The Iceni camp clung to a wooded ravine, its bracken and thorns a frail shield against the wind's bite. Dawn's light barely reached the forest floor, casting jagged shadows across the huddled forms of Branna's warriors—thirty men, scarred and lean, their spears and axes glinting beside smoldering fires. Branna stood at the ravine's edge, her cloak patched with mud, her auburn braid frayed from days of hiding. Her back throbbed, the whip's wounds raw beneath her tunic, but her emerald eyes were sharp, scanning the valley where Kamlod's smoke rose like a Roman curse. Vira and Lia slept nearby, curled under a woolen blanket, their faces bruised from the square's horrors. They shamed us, Branna thought, her fingers gripping the iron dagger Carad had given her. But they'll bleed for it.
Carad crouched beside her, his scarred face grim as he sharpened a spear. "The weapons are ready," he said, his voice low. "Spears, axes, a few swords—hidden years ago, before Prasut's oaths. Enough for a strike, but not a war." His eyes flicked to her, heavy with unspoken questions. "What's your plan, Branna?"
She exhaled, her breath clouding in the chill. "We hit a Roman patrol," she said, her voice steady, empress-like despite the pain lancing her spine. "Small, fast—take their supplies, show Nora we're not broken." Her mind churned with the square's memory—Cato's scar-twitching smile, the whip's crack, Vira and Lia's cries as soldiers tore at them. The crowd's rage had been a spark, and Carad's rescue a lifeline. We have weapons, warriors, will, she thought. It's a start.
Vira stirred, her knife clutched even in sleep. She woke, her auburn hair tangled, her eyes blazing. "Mother, let me lead the attack," she said, rising, her voice fierce. "I owe them blood." Her bruises were fading, but her hands trembled, the assault's shadow lingering.
Branna's lips pressed thin. "You'll fight, Vira, but not lead," she said, her tone firm. "You're skilled, but reckless. We can't lose you." Vira's jaw clenched, but she nodded, her knife glinting as she sheathed it. Lia woke next, her pale face etched with fear, but her hazel eyes held a new hardness. "I can help," she whispered, her voice small but steady. "I… I heard things in the cell. Roman plans."
Branna's heart swelled, Lia's courage a fragile flame. "Tell me," she said, kneeling beside her. Lia's words came haltingly—snatches of guards' talk, a patrol route near the river, a supply cart bound for Kamlod. Branna's mind sharpened, the plan taking shape. A cart means food, weapons, maybe captives. She turned to Carad. "The river path, tonight. We ambush there."
Carad nodded, his spear still. "Risky," he said. "Cato's doubled patrols since the square. But we're starving, and Nora's watching." He stood, calling the warriors, his voice a low growl. "Ready yourselves. We strike at dusk."
The day passed in tense preparation—warriors honing blades, binding wounds, sharing scraps of bread. Branna trained with a spear, her movements stiff from her injuries, but each thrust was a vow: For Prasut, for Vira, for Lia. Vira sparred nearby, her knife flashing, her strikes fierce but sloppy, anger driving her. Lia watched, her hands twisting her cloak, but she pointed out weak spots in the ravine's defenses, her quiet voice cutting through the camp's hum. She's stronger than she knows, Branna thought, pride mingling with fear.
As dusk fell, the warriors moved, silent as wolves, through the forest to the river. The path was narrow, its banks slick with mud, the water's rush masking their steps. Branna led, her dagger ready, Carad at her side, Vira and Lia behind with the rear guard. The mist thickened, cloaking them, but Branna's pulse raced, the square's shame a fire in her veins. This is for Nora, she thought, her grip tightening.
Lia's whisper broke the silence. "There," she hissed, pointing. Through the mist, a cart creaked, its wheels grinding, escorted by ten Roman soldiers in leather and bronze. Two Iceni prisoners, bound and bloodied, stumbled behind, their faces gaunt. Branna's rage surged, memories of Elara's death and the square's whip mingling with the prisoners' hollow eyes. "Now," she said, her voice a blade, and the warriors struck.
