The hills above Nora were a jagged refuge, their gorse and bracken cloaking Branna and her daughters in shadow. The air was sharp with frost, the dawn's gray light barely piercing the mist that curled like smoke over the valley. Below, the village burned—granaries reduced to blackened husks, steadings smoldering under Roman torches. Branna knelt beside Prasut's body, his skin cold, his lips blue from the poison that had stolen him hours ago. Her auburn braid fell loose, strands clinging to her tear-streaked face, but her emerald eyes burned with a fire no grief could quench. Vira and Lia huddled close, their cloaks stained with mud and blood, their sobs a quiet wound in the silence. Rome's taken him, Branna thought, her fingers tightening on the iron dagger at her belt. And they'll take more unless I stop them.
Vira, sixteen and fierce, wiped her eyes, her knife glinting in the dim light. "Mother, we can't stay here," she whispered, her voice raw. "Cato's men are scouring the village. They'll find us." Her auburn hair was matted, her knuckles bruised from the granary fight, but her gaze was steel, ready to strike.
Lia, barely fourteen, clutched Branna's arm, her pale face etched with terror. "Father's gone," she whimpered, her hazel eyes pooling with tears. "What do we do, Mother? They burned everything."
Branna's heart twisted, Lia's fragility a blade in her chest. She pulled her daughters close, their warmth grounding her. "We fight," she said, her voice steady, empress-like despite the storm in her gut. "Prasut's oaths failed us, but Nora's heart still beats. We'll make Rome pay." Her words were a vow, forged in the memory of Prasut's collapse, Sevo's Veni warriors aiding the Romans, and the granaries' flames. She rose, her cloak snapping in the wind, and scanned the hills. A few warriors had followed them—grim-faced men loyal to Nora, their spears clutched tight. Not enough, she thought, but it was a start.
The crunch of boots on gravel snapped her attention. A warrior, bloodied and panting, emerged from the mist. "Branna," he gasped, dropping to one knee. "Cato's called a gathering in Kamlod's square. He's claiming Nora's lands—says Prasut's debts are unpaid. They're rounding up our people."
Branna's blood ran cold, the weight of Rome's betrayal sinking in. Prasut had named Nero co-heir in his will, hoping to secure Nora's future, but Rome's greed knew no honor. They've planned this, she realized, her mind flashing to Cato's scar-twitching smile, Sevo's sly glances. "When?" she demanded, her voice sharp.
"Midday," the warrior said, his eyes hollow. "They're dragging chieftains to swear new oaths—or face chains."
Vira's knife flashed as she stepped forward. "Let's ambush them," she hissed. "Hit Cato before he tightens the noose."
Branna's hand shot out, gripping Vira's arm. "No," she said, her voice firm. "We're too few, and Kamlod's crawling with Romans. We go to the square—not to fight, but to see their game." Her eyes met Vira's, silencing her protest. "We need allies, Vira. Carad's out there, and others. We watch, we plan."
Lia's sob broke the tension. "Mother, they'll hurt us," she whispered, her hands trembling. "Like they hurt Father."
Branna knelt, cupping Lia's face. "I won't let them," she said, her voice fierce. "Stay by my side, both of you." But doubt gnawed at her—Rome's soldiers were ruthless, and Cato's threats lingered like a blade at her throat. She stood, leading her daughters and the warriors down the hill, their steps muffled by the mist. The village was a ghost of itself, its paths empty, its people cowering or fled. Nora's breaking, she thought, her palm throbbing where the splinter's scab lingered, a reminder of her resolve.
Kamlod's square, a half-day's march, was a Roman stronghold, its stone temple and timber barracks a scar on Nora's earth. By midday, Branna and her group reached its outskirts, hiding in a copse of oaks. The square teemed with life—Roman soldiers in gleaming breastplates, Iceni farmers herded like cattle, chieftains bound in ropes. Cato stood on a wooden platform, his crimson cloak stark, his scar twitching as he addressed the crowd. "Nora's debts are forfeit!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the murmurs. "Prasut's will is void. This land is Rome's, by Nero's decree!"
A gasp rippled through the crowd, Iceni faces paling. Branna's nails dug into her palms, her rage a fire. Void? Prasut had sworn loyalty, paid tithes, died for Rome's peace—and still they took everything. She spotted Sevo among the Veni chieftains, his smirk a blade in her gut. Traitor, she thought, his role in Prasut's poisoning now clear.
Cato raised a hand, silencing the crowd. "Swear fealty to Nero, and you'll live as Rome's subjects. Resist, and you'll know our steel." His eyes scanned the square, lingering on the bound chieftains. "Bring the royal house forward."
