The feast had dwindled to a strained hum, the hall's warmth souring into a haze of mead and resentment. Branna stood near the high table, her emerald eyes scanning the crowd as chieftains muttered and servants cleared away scraps of boar. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and charred meat, the torches flickering like the last gasps of Nora's pride. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving a damp chill that seeped through the timber walls. Branna's cloak hung heavy on her shoulders, her auburn braid frayed from the night's tension. Her palm throbbed where a splinter had caught earlier, a small pain anchoring her amid the chaos of Cato's threats, Sevo's sly glances, and Prasut's untouched cup, its surface still shimmering with suspicion.
Vira, sixteen and fierce, hovered at her side, her hand never far from the knife at her belt. "Mother, we can't stay here," she whispered, her voice low but sharp. "Cato's men are watching us like hawks. And Sevo—I saw him slip something to a servant. He's plotting."
Branna's gaze flicked to Sevo, the Veni chieftain, who lingered near a pillar, his lean frame half-shadowed. His eyes met hers for a heartbeat, cold and calculating, before he turned away, his cloak brushing the floor. She hadn't missed the clink of steel beneath that cloak earlier, nor the way he'd hovered near Cato during the feast. Traitor, her gut screamed, but proof was a luxury she didn't have. "Stay calm, Vira," she murmured. "We watch, we wait. A rash move now could doom us."
Lia, barely fourteen, clung to Vira's arm, her pale face etched with fear. "Father's cup," she whispered, her hazel eyes wide. "He hasn't touched it. What if it's poisoned?"
Branna's stomach twisted, Lia's words echoing her own dread. Prasut sat slumped at the high table, his gray-streaked beard framing a face worn by years of compromise. His cup, filled during Cato's toast, stood untouched, its contents catching the torchlight with an unnatural sheen. Poison? The thought was a blade, sharp and cold. Prasut was Nora's king, a client of Rome, sworn to Nero's peace. But Rome's promises were as brittle as the oaths they demanded, and Cato's scar-twitching smile had promised nothing but chains.
She leaned toward her daughters, her voice a fierce whisper. "Stay close. Trust no one—not Sevo, not even our own. We leave soon, but quietly." Her eyes darted to Cato, the Roman envoy, who lounged near Prasut, his crimson cloak stark against the hall's drab benches. His fingers tapped the table—once, twice—a soft click that cut through the murmur like a warning. Five Roman soldiers, their breastplates gleaming, stood at the hall's rear, hands on sword hilts. Not guests, Branna thought. Jailers.
The hall's doors creaked open, admitting a gust of cold air and a figure cloaked in mud-stained wool. Carad, the Kati chieftain, strode in, his scarred face grim, his cloak dripping from the storm he'd braved. He'd left hours ago, cursing Prasut's surrender, but now he was back, his presence a spark in the hall's gloom. Branna's pulse quickened. Carad doesn't bend easily. What's brought him back?
Prasut rose, his voice strained. "Carad, you return. Have you reconsidered the tithe?"
Carad's laugh was a harsh bark. "Reconsidered?" He stepped forward, his boots thudding on the planks. "I've seen what your 'peace' costs, Prasut. Roman taxmen hit my lands at dawn—seized half our grain, burned a steading when my kin resisted. Two boys dead, their mother wailing over their bodies. This is Nero's mercy?"
The hall stirred, chieftains muttering, their hands tightening on cups or blades. Branna's blood surged, Carad's words a mirror of her own rage. She remembered last harvest, when Roman collectors had stripped Nora's granaries, leaving her people to face winter with empty bellies. Her cousin Elara had died in a raid years before, her throat slit for defying a centurion. Rome's peace was a lie, built on Nora's bones.
Cato stood, his smile thin, the scar at his mouth twitching. "Regrettable," he said, his voice smooth as oil. "But resistance invites discipline. Pay the tithe, and such tragedies cease." His eyes flicked to Branna, lingering too long, a challenge in their depths. He knows I'm not tamed.
Prasut's hands spread wide, placating. "Carad, we've no choice. Rome's legions are endless. Defy them, and they'll raze Nora to ash."
Carad's fist smashed the nearest table, splintering wood. "No choice? You're a king, Prasut, not a Roman dog! They take our land, our grain, our children's lives. How much more will you give?" His gaze swept the hall, landing on Branna. "And you, Branna? Will you kneel with him, or stand for Nora?"
The hall went still, every eye on her. Vira's breath hissed, her knife half-drawn. Lia whimpered, clutching Branna's sleeve. Prasut's face paled, his voice a hiss. "Branna, hold your tongue."
