The feast churned on, a brittle mask of merriment stretched thin over the hall's fracture. Laughter clashed with the clink of bronze cups, but to Branna, it was a hollow din, like bones rattling in a grave. She sat rigid at the high table, her untouched plate of boar and barley bread a silent defiance. Her emerald eyes scanned the crowd, catching every furtive glance, every tightened jaw. The air was heavy—smoke from the hearth curling like specters, the sour tang of mead mingling with the char of roasted meat. Outside, the storm raged, rain lashing the timber walls as if Arda herself wept for Nora's fate.
Vira, to her right, gripped her knife too tightly, her knuckles pale against the hilt. Lia, beside her, hunched low, her tear-streaked face half-hidden by her cloak's hood. Branna's heart ached at their silence, their fear. She'd whispered to them to trust no one, but the weight of that warning pressed harder now, a chain tightening around her throat. Each tithe binds us tighter, she'd said. And each moment in this hall, surrounded by allies who might turn to enemies, forged another link.
Prasut, at the table's head, raised his cup, his smile forced as he toasted Cato Decian. The Roman envoy lounged across from him, his crimson cloak draped like spilled blood, his scar-twitching smile a blade unsheathed. "To unity," Prasut said, his voice hollow. "To peace under Nero's grace."
Cato lifted his cup, his dark eyes glinting. "To a Nora that thrives," he replied, the words smooth as oil, but the scar at his mouth's corner twitched again, a flicker of menace that made Branna's skin crawl. His fingers tapped the table—once, twice—a soft click that cut through the din like a warning. She noticed his men, five Roman soldiers in polished breastplates, stationed near the hall's rear. Their hands rested on sword pommels, their gazes cold and unyielding. Not guests, she thought. Wolves among sheep.
The chieftains drank, some with grimaces, others with resignation. Carad of the Kati, seated near the hearth, slammed his cup down, mead sloshing onto the table. "Peace," he muttered, his scarred face twisting. "A fine word for slavery." His voice was low, but it carried, and Branna saw heads turn, a ripple of unease spreading. She willed him to speak louder, to challenge this farce, but he fell silent, his massive hands clenching as if crushing an unseen foe.
Sevo of the Veni, however, smiled—a thin, knowing curve that sent a shiver down Branna's spine. He sat closer to Cato than to the other chieftains, his lean frame draped in a cloak too fine for a warrior's life. His eyes, hooded and sharp, flicked to her for a heartbeat, then away. She hadn't forgotten the clink of steel beneath his cloak during the council, the way his hand had lingered there. What game do you play, Sevo? Her gut screamed traitor, but she had no proof—only the weight of his gaze, heavy as a blade at her back.
A servant girl, no older than Lia, approached the high table, her tray trembling as she offered a jug of mead. Her eyes darted to Cato, then dropped, her shoulders hunching as if expecting a blow. Branna's chest tightened. Even our own fear him. She waved the girl away gently, her fingers brushing Lia's hand under the table. Lia flinched, her breath hitching, and Branna cursed herself for the touch. Her daughter was a reed in a storm, bending but ready to snap.
"Mother," Vira whispered, her voice fierce but low. "We can't stay here. Not with him." Her gaze burned toward Cato, who was now speaking softly to Prasut, his head tilted like a confidant. "He's a snake. I'll gut him before I let him chain us."
Branna's lips pressed thin. "Hush, Vira. Words like that will see us all in graves." But her own heart echoed her daughter's rage. She saw the Roman soldiers shift, one adjusting his sword belt, the leather creaking. Her eyes flicked to the ceremonial spear above the hearth, its iron tip a glint of promise in the torchlight. If it comes to blood, I'll be ready.
Prasut's laughter, forced and brittle, pulled her back. "Cato tells me of Rome's wonders," he said to the hall, his voice straining for warmth. "Stone cities that touch the sky, baths warmed by fire beneath the earth. This is the future we secure for our children."
The hall murmured, some nodding, others staring into their cups. Branna's stomach churned. Future? A cage gilded with lies. She remembered her cousin, Elara, her throat slit by a Roman blade, her body left to rot in a sacred grove. She remembered the tax collectors who'd come last harvest, their ledgers cold as they seized half the Nora's grain, leaving children hollow-eyed and wailing. This was Rome's future—hunger, blood, chains.
Carad stood abruptly, his bench scraping the floor. "I've heard enough of Rome's wonders," he growled, his voice a thunderclap. "They build their cities on our bones. I'll not drink to that." He strode toward the doors, his cloak billowing, and Branna's pulse quickened. Go, Carad. Light the spark. But he paused, glancing back at Prasut, then shook his head and vanished into the storm. The doors slammed shut, the sound echoing like a death knell.
Cato's smile didn't waver, but his eyes narrowed, the scar twitching sharper. "Bold words," he said softly, almost to himself. "But boldness breaks against Rome's steel." His gaze slid to Branna, lingering too long, and her blood ran cold. He sees me. He knows I'm not tamed.
