The oak doors of the great hall burst open, mud-soaked boots pounding the worn planks as a scout staggered inside. "Romans!" His shout cracked, hoarse with panic, his breath heaving as he dropped to one knee. "Three leagues south—farms ablaze, families slaughtered! They left nothing but ash!"
The hall erupted in chaos. Chieftains surged from their benches, swords rasping half-free, their curses a jagged roar that shook the rafters. Branna, seated beside King Prasut at the high table, remained still, but her pulse thundered, a war drum rattling her ribs. Her emerald eyes snapped to the scout—his face gray as death, his cloak ripped and stained with soot—then to her husband. Prasut's jaw was carved stone, but his fingers twitched against the throne's arm, where iron bands glinted like shackles in the torchlight. Branna swallowed a bitter surge of dread, her throat tight. They torch our homes, and we sit here, chained.
"Enough!" Prasut's voice cut through, low but sharp, a blade sheathed in forced calm. The clamor dulled, though fury hummed in the air like a drawn bowstring. "The envoy speaks first."
Branna's gaze shifted to Cato Decian, the Roman envoy, perched at the table's far end. His crimson cloak spilled across the bench, stark as fresh blood against the hall's muted browns. A thin smile curved his lips, sharp as a dagger's edge, but a twitch tugged the faint scar at his mouth's corner—a glimpse of something colder, more dangerous. His dark eyes glinted, a predator savoring a kill not yet made. Her grip on the table's edge tightened, the rough wood biting her palms until they stung. He smirks while our world burns.
The wind outside screamed, clawing at the timber walls as if Arda, goddess of war, raged against this gathering. Inside, the air was thick—damp wool, sour mead, the acrid tang of fear that clung to every breath. Torches sputtered in their iron sconces, casting jagged shadows across the weathered faces of the Nora, Veni, and Kati tribes. Branna's auburn braid pulled taut against her scalp, her skin prickling beneath her woven gown. She was no mere ornament at Prasut's side, no consort draped in finery for show. She was steel, honed and waiting, a storm bound in flesh, ready to break free.
Prasut rose, his broad shoulders bowed as if his golden crown were forged of iron. His gray-streaked beard framed a face etched with decades of loss—sons buried, villages razed. His voice, once a bellow that rallied armies across Nora's hills, faltered now, thin against the wind's howl. "The Romans offer peace," he said, his hand gesturing stiffly toward Cato. "A tithe, a vow of fealty, and our lands, our ways, endure beneath their shield."
Cato tilted his head, his smile curling tighter, a viper coiling to strike. "Nero's mercy is boundless," he said, his voice smooth as polished bone, each word a calculated cut. "Pay the tribute, swear your oaths, and Nora will thrive under Rome's wing—roads to carry your grain, markets to swell your coffers, schools to sharpen your heirs' minds."
Branna's nails scored the wood, a splinter catching her skin with a sharp sting. Mercy. The word was poison, a lie that seared her throat. She saw it still—twenty winters ago, Roman ships slicing through the gray waves, their iron-clad soldiers spilling onto Nora's shores like a plague. Sacred oaks smoldered, their blackened branches clawing a smoke-choked sky. Standing stones, older than memory, toppled under the weight of eagle banners. Her cousin Elara's scream as a centurion's blade found her heart, her body left to rot in a grove where Arda's name was once sung. Rome's peace was a yoke, their wing a blade at the neck. Each tithe forged another link in the chains binding her people.
"Thrive?" Carad of the Kati smashed his fist on the table, his scarred face twisting in a snarl. A mead cup tipped, amber liquid pooling like blood across the oak. "Their taxmen bleed us dry! My children gnaw roots while Kamlod's lords feast on our grain!"
The hall growled, a low, feral assent that sent a spark through Branna's veins. Carad was a warrior born, his clan a relentless thorn in Rome's side. He'd harried their legions in the western hills, forcing a grudging truce that still rankled the invaders. If his fire could wake the others, if it could burn through Prasut's weary caution, perhaps they could shatter these chains before they tightened further.
But Prasut shook his head, slow and heavy, his eyes shadowed with ghosts. "War is a young man's song, Carad," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've dug graves enough—sons, brothers, whole villages gone to ash. Their legions are a flood, steel-clad, wielding machines that splinter stone. Defy them, and we're nothing but bones bleaching the fields."