But Branna didn't. She stepped forward, her cloak falling back, her voice steady despite the storm in her chest. "I kneel to no one," she said, her words ringing clear. "Nora's heart beats in its people, not in Rome's ledgers. Harm our kin again, Cato, and you'll see our blades."
A murmur rippled through the hall—shock, fear, but also a spark of defiance. Cato's eyes narrowed, his fingers tapping slower, deliberate. "Bold words, lady," he said, his voice low, laced with threat. "But Rome breaks the bold." His scar twitched sharper, a promise of retribution.
Sevo's voice cut in, smooth and sly. "Peace, friends," he said, stepping into the light. "Branna speaks from passion, but Prasut's right. Rome's strength is our shield. Let's not spill blood over words." His smile was a blade, his eyes flicking to Cato, then away. Branna's gut churned. He's playing both sides.
Carad spat on the floor. "Shield? Your lands are closest to Kamlod, Sevo. You grow fat while we starve." He turned to Branna, his voice low. "You've a warrior's heart. When the time comes, Kati stands with you." He strode out, the doors slamming behind him, leaving a heavy silence.
Prasut sank into his throne, his face ashen. "You've doomed us, Branna," he muttered, his hand hovering near his cup, then pulling back. "Cato, forgive her. She speaks out of turn."
Cato's smile returned, sharp as a blade. "No offense taken," he said, but his gaze bored into Branna, chilling her blood. "Spirited women are Rome's delight—until they must be tamed."
Vira's knife clattered as she gripped it harder, her breath hissing. Lia's tears spilled, her voice a whisper. "Mother, he'll hurt us."
Branna pulled her daughters close, her voice fierce. "He'll try," she said, her eyes locked on Cato. "But Nora doesn't break." She guided them toward the hall's side door, her steps deliberate, her heart pounding. The Roman soldiers shifted, their armor clanking, but none moved to stop her. Not yet.
Outside, the village was dark, the storm's aftermath leaving mud and silence. Branna led Vira and Lia to their longhouse, her mind racing. Carad's return had lit a spark, but Sevo's words and Prasut's cup loomed like storm clouds. She paused at the door, her gaze drifting to the hill where Nora's warriors trained, their spears glinting in memory. War comes, she thought, the words a vow. She'd seen Rome's cruelty—Elara's death, the burned farms, the starving children. Prasut's oaths couldn't save them. Only steel could.
Inside, she barred the door, her hands trembling. Vira paced, her voice sharp. "Carad's right, Mother. We can't wait for Rome to crush us. Let me rally the warriors—there are still men loyal to Nora."
Branna shook her head, her voice firm. "Not yet, Vira. We need proof of Sevo's treachery, or we'll spark a war we can't win." She turned to Lia, her gentle daughter's face pale. "You saw Prasut's cup. Tell me everything."
Lia swallowed, her voice trembling. "It… shimmered, like oil on water. And Sevo—he was watching Father, smiling. I think he knows."
Branna's blood ran cold. Poison. She'd heard of Roman plots—kings felled by tainted wine, tribes broken by betrayal. Prasut was Nora's shield, flawed but vital. If he fell, Rome would seize their lands outright, claiming Nora's debt. She knelt before Lia, her hands steadying her daughter's. "You're brave, Lia. We'll watch, and we'll act. But we need time."
Vira's fist clenched. "Time? While Sevo sells us to Cato? Mother, you spoke like a queen tonight. Lead us now."
Branna rose, her resolve hardening, a fire no fear could quench. "I will," she said, her voice carrying the weight of an empress. "But not blindly. Rome's chains are heavy, but we'll break them—together." She looked at her daughters, Vira's fire and Lia's fragility her reasons to fight. The hall's memory—Cato's threat, Sevo's smirk, Carad's vow—burned in her mind. Nora was bleeding, but it wasn't broken. Not while she stood.
She moved to the hearth, where a small iron dagger hung, its blade etched with Nora's knots. Her fingers traced it, the metal cold against her skin. For Elara. For Nora. The weight of oaths—Prasut's to Rome, hers to her people—pressed on her, but she'd forge her own path. Sevo's betrayal would be his undoing, and Cato's chains would shatter, even if it meant her blood.
The night stretched on, the village silent but for the distant bark of dogs. Branna stood watch, her daughters asleep behind her, their breaths a fragile anchor. Rome thought Nora tamed, a land collared by tithes. They were wrong. Branna was no wife to kneel, no mother to yield. She was Nora's heart, and when the time came, she'd lead her people to freedom—or to ruin.