"Father," Lia whispered, her voice trembling as she clutched Branna's sleeve. "Why does he look at you like that?"
Branna forced a calm she didn't feel. "He looks at us all, little one. Stay strong." But her mind raced. Cato wasn't just here for tithes—he was measuring them, testing their will. And Sevo, with his sly glances and hidden blade, was part of it. She scanned the hall again, catching a servant boy's nervous shuffle as he passed Sevo's table, his hands fumbling a tray. Sevo leaned close, whispering something, and the boy paled, nodding quickly before scurrying away. A message? A plot? Her instincts screamed danger, but the hall's chaos buried the truth.
Prasut rose, his hands spread wide. "Let us dance, sing, show our Roman guests the heart of Nora!" His voice strained, a king playing host to his captors. Drummers struck up a rhythm, slow and heavy, like a heartbeat under siege. Warriors and their wives took to the floor, their movements stiff, their smiles forced. Branna watched, her throat tight. This was no celebration—it was a surrender dressed in revelry.
Vira leaned closer, her breath hot against Branna's ear. "Mother, we should leave. Now. Before they trap us here."
Branna's eyes flicked to the Roman soldiers, now spreading out along the walls, their hands never far from their swords. "Not yet," she murmured. "We'd be marked if we fled. Stay sharp, Vira. Watch Sevo."
Vira nodded, her gaze locking on the Veni chieftain. Sevo was now laughing with a minor chieftain, his hand clapping the man's shoulder, but his eyes darted to Cato, then to the high table. Branna followed his line of sight, her breath catching as she saw Prasut's cup—untouched since the toast, its surface shimmering oddly in the torchlight. Poison? The thought hit like a blade, but she had no time to act.
A scream tore through the hall. The servant girl who'd served the high table earlier stumbled into the center of the dance, her tray crashing to the floor. Blood streaked her cheek, her dress torn at the shoulder. "They—they took my brother!" she sobbed, pointing at the Roman soldiers. "He tried to stop them taking our grain, and they—"
One of the soldiers stepped forward, his hand raised. "Silence, girl!" His voice was a whip, and the hall froze. Branna's blood boiled—she knew this cruelty, had seen it in every Roman tax raid. The girl's words echoed her own memories: Elara's scream, the crunch of bone under iron boots.
Prasut stood, his face pale. "Cato, what is this?"
Cato's smile was gone, replaced by a cold mask. "A misunderstanding, I'm sure. My men enforce the tithe, as agreed. Some resist foolishly." His eyes flicked to the girl, then to Branna, a challenge in their depths. "Order must be maintained."
The girl sobbed, collapsing to her knees. Branna rose, her hands trembling with rage. "This is our hall, Cato. Our people. You speak of peace, yet your men spill blood?"
The hall went deathly still, every eye on her. Cato's scar twitched, his fingers tapping again—slow, deliberate. "Careful, lady," he said, his voice low, laced with threat. "Words can bind tighter than chains."
Vira's knife clattered as she gripped it harder, her breath hissing. Lia whimpered, burying her face in Branna's side. Prasut's hand shot out, gripping Branna's arm. "Sit," he hissed. "Do not provoke him."
But Branna didn't sit. She stared Cato down, her voice steady despite the storm in her chest. "Nora bends, but it does not break. Harm our people again, and you'll see our steel."
A murmur rippled through the hall—some shocked, some emboldened. Carad's absence felt heavier now, a lost ally in this moment of defiance. Cato's eyes narrowed, but he leaned back, his smile returning, sharp and dangerous. "Spirited," he said. "Rome admires spirit—until it must be tamed."
The drums faltered, the dancers slowing. Sevo watched from his corner, his hand still beneath his cloak, his smirk gone. Branna's mind raced—had she pushed too far? Had she endangered her daughters? But the servant girl's bloodied face burned in her vision, a mirror of Nora's suffering. She couldn't stay silent, not when Rome's chains tightened with every breath.
Prasut pulled her down, his grip bruising. "You'll doom us," he whispered, his voice raw. "Think of Vira, Lia."
Branna's eyes stung, but she nodded, forcing herself to sit. Her gaze found the spear again, its tip a beacon in the chaos. War comes, it whispered, and she clung to that promise. The servant girl was led away, her sobs fading as the drums resumed, louder, desperate to drown the truth.
The feast dragged on, but Branna saw it for what it was—a stage for Rome's power, a noose tightening around Nora. She watched Sevo slip through the crowd, his cloak brushing a Roman soldier's arm, their eyes meeting for a fraction too long. She watched Prasut's cup, still untouched, its shimmer a silent threat. And she watched Cato, his scar-twitching smile a vow of retribution.
Her fingers brushed the splinter's sting on her palm, the pain grounding her. I will shatter these chains, she swore, her resolve a fire no storm could quench. But as the hall spun with false joy, she felt the shadows of treachery closing in, and the weight of her daughters' hands in hers was all that kept her from breaking.