chieftains hate Sevo's Roman leash—ready to join us if we prove his treachery. But Cato's patrols are thick. We've got days, maybe, before that legion hits." His eyes met Branna's, steady but urgent. "We need numbers, Branna. Now."
She nodded, her voice firm, empress-like despite the pain lancing her spine. "Send runners to the Veni rebels," she said. "Expose Sevo's poison—Prasut's death, his Veni warriors with Romans. If we turn his own against him, we grow stronger." Her mind churned with the square's shame—whip's crack, Vira and Lia's cries, Sevo's smirk as Cato shamed her. The elders' rescue had saved Torin and others, but Eithne's death and the legion's approach were blades at her throat. We need tribes, not just spears, she thought, picturing the Veni's fertile lands, their warriors' axes.
Vira's knife paused, her eyes blazing. "Let me go to the Veni," she said, her voice fierce. "I'll make them see Sevo's a snake." Her auburn hair was loose, her bruises fading, but her hands shook, the assault's shadow fueling her need to act.
Branna's gaze hardened. "No, Vira," she said, her tone sharp. "You're needed here—training, not running. Your last stunt nearly cost us everything." Vira's jaw clenched, her knife resuming its scrape, but her silence was heavy, her recklessness a spark ready to ignite. Lia, wrapping Torin's cloak, spoke softly. "I found something," she said, producing a scrap of leather from a captured Roman in the ambush. "A map—Kamlod's square, execution plans. Cato's killing more tomorrow."
Branna's blood ran cold, Lia's words a mirror of her fears. She took the map, its charcoal lines marking the square, a gallows sketched in crude strokes. More elders, chieftains, she thought, her heart twisting at Torin's cough, his frail form a reminder of Nora's soul. "Good work, Lia," she said, her voice warm. "You're our eyes." Lia's pale face flushed, her hazel eyes steady, her trauma yielding to purpose.
Carad traced the map, his finger pausing at Kamlod's gates. "Another rescue's suicide," he said. "But if we hit a patrol first—draw Cato's men out—we might slip in." His eyes flicked to Branna, a question unspoken. "Split our forces, or hold?"
Branna's chest tightened, the choice a razor's edge. Splitting meant weakness, but waiting meant more deaths. She thought of Prasut's poisoned cup, the granaries' flames, her daughters' pain. "We hit a patrol," she said, her voice a command. "Draw them out, then send a small team for the captives. Carad, you lead the patrol strike. I'll take the square."
Vira stood, her knife sheathed. "I'm with you, Mother," she said, her voice defiant. "No arguments." Branna nodded, seeing Vira's fire tempered by the elders' rescue, her recklessness honing into strength. Lia's hand touched Branna's, her voice a whisper. "I'll watch the camp again. Be careful, Mother."
The day passed in fevered preparation—warriors binding wounds, sharpening blades, runners sent to Veni lands with tales of Sevo's betrayal. Branna trained with Vira, their spears clashing, Vira's strikes sharper, her focus fierce. "You're learning," Branna said, her voice proud but firm. "Stay close tonight." Vira's nod was curt, her eyes burning with purpose. Torin watched, his cough quieter, his stories of old Iceni wars stirring the camp's resolve.
Dusk fell, and Branna led her team—Vira, three warriors, and a scout—toward Kamlod, while Carad took twenty men to ambush a patrol. The forest was a cloak, its shadows hiding their steps, but Branna's wounds throbbed, her shame a fire. For Nora, she thought, the square's whip and Lia's sobs her fuel. Kamlod's walls loomed, its torches flickering, but Carad's signal—a distant owl hoot—confirmed the patrol was engaged, drawing guards away.
Branna's team slipped through an alley, Lia's map guiding them to the square's edge. The gallows stood stark, three chieftains bound beneath, their faces gaunt. Only four guards remained, their spears lax. Branna signaled, her dagger ready, and the scout's sling felled one guard, a stone cracking his skull. Vira's knife took another, silent and swift, her movements precise. Branna's spear pierced a third, but the fourth shouted, his cry cut short by a warrior's axe. The chieftains, freed, stumbled forward, their thanks a hoarse murmur.
But horns blared, Roman boots thundering. Branna's heart pounded, the plan fraying. "Run!" she hissed, leading the chieftains through the alleys, Vira at her side. A Roman squad—ten men, swords drawn—blocked their path, and Branna's team was trapped. Vira's knife flashed, but a sword grazed her shoulder, and she grunted, blood seeping. Branna's spear felled the soldier, her rage a storm, but another warrior fell, his throat slashed, his eyes wide in death.
The chieftains fled, guided by the scout, but Branna and Vira fought on, their backs to a wall. "Stay with me!" Branna shouted, her dagger parrying a gladius, her spear snapping a Roman's arm. Vira's knife gutted another, her shoulder bleeding but her strikes fierce. Carad's roar echoed, his team breaking through, axes cleaving the Romans. The squad scattered, and Branna's group escaped, dragging their wounded, the chieftains safe but the cost heavy—two warriors dead, Vira's shoulder a mess.
Back at the camp, Lia bound Vira's wounds, her hands steady despite her tears. "You saved them," she whispered, her voice breaking. Vira's face was pale, her voice bitter. "I slowed us down," she said, her knife idle, her recklessness a lesson learned in blood.
Branna knelt, her hand on Vira's. "You fought, Vira. You grew." Her voice was firm, her pride a warmth. She turned to the chieftains, their eyes grateful but weary. "Nora's stronger now," she said, her voice ringing. "We'll need you when the legion comes."
But a shout broke the camp's quiet—a runner, bloodied, staggering from the Veni lands. "Sevo's here!" he gasped, collapsing. "He's outside, with Veni warriors. Says he wants to talk—offers a truce."
Branna's blood froze, Sevo's name a blade in her gut. She strode to the camp's edge, her dagger drawn, Vira and Carad at her sides, Lia behind with Torin. Sevo stood in the clearing, his lean frame cloaked, his smirk unchanged, ten Veni warriors at his back. "Branna," he called, his voice smooth, mocking. "Your raids sting, but Rome's legion is coming. Join me—swear to Nero, and we'll spare Nora's blood."
The camp stirred, warriors gripping spears, their eyes on Branna. She stepped forward, her voice a whip, empress-like. "You poisoned Prasut, sold us to Cato," she said, her words carrying. "Your truce is a trap, Sevo. Nora kneels to no traitor."
Sevo's smirk faltered, his eyes flicking to his warriors, some shifting uneasily. "Bold," he said, his voice cold. "But Rome breaks the bold. Think on it, Branna—your daughters' lives, your people's. I'll return at dawn." He turned, his cloak sweeping, and vanished into the forest, his warriors following.
Branna's heart pounded, Sevo's offer a poison as deadly as Prasut's cup. A trap, she thought, picturing Cato's scar-twitching smile, the legion's march. She faced her warriors, their faces grim but loyal, the chieftains' eyes burning with defiance. "No truce," she said, her voice a blade. "We fight—Veni rebels, Kati, all who hate Rome. Nora's heart beats stronger than Sevo's lies."
Carad's spear rose, his voice a growl. "To Nora!" The warriors roared, Vira's knife gleaming, Lia's gaze steady. The forest held them, a bastion against the coming storm, but Branna's eyes fixed on the horizon, where Sevo's betrayal and Rome's legion loomed. Cato thought Nora crushed, its queen shamed. He was wrong. Branna's blood, her daughters' fire, her warriors' steel—they were a tide rising, and Rome would drown in it.