The new Iceni camp was a fleeting refuge, carved into a dense thicket where ancient yews tangled with mist. Dawn's light struggled through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on Branna's face as she stood before a bound Sevo, his lean frame slumped, his once-smirking lips bloodied from a Veni rebel's fist. Her auburn braid was tight, her whip-scarred back aching beneath a coarse tunic, but her emerald eyes blazed, unyielding as the iron dagger at her belt. Around her, sixty warriors—Iceni, Kati, and newly sworn Veni rebels—formed a grim circle, their spears and axes glinting. Vira stood to her right, her shoulder wound bandaged, her knife steady, while Lia clutched a Roman scout's tattered cloak, her hazel eyes sharp with secrets. Sevo's poison ends today, Branna thought, her jaw tight. But Cato's trap is closing.
Carad loomed beside her, his scarred face etched with resolve, his axe resting on his shoulder. "The Veni are with us, thanks to Branoc," he said, nodding to the young scout who'd betrayed Sevo. "But Lia's note—Cato's centuries are hours away, maybe less." His voice was low, urgent, his eyes flicking to the forest's edge, where Roman horns had sounded faintly in the night.
Branna nodded, her voice firm, empress-like despite the pain searing her spine. "Sevo's judgment first," she said. "It binds us—Iceni, Veni, Kati. Then we move, deeper into Veni lands, to their stronghold." Her mind churned with Lia's latest find—a Roman scout's cloak, its hem hiding a coded signal: Ravine camp, strike at dawn. Cato's trap, seeded by Sevo's truce, was tightening, the Londinium legion's shadow a blade at Nora's throat. We need unity, now, she thought, picturing Prasut's blue lips, the square's whip, Vira and Lia's cries.
Vira's voice cut through, fierce and low. "Let me wield the blade," she said, her auburn hair bound, her eyes locked on Sevo. "For Father, for us." Her shoulder was stiff, but her grip was iron, her recklessness honed into discipline since the ford's ambush.
Branna's gaze softened, but her tone was steel. "You'll stand with me, Vira, but this is Nora's justice, not ours alone." Vira's lips pressed thin, her knife sheathed, her nod firm. Lia stepped closer, her voice a whisper. "Mother, the cloak… it had ash marks, like signals. Romans are watching us—scouts, maybe closer than we think." Her hands trembled, but her eyes were steady, her trauma yielding to purpose.
Branna's heart swelled, Lia's courage a spark. She took the cloak, its ash-smudged hem confirming Lia's fears—Roman signals, guiding Cato's men. "You're our shield, Lia," she said, her voice warm. "Stay sharp." Lia's nod was small, her resolve a quiet fire. Branna faced the circle, her warriors' eyes heavy with grief and rage, old Torin's cough a grim rhythm from the camp's edge. "Sevo betrayed Nora," she declared, her voice ringing, carrying over the thicket. "Poisoned Prasut, sold us to Rome, shamed our kin. Today, he answers."
Sevo stirred, his voice a rasp. "You're fools," he spat, his eyes darting to the Veni rebels. "Rome's legion will grind you to dust. I offered peace—" A Veni warrior's spear-butt struck his jaw, silencing him, the crowd's murmurs rising. Branoc stepped forward, his voice raw. "You sold my kin, Sevo. Nora's our home now." The Veni roared, their axes raised, their loyalty sealed.
Branna raised her dagger, its edge catching the dawn. "For Prasut, for Nora," she said, her voice a blade. She drove the dagger into Sevo's chest, his gasp sharp, his blood soaking the earth. The warriors cheered, their spears pounding, but Branna's heart was heavy, justice a bitter weight. One traitor falls, but Rome remains, she thought, wiping the blade. Vira's eyes burned, her hand on her knife, while Lia's face paled, her courage holding despite the blood.
Carad's shout broke the moment. "Scouts!" he barked, pointing to the forest's edge. Five Roman scouts, their bronze glinting, crept through the yews, their bows drawn. Branna's warriors reacted, spears flying, but the scouts loosed arrows, one grazing Torin's arm, another piercing a Kati warrior's throat. Branna's spear felled a scout, her dagger slashing another's arm, her wounds screaming but her rage fiercer. Vira moved like a wraith, her knife gutting a scout, her strikes precise, no trace of her old recklessness. "For Nora!" she shouted, earning a warrior's nod.
Carad's axe cleaved the last scout, but not before a horn sounded, its wail carrying. "They've signaled Cato," Carad growled, his face grim. "We've got hours, maybe less." The camp stirred, warriors dragging the dead, Torin's wound bound by Lia, who whispered, "He'll live, Mother." But her eyes flicked to the cloak, her voice urgent. "The ash marks… they're fresh. More scouts, signaling the centuries."
Branna's blood ran cold, Lia's words a blade. Cato's closer than we thought, she thought, the square's shame—whip's crack, Lia's sobs—fueling her. She faced her warriors, their faces bloodied but fierce, the Veni rebels gripping their axes, Branoc at their head. "We move," she said, her voice a command. "Veni stronghold, three hours west. We rally there, grow our numbers. Cato's trap won't take us."
The camp broke, warriors packing, the dead wrapped for burial later, Sevo's body left for the crows. Branna led the march, Vira and Carad at her sides, Lia guiding Torin, her cloak clutched tight. The forest was a maze, its paths slick with dew, but Branna's wounds were a dull roar, her resolve iron. Nora's stronger, she thought, counting sixty warriors, Veni and Kati swelling their ranks. But the horn's echo lingered, Cato's centuries—two hundred men—a shadow at their heels.
A Veni rebel, a wiry woman named Sura, scouted ahead, her return swift. "The stronghold's close," she said, her voice tense. "But smoke rises—Roman torches. Cato's men are there, besieging it." Branna's heart sank, the Veni stronghold their last hope for refuge, now a battleground. She thought of Sevo's final words—Rome grinds you to dust—and clenched her dagger, her shame a fire.
Vira's voice was fierce. "We fight through," she said, her knife ready, her shoulder stiff but her eyes clear. "The stronghold's our stand." Her discipline shone, the warriors' nods a testament to her growth. Lia's hand touched Branna's, her voice a whisper. "Mother, the scouts' signals… I can mimic them. Draw some Romans away."
Branna's chest tightened, Lia's courage a blade's edge. "Do it," she said, her voice firm. "But stay safe, Lia." Lia nodded, slipping into the trees with a Veni scout, her cloak trailing. Branna faced her warriors, their eyes burning with defiance, Torin's stories of old Iceni wars alive in their stance. "We break the siege," she said, her voice ringing, empress-like. "For Nora, for our kin. Rome thinks us broken. They're wrong."
Carad's axe rose, his voice a growl. "To Nora!" The warriors roared, Veni and Kati united, their spears a forest of steel. Branna led them toward the stronghold, the smoke thickening, Roman shouts echoing. Vira marched beside her, her knife gleaming, her resolve a mirror of Branna's. Lia's signal—a false Roman horn—sounded faintly, drawing some of Cato's men away. The thicket faded, the stronghold's palisade looming, its gates aflame, Veni defenders fighting desperately.
Branna's blood surged, the square's whip, Prasut's poison, her daughters' pain her fuel. Cato thought Nora crushed, its queen shamed. He was wrong. Her warriors—Iceni, Veni, Kati—were a tide, their steel honed, their hearts unbroken. The stronghold was their stand, and Rome would bleed for every inch.