Branna's breath caught as soldiers pushed through the crowd, their spears glinting. She'd hoped to stay hidden, but a warrior beside her cursed, his voice too loud. "They know we're here," he muttered, and before Branna could react, Roman soldiers stormed the copse, their shouts sharp. "There! The queen and her spawn!"
Vira drew her knife, but Branna grabbed her wrist. "No fighting," she hissed, her voice commanding. "We face this, or they'll slaughter us." She stepped into the open, her daughters at her sides, her head high despite the fear clawing her chest. The soldiers seized them, their grips bruising, and dragged them to the square. The crowd parted, eyes wide with pity and dread.
Cato's smile was a viper's as Branna was shoved before the platform. "Branna," he said, his voice mocking. "You defy Rome, yet here you stand, no king to shield you." His gaze slid to Vira and Lia, and Branna's blood ran cold. "Your daughters, too. A pity Prasut's weakness brought you to this."
Branna's voice was steel, despite the soldiers' hands on her. "Nora's not yours, Cato. You break oaths, not us." Her words sparked murmurs in the crowd, a flicker of defiance, but Cato's laugh cut through.
"Bold," he said, stepping closer, his scar twitching. "But Rome tames the bold." He nodded to a centurion, a burly man with a whip coiled at his belt. "Show her Nero's justice."
The centurion grabbed Branna, tearing her cloak away. Vira screamed, lunging forward, but a soldier struck her, sending her to her knees. Lia sobbed, clinging to Vira, as the crowd gasped. Branna's heart pounded, but she held Cato's gaze, refusing to break. "Do it," she spat, her voice ringing. "You'll only forge our blades."
The whip cracked, its leather biting her back, tearing cloth and skin. Pain seared through her, a white-hot brand, but Branna bit her lip, silencing her scream. The crowd wailed, some turning away, others shouting curses. The whip struck again, then again, each lash a vow in her blood: Rome will pay. Her vision blurred, but she saw Vira struggling, Lia's tears, and clung to them, her strength a fire no pain could douse.
After ten lashes, the centurion stepped back, his whip dripping. Branna swayed, her back a ruin, but she stood, her eyes locked on Cato. "Is that all?" she rasped, her voice defiant, empress-like in its unyielding force. The crowd roared, their fear giving way to rage, and Cato's smile faltered, his scar twitching sharper.
But his voice was cold. "Not all," he said, gesturing to his soldiers. "The daughters, too. Let Nora see its future."
Branna's scream tore free as soldiers seized Vira and Lia. "No!" she roared, lunging despite her wounds, but the centurion's fist struck her, dropping her to the mud. Vira fought, her knife slashing a soldier's arm, but they overpowered her, pinning her down. Lia's cries were a knife in Branna's heart as soldiers tore her cloak, their hands brutal, their laughter a vile echo. The crowd surged, held back by spears, their shouts a tide of anguish.
Branna crawled forward, blood seeping from her back, her voice raw. "Cato, you'll die for this!" Her words were a curse, a promise, and the crowd's roar grew louder, some throwing stones. Cato's eyes narrowed, but he raised a hand, stopping the assault. "Enough," he said, his voice tight. "Let them live—as Rome's lesson."
The soldiers released Vira and Lia, who scrambled to Branna, their faces pale, their bodies trembling. Branna pulled them close, her wounds screaming, her rage a storm. "You're safe now," she whispered, though the lie burned her throat. She stood, swaying, her daughters supporting her, and faced the crowd. "Nora will not kneel," she shouted, her voice carrying over the chaos, igniting sparks in every eye.
Cato's voice cut through, sharp. "Take them to the cells," he ordered, and soldiers dragged Branna and her daughters away, the crowd's cries fading. In Kamlod's dank prison, a stone-walled pit, Branna held Vira and Lia, their sobs mingling with her own. Her back throbbed, her shame a weight, but her resolve was iron. They've broken Prasut's oath, our bodies, our home, she thought, her fingers tracing the dagger she'd hidden in her belt. But not our spirit.
A clank at the cell door startled her. A shadowed figure slipped inside—Carad, his scarred face grim, a stolen key in his hand. "Branna," he whispered, his voice urgent. "Kati warriors are ready. We've found weapons—spears, axes, hidden in the hills. Say the word, and we strike."
Branna's eyes burned, her grief giving way to fire. She looked at Vira, her daughter's bruised face fierce, and Lia, her gentle girl now silent but unbowed. "The word is war," Branna said, her voice a blade, empress-like in its command. "Rome's scourge ends with us."
Carad nodded, slipping away, and Branna held her daughters tighter, the cell's darkness no match for her resolve. Cato thought Nora tamed, its queen shamed. He was wrong. Branna would lead her people to vengeance, her blood and shame forging a rebellion that would burn Rome's heart. The hills hid weapons, allies, hope—and Branna would wield them all.