Silence fell, thick as frost, snuffing the spark. Branna's scream lodged in her throat, bitter as gall. She glanced at her daughters, seated to her right. Vira, sixteen, her auburn hair a mirror of Branna's, glared at Cato with eyes that could set the hall ablaze. Her hands were fists, knuckles pale, as if she could crush Rome's will with her grip alone. Beside her, Lia, barely fourteen, clung to her sister's arm, her delicate frame trembling beneath a woolen cloak. Her hazel eyes pooled with tears, catching the torchlight like shattered glass. Branna's heart twisted—her fierce Vira, her gentle Lia. She'd vowed to shield them, to give them a Nora of open skies and sacred groves, not this cage of vassalage.
Cato seized the quiet, his voice slithering through the tension like oil on water. "Wisdom guides your king," he said, leaning forward, his scar twitching. "Rome doesn't break you—it raises you. Join us. Your daughters will drape in silk, wield quills, tread stone roads lit by lanterns."
"Father!" Vira shot to her feet, her voice a lash that snapped every head toward her. Her boots scraped the floor, braid whipping as she leaned across the table. "Kneel to these dogs? They spit on our gods, rape our graves! I'd sooner die than wear their chains!"
Prasut's eyes flashed, his throat clearing with a rough rasp. "Sit, Vira. Now."
She didn't. Her chest heaved, defiance carved in every line of her face. "I'm Nora, same as you, same as any warrior here. I bow to no one!"
Cato's smile flickered, the scar at his mouth twitching—a raw, lethal glint in his gaze. His fingers tapped the table once, a soft click that pierced Branna's ears like a warning. Pride flared in her chest for Vira's fire, but dread gnawed deeper, a cold weight in her gut. That spark could light a rebellion—or paint a target on her daughter's back.
"Enough!" Prasut's command cracked, his fist thudding the throne's arm, the iron bands clanking faintly. He faced Cato, shoulders slumping as if the fight had bled from him. "We pay the tithe. We swear to Nero."
A gasp rippled through the hall—relief from the weary, despair from the defiant. Carad's curse hissed low, his massive hands trembling as he gripped his sword's hilt. Sevo of the Veni, his lands too close to Kamlod for trust, dipped his head, a faint smirk curling his lips. Branna's world tilted, the ground she'd fought to hold crumbling like dry earth. She ached to shatter these chains, to rise and call Prasut a coward, but her daughters' stares anchored her, heavy as stone.
Cato stood, his cloak pooling like gore across the bench. "Wise indeed, King Prasut," he said, his voice a velvet blade. "My men remain to gather the tithe. Tonight, we feast—to this bond of peoples."
The hall stirred, servants bustling with platters of roasted boar, the steam carrying a faint char that turned Branna's stomach. She caught Sevo's glance as he rose—his eyes ice-sharp, plotting, a blade hidden in their depths. Then he turned, melting into the crowd, but not before his hand brushed his cloak, the faint clink of steel betraying a hidden dagger. A chill traced her spine. Traitor or ally? The question gnawed, unanswered.
She leaned to her daughters, her voice a fierce whisper. "Stay close. Each tithe binds us tighter—trust no one, not even our own."
Vira's jaw clenched, her nod sharp. "Yes, Mother." Lia's tears spilled over, streaking her pale cheeks, but she gripped Branna's hand and whispered, "I will."
The storm outside broke, rain hammering the roof like Arda's wrath unleashed. Branna's eyes locked on the ceremonial spear above the hearth, its iron tip gleaming in the torchlight. Her gaze drifted to Prasut's throne—its iron bands no mere adornment, but shackles of will, forged by surrender. She'd wear no such yoke. Not while her daughters breathed. Not while Nora's heart still beat.
The feast swelled, laughter and clinking cups a brittle mask over the fracture beneath. Servants wove through the crowd, their eyes darting, wary, as if they too sensed the storm within. Branna touched no food, her stare fixed on the spear. Its call sharpened, a whisper rising above the din: War comes. She thought of the scout's words—farms ablaze, families slaughtered—and her fingers brushed the splinter's sting on her palm. Blood welled, a single drop, dark as her resolve.
Across the hall, Sevo lingered near a shadowed pillar, his hand still beneath his cloak. His gaze flicked to Cato, then to Branna, and for a heartbeat, their eyes met. A challenge? A warning? She couldn't tell, but the weight of it settled in her bones. The Romans thought Nora tamed, a beast collared by their tithes. They were wrong. Branna was no queen to kneel, no mother to break. She was a daughter of the wild, forged in grief and fury, and when the time came, she'd drown their empire in blood.
The torchlight flickered, shadows stretching like claws across the hall. Branna's breath steadied, her resolve a blade honed sharp. The chains of vassalage might bind them tonight, but she'd shatter them—or die trying.