Spears flew, piercing two soldiers before they could draw. Branna charged, her dagger slashing a Roman's throat, his blood hot on her hands. Carad's axe cleaved another, his roar shaking the mist. Vira was a whirlwind, her knife gutting a soldier, but she overreached, leaving her flank open. A Roman's gladius grazed her arm, and she stumbled, cursing. "Vira!" Branna shouted, parrying the soldier's next blow, her spear snapping his neck. Lia's scream warned of another, and Carad's axe finished him.
The fight was brutal, swift—six Romans fell, the rest fled, their cart abandoned. The prisoners, freed, wept, clutching Branna's hands. "You're Nora's heart," one rasped, his voice breaking. The cart held grain, salted pork, and a crate of swords—enough to feed the camp, arm more warriors. But three Iceni lay dead, their blood pooling in the mud, one a boy barely older than Vira. Branna's chest tightened, the victory bitter. Every strike costs us, she thought, her wounds aching.
Vira, clutching her arm, glared at the fallen. "We should've killed them all," she spat, her voice shaking. "They'll run to Cato."
Branna grabbed her shoulders, her voice fierce. "We won, Vira. We fed our people, freed our kin. Don't let rage blind you." Vira's eyes flashed, but she nodded, her breath ragged. Lia knelt by the boy's body, her tears silent, and Branna pulled her close, her own grief a weight. "You saved us, Lia," she said, her voice soft. "Your ears, your courage."
Carad dragged the cart into the trees, his face grim. "Good work," he said, but his eyes flicked to the horizon. "Cato'll know by dawn. We need to move camp, strike again before he tightens the net."
Branna nodded, her mind racing. The ambush was a spark, proof Nora could fight, but Cato's reprisals would be swift. She thought of Sevo, his Veni warriors aiding Rome, his smirk in the square. He's next, she vowed, her dagger's edge catching the moonlight. But Lia's voice, trembling, broke her thoughts. "Mother, in the cell… I heard more. Cato's planning executions—chieftains, elders, tomorrow in Kamlod. To break us."
Branna's blood ran cold, the square's shame flooding back—whip's crack, soldiers' hands, Cato's viper smile. Executions. She saw the faces of Nora's elders, men who'd taught her, fought with Prasut. Losing them would gut the tribe's spirit. She faced her warriors, their eyes heavy but loyal. "We have a choice," she said, her voice ringing, empress-like. "Save our kin, or strike Kamlod's heart. Both risk everything."
Carad's jaw tightened. "The elders are Nora's soul," he said. "But Kamlod's weak now—Cato's spread thin. We could hit their barracks, cripple them."
Vira's voice was fire. "The barracks," she urged. "Kill Cato, end this." Her arm bled, but her eyes burned, reckless and fierce.
Lia's whisper cut through. "The elders… they'd want us to save them. To keep Nora whole." Her hands trembled, but her gaze held Branna's, steady.
Branna's heart pounded, the choice a blade's edge. Saving the elders meant a rescue in Kamlod's heart, risking capture. Striking the barracks could break Cato's grip, but failure would doom them. She thought of Prasut's poisoned cup, the granaries' flames, her daughters' trauma. Rome wants us broken, she thought, her resolve iron. They'll find us sharp.
"We save our kin," she said, her voice a command, silencing debate. "Tomorrow, we slip into Kamlod, free the elders. Then we hit Cato where it hurts." Her eyes met Carad's, then Vira's, then Lia's, drawing strength from each. "Nora doesn't kneel."
The warriors murmured assent, their spears rising, a forest of defiance. Branna led them back to camp, the cart's weight slowing their steps, the dead boy's body carried with care. Vira walked beside her, her arm bandaged, her silence heavy. Lia clung to Branna's hand, her courage a quiet fire. The ravine welcomed them, its shadows a fragile home, but Branna's gaze drifted to Kamlod's distant glow. Cato thought Nora shamed, its queen humbled. He was wrong. Branna's blood, her daughters' strength, her warriors' loyalty—they were a blade, honed and ready. Tomorrow, Rome would feel its edge.