The Iceni camp was a taut bowstring, its warriors crouched among the forest's gnarled roots, their breaths misting in the pre-dawn chill. The air was heavy with pine and fear, the distant glow of Kamlod a reminder of Cato's grip. Branna stood at the camp's heart, her auburn braid coiled beneath her cloak, her whip-scarred back throbbing under a patched tunic. Her emerald eyes burned, fixed on a captured Veni scout kneeling before her, his hands bound, his face pale. Sevo's truce offer—swear to Nero, spare Nora's blood—echoed in her mind, a poison as vile as Prasut's tainted cup. Vira honed her knife nearby, her shoulder bandaged from the square's fight, while Lia clutched a stolen Roman parchment, her hazel eyes sharp with secrets. Sevo's a viper, Branna thought, her fingers tight on her iron dagger. Tonight, we cut his fangs.
Carad loomed over the scout, his scarred face a storm. "Speak," he growled, his axe glinting. "Where's Sevo's camp? What's his plan?" The scout, barely a man, trembled, his voice cracking. "He's… he's meeting Romans, near the old ford. Wants to trap you—lure you to talks, then signal Cato's men."
Branna's blood ran cold, Sevo's treachery laid bare. A trap, she thought, picturing his smirk in the square, his Veni warriors aiding Rome's torches. Lia's warning of the Londinium legion weighed heavier now, its march a blade at Nora's throat. She knelt before the scout, her voice steady, empress-like. "Your people suffer under Sevo's leash," she said, her words cutting. "Join us, expose him, and Nora fights with you." The scout's eyes flickered, fear yielding to shame, and he nodded, whispering the ford's path.
Vira's knife paused, her voice fierce. "We hit him now," she said, her auburn hair loose, her eyes blazing. "End Sevo before his trap springs." Her shoulder wound was healing, but her hands shook, the assault's trauma mingling with her hunger for vengeance.
Branna's gaze softened, but her tone was iron. "We strike, Vira, but smart," she said. "You're with me, but no reckless moves." Vira's jaw tightened, her knife sheathed with a snap, her nod grudging but firm. Lia stepped forward, her parchment trembling in her hands. "Mother, this… it's Roman orders," she said, her voice small but clear. "Cato's men—two centuries, hiding near the ford. Sevo's to draw you out."
Branna's heart pounded, Lia's find a lifeline. She took the parchment, its Latin scrawl meaningless to her, but Lia's translation—learned from Prasut's Roman tutors—was precise. Two centuries—two hundred men, she thought, her mind racing. The elders' rescue, the patrol ambush, the chieftains' freedom—they'd stung Cato, and now he struck back. "Good work, Lia," she said, her voice warm. "You've saved us again." Lia's pale face flushed, her resilience a quiet fire.
Carad traced the ford on the map-stone, his finger pausing. "We can't fight two centuries," he said, his voice grim. "But Sevo's camp—fifty Veni, maybe less. Hit fast, turn his men, then vanish before Cato's trap closes." His eyes met Branna's, a question unspoken. "Your call."
Branna's chest tightened, the choice a spear's point. Hitting Sevo risked the legion's wrath, but sparing him meant betrayal's spread. She thought of Prasut's blue lips, the granaries' flames, Vira and Lia's cries in the square. "We end Sevo," she said, her voice a command. "Turn his Veni to us, weaken Cato's allies. Tonight." Her eyes flicked to Torin, coughing by the fire, his stories of Iceni defiance her fuel. Nora's soul lives in us.
The camp moved, warriors binding wounds, sharpening spears, the Veni scout—named Branoc—swearing loyalty under Torin's gaze. Branna led thirty fighters, Vira and Carad at her sides, their steps silent through the forest. Lia stayed with Torin, her signal—a hawk's cry—ready if Romans neared. The ford was a half-hour's march, its banks shrouded in mist, the river's rush a mask for their approach. Branna's wounds ached, her shame a fire, but her resolve was iron, the square's whip and Sevo's smirk her spurs.
They reached the ford, its clearing lit by Sevo's campfires, forty Veni warriors lounging, their axes idle. Sevo stood with a Roman centurion, his lean frame cloaked, his voice low as he pointed to the forest. Plotting our deaths, Branna thought, her dagger ready. She signaled, and her warriors struck, spears flying, axes cleaving. Branna's spear pierced a Veni's chest, her dagger slashing another's arm, her movements swift despite her pain. Carad's axe felled two, his roar shaking the mist. Vira was a shadow, her knife gutting a warrior, her strikes precise, her recklessness tempered.
Sevo's men faltered, some raising hands, others fighting. Branna shouted, her voice ringing, "Sevo's sold you to Rome! Join Nora, or die with him!" Branoc echoed her, his voice raw, and half the Veni dropped their axes, their eyes wide with betrayal. Sevo's smirk vanished, his sword drawn, but his men turned, some seizing him. Vira lunged, her knife at his throat, but Branna grabbed her arm. "Wait," she said, her voice sharp. "He faces Nora's justice."
The Roman centurion fled, his shouts summoning Cato's men, horns blaring in the distance. Branna's team bound Sevo, his curses a venomous hiss, and retreated, twenty Veni rebels joining them, their axes now Nora's. But the cost was steep—three Iceni dead, their blood staining the ford, one a young woman Vira had trained with. Vira's face was pale, her knife trembling, her voice a whisper. "I could've killed him," she said, her eyes on Sevo, her mercy a weight.
Branna's hand found Vira's, her voice firm. "You chose right," she said. "His death's for all Nora, not just us." Vira nodded, her shoulder bleeding anew, her growth a spark in the dark. They reached the camp, Lia's hawk-cry guiding them, her face lighting with relief. But her voice trembled as she handed Branna another scrap—a Roman scout's note, snatched from a fallen Veni. "It's Cato," she said. "His centuries—they're closer. They know we're here."
Branna's blood froze, the parchment's scrawl confirming Lia's words: Iceni camp, ravine, strike at dawn. Sevo's trap had been deeper, his truce a lure to pinpoint them. She faced her warriors, their faces grim, the Veni rebels uneasy, Torin's cough a grim rhythm. Sevo knelt, bound, his smirk gone, his eyes darting. "You're finished, Branna," he spat. "Rome's legion will crush you."
She stepped forward, her dagger glinting, her voice a whip, empress-like. "You crushed Prasut, sold Nora, shamed us," she said, her words carrying. "Your Veni see you now—viper, not chief." She turned to the Veni rebels, her voice fierce. "Fight with us, for Nora, for freedom. Rome's chains break tonight." The Veni roared, their axes raised, their loyalty won, Branoc's eyes burning with purpose.
Carad's voice cut through. "We can't stay," he said, his axe ready. "Cato's men are hours away. We move—deeper forest, or we stand and bleed." His eyes met Branna's, the weight of lives in her hands.
Branna's heart pounded, the square's whip, Lia's sobs, Sevo's poison her fuel. Cato's trap closes, she thought, but Nora was stronger—Veni rebels, chieftains, her daughters' fire. "We move," she said, her voice a blade. "Deeper forest, rally more tribes. Sevo faces justice at dawn—Nora's justice." Her eyes flicked to Vira, her shoulder bound, her knife steady; to Lia, her parchment clutched, her courage fierce; to Torin, his stories alive in their fight.
The camp stirred, warriors packing, fires doused, Sevo dragged along, his fate sealed. Branna led them into the forest's depths, the ravine fading, Cato's centuries a shadow at their heels. Nora was wounded—granaries burned, elders lost, warriors bleeding—but not broken. Branna's blood, her daughters' strength, her tribes' steel—they were a fire kindling, and Rome would burn in its blaze.