Page 174 of When Sisters Collide
The Northerner’s axe struck with brutal force, sending Scylas crashing into the ground. He barely rolled out of its path. Katell’s nails dug into her palms. He wouldn’t survive another blow.
The Northerner raised his weapon for a final strike, and Katell—unable to watch any longer—sprang forward. Ignoring the shouts and chaos around her, she vaulted over the ropes of the makeshift arena and caught the Northerner’s wrist in an iron grip before the axe could descend.
Blood roared in her ears as she faced him.
Then her gaze dropped.
Scylas lay crumpled in the sand, chest heaving, eyes wide and shining with disbelief. The chaos around them faded until only unbearable silence remained.
“Kat,” he rasped.
Her name on his lips nearly broke her. What had they done to him?
Before she could speak, Tarxi’s voice shattered the moment. “Praefect Viridia!”
The jeering soldiers fell silent at once.
On the dais, Tarxi leaned forward, a predatory smile curling his lips. “Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise?”
The Northerner wrenched free of her grip, his face still blank. Scylas staggered upright, shuffling to retrieve his sword. His gaunt figure—collarbones jutting beneath his tunic, skin pale and stretched thin—was a painful sight, a shadow of the once-proud form he had been.
Katell clamped down on her emotions, forcing her expression into a neutral mask. Tarxi couldn’t see her rattled. He couldn’t know how seeing Scylas—broken, but alive—shook her to her core. She had to play her part, stall for time, and trust Pinaria and Arnza to find Leywani.
Tarxi’s gaze was sharp, assessing, waiting for a crack in her façade. One wrong move, one slip, and her ruse would crumble.
She cleared her throat, swallowing the rapid thrum of her pulse. “The Twelfth sent me,” she said, her voice edged with the authority she’d honed as a praefect. “They requested reinforcements to assist with the siege of Tiryns.”
Tarxi’s smile widened. “Did they, now?”
“They plan to attack the surrounding villages to force the Achaeans’ hand.” Katell hoped her information was still fresh. Almost ten days had passed since she left Tiryns, but it was the only ploy she had.
Tarxi’s silence stretched, fraying her nerves. He was studying her, amusement giving way to something colder. He was toying with her.
“You’re too late,” he said at last. The female Northerner stepped forward and handed him a small scroll—the kind used for swift communication between legion outposts. Tarxi unfurled it. “The Twelfth’s camp is gone. Attacked in the night by the Achaeans. Legate Tarchun is dead, and his soldiers are either dead or captured.”
“Then why are you still in Dodona?” Katell asked. She was stalling, scrambling for a plan—anything to get herself and Scylas out of this alive.
Tarxi leaned back in his chair. “Because,” he drawled, his eyes never leaving hers, “the Emperor has ordered me to capture something far more valuable than Tiryns.”
Katell’s heart slammed against her ribs, every instinct screaming danger. He watched her like a wolf stalking prey, while the weight of soldiers closing in around the arena made her muscles coil tight.
It was a trap. The realisation struck her like a hammer, but there was no room for panic now. She needed to get out—get them all out.
The soldiers encircling the arena watched with hard, unfriendly eyes, hands hovering over their weapons. The weight of their stares bore down on her, tension thickening with every passing moment, ready to explode at the slightest misstep.
Scylas could barely walk, much less fight, and urgency surged hot through her veins.
The time for pretence was over. She stepped forward, her voice ringing clear. “Why are these people here?”
Amusement flickered in Tarxi’s dark eyes. “Surely it’s obvious. They are slaves, working the quarry.” His tone was mocking, a casual dismissal of the lives he toyed with. The soldiers chuckled.
Katell’s anger flared. “Why. Are. They. Here?” Each word was sharp, a warning that she was done playing his game.
The air crackled with magic—hers or Tarxi’s, she wasn’t sure—but the laughter faded as the soldiers sensed the shift.
“For years, we’d heard whispers,” Tarxi began, rising to his feet. “Rumours of non-worshippers gathering beyond the Deep River. Pathetic little villages with no gods, no magic. Weak.” He jerked his chin at Scylas, panting at her side. “When the Emperor learned their location, he sent me. They were easy pickings.”
Katell’s fists clenched, every word stoking the fury building inside her.
