Gen escaped shortly after that night.
No one knew how. But by dawn, his tent stood empty, confirming our worst suspicion that someone within the camp had betrayed us. Someone close enough to Marcus to know our movements, which only deepened his paranoia.
The rest of the week settled into a strange routine.
I spent them beside Livia, tending to the wounded and returned each evening to the tent Marcus and I shared. Despite the looming summons from Rome and the constant threat of another Briton attack, I found myself slowly adjusting to this life, the responsibilities that came with being Marcus's betrothed.
Even so, the ache for the life I had left behind never truly disappeared. It simply became another grief I have to learn to carry.
The sun had long since disappeared by the time Livia and I finished for the evening.
As usual, I made my way back toward the tent Marcus and I shared, escorted by two legionaries walking a respectful distance behind me.
The season had begun to shift. The crisp evening breeze carrying the scent of damp earth through the camp, and for a fleeting moment, I found myself thinking of autumn back home. It had always been my favorite season, with the trees turning shades of amber and crimson, the pavements blanketed in golden leaves that crackled beneath my feet.
Ancient Britannia was different.
Here, endless green fields stretched toward the horizon, broken only by forests that remained stubbornly untouched by the colors I remembered.
Perhaps in the cities, autumn would've looked more familiar.
The thought disappeared the moment I reached our tent.
Quintus emerged through the entrance, dragging a half-conscious man by the arm.
The man was covered in blood, though his face was swollen beyond recognition, his armor immediately caught my attention. It was finer than that of an ordinary legionary, bearing the imperial insignia reserved for Rome's highest-ranking officers.
The mark of Caesar.
The mark Marcus himself wore in his armor.
I stopped instinctively.
Behind me, the two soldiers straightened at once.
Quintus glanced up as he passed me. His expression was grim, haunted almost, though he inclined his head respectfully in greeting before continuing on without a word, hauling the battered Roman behind him.
A chill settled in my stomach.
Taking a slow breath, I pushed aside the tent flap.
Marcus stood leaning over the map table, one hand braced against the wood.
His knuckles were raw, streaked with drying blood, yet he seemed utterly indifferent to it. He lifted his cup and took another long swallow of wine before reaching for the jug to refill it.
How long had he been drinking?
Slowly, I approached him, my hands clasped together as I rounded the table.
"Marcus?" I called softly.
I reached up, brushing the damp strands of dark hair away from his face. His skin glistened with sweat, and his breathing was heavier than it should have been.
"What happened?" I asked. "I saw Quintus dragging a man—"
Before I could finish, Marcus caught me by the waist and pulled me against him.
The force of it stole my breath.
He crashed his lips on mine in a desperate kiss that tasted faintly of wine, carrying with it the metallic tang of blood and the exhaustion that clung to him. There was nothing playful or possessive about it this time. Only desperation, relief.
I kissed him back instinctively, my confusion melting into concern as my hands found his shoulders.
When he finally let me breathe, I rested a hand against his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart beneath my palm.
"Marcus," I whispered, searching his face. "What's wrong?"
Marcus's eyes remained fixed on mine for a long moment.
Then, quietly, he asked, "How much would you hate me...if I finally killed him?"
The question caught me completely off guard.
I frowned. "Marcus..."
"He is the reason this war continues," he said, pulling away just enough to pour himself another cup of wine, though he made no move to drink it. "The Briton king is weak. Everyone knows it. His authority exists because men like Gwrgenau uphold it."
He rested both hands against the edge of the table.
"He commands the loyalty of the northern tribes. Their lands feed them. Their warriors protect them. Remove him..." His jaw tightened. "And the kingdom fractures."
I stared at him. "You truly believe that?"
"I know it."
He met my gaze again. "If Gwrgenau dies, this rebellion dies with him. Rome secures the north. My men stop dying and we could head back."
Silence settled between us.
"And what of the future?" I asked quietly. "The Cavendish family?"
His expression shifted.
"What about them?"
"If Gen dies..." I swallowed. "Doesn't that erase them from existence?"
Marcus looked at me for a long moment before shaking his head.
"No."
My brows knitted together.
"He secretly married, Elena."
The news made my stomach tighten.
That night, Gen had spoken with such certainty, telling me I had belonged to him. That he would have me back beneath his roof, that the gods themselves had destined us for one another.
And now, I was learning that, all this time, he had secretly taken a wife.
The revelation left me more confused than relieved, because I no longer knew which version of him had been real.
"When?" I asked.
"Days before the attack on our encampment." His voice remained steady. "Quietly."
I blinked.
"He kept it from everyone outside his household. My scouts only confirmed it after his escape."
Marcus paused.
"He only married her because she was pregnant," he revealed. "Some minor lord's daughter."
The words settled heavily between us.
"So even if he dies..." I murmured.
"The Cavendish bloodline survives."
Marcus's gaze hardened once more. "The man dies."
"And the family does not," I continued for him.
He nodded once.
"If I agree to this," I began quietly, "I'd be condemning a man to his death."
"Elena."
His expression softened. He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear before gently tipping my chin up until I met his gaze.
"If there is one lesson this world will force upon you," he said, "it is that men either kill or are killed. There is rarely a path between the two."
I leaned into his touch despite myself.
"I know," I whispered. "But it will take me time."
My voice caught.
"I've spent my entire life learning how to save people. How to ease their pain. Now you're asking me to learn when a life must be taken instead."
Marcus's thumb brushed slowly across my cheek.
"Only when there is no other choice," he answered.
I drew in a slow breath. "Then I suppose," I said quietly, "there isn't another choice."
Marcus gave a slow nod, his expression darkening in agreement.
"Good that you agree," he said, his voice low and grim. "Because Gwrgenau is not waiting for us to decide. He plans to attack in two days."
I lifted my eyes over to his, as the news settled over me like ice.
The color drained from my face.