Praetorian Rising

and they grasped each other's hand in farewell. Peter's shake was firm, but Vesyon felt the tremble beneath the steel exterior. Vesyon plucked the heavy iron pistol from his belt and placed it on the rickety table beside the door. The smell of gunpowder singed the lining of his nostrils, sharp and bitter, and recognizable to any warrior.
Peter eyed the weapon warily. "Is that necessary?"
"Just in case," Vesyon said with a final glance at the young woman shrouded in fur blankets. "I've given you two bullets. It's all I have left. Hopefully, it's enough for you and Lunci if our plan turns south."
A heavy silence descended. No words were necessary. Peter understood the weight of his role in Vesyon's plan, as well as the consequences. There was no other route, no other option. They had one path: forward.
Peter nodded. "She'll be ready."
"Keep her safe, Peter; keep her hidden from the High Court. No one must know she's here."
Peter stared at him, his wild caterpillar eyebrows dipping over squinted blue triangles before consenting with a curt nod.
"I need to get back to Romeo Village before the High Court realizes what I took from them—I can't leave Phillip alone with the mess they're in right now. The poor man hasn't yet recovered from what happened in Charlie Town."
Peter raised an impatient hand. "I know.  No need to explain."
With a quick nod of appreciation, Vesyon ducked out the wooden door and disappeared into the dark forest, not once looking back.
***
The woman's eyes fluttered open, and she shied away from the intruding light and heat that assaulted her fragile senses. She couldn't place her location, and her back ached with stiffness as though she hadn't moved in ages.
"Awake, are you? It's about time. You've been sleeping for days."
The woman sought the source of the voice: an old, scruffy man perched close to the glowing hearth. She didn't consciously snap to attention or shove the fur blankets to the floor.  She didn't feel the blade's smooth wooden handle as she yanked it from the old man's belt and didn’t hesitate to angle the freshly sharpened metal against his throat.
"Where am I?" she croaked, her throat raw as if scratched with sandpaper. It felt like she hadn't spoken in years. But that couldn't be right, she'd just been—she paused.  She couldn't remember where she'd last been. "Who are you and what do you want with me?"
"I'm a friend, and I want nothing but to keep you safe," the old man said carefully, holding himself stiffly against the blade. "Do you remember how you got here?"
"No," she snapped in sharp frustration. "Where am I?"
"Sierra Village. In my home," the old man said, keeping his eyes locked on hers. "Hungry? I can make you something." He gestured to the kitchen area, but she refused to look anywhere but at his face while deciding whether he was lying or not.
Keeping him in sight, she surveyed the small room, noting small knick-knacks, a wooden bowl filled with overly ripened apples, and a bedframe near the hearth with a feather mattress and an aged brown quilt. It wasn't a prison or holding cell.  It was the old man's home—and a cozy one at that. A small, iron kettle hung over glowing coals, probably boiling water for tea. The comforting aroma of fresh rye bread wafted from the pantry and the scent of smoked turkey wrapped in salted bindings made her mouth water.  She briefly eyed the nearby electric icebox.  Her stomach growled.
Scowling stubbornly, she retorted, "I want answers. I don't need your food."
"It would seem your stomach says otherwise. I'm not a threat, child. I'm here to help you."
The woman pressed the knife harder against his skin. "'Help me?' You want to help me? Then give me answers!"
He stared at her blankly, and she seethed.
"Who are you?" the woman shouted wildly, body shaking in terror. "Help me by telling me who you are!"
"I won't hurt you," he said, raising his hands in a show of peace. "My bones are far too old and fragile." The woman remained steadfast, blade to his throat, and the old man chuckled. "My name is Peter Schroder and you've been in my care for a week. You won't remember me, but we have met before."
His features twitched, and she sensed a deep sadness emanating from his entire being as he spoke. Their last meeting hadn't been a pleasant one, it seemed.
"Where? How do you know me? When did you last see me? When?!" The woman's words tumbled out in rapid fire, but Peter remained calm and collected.
"I don't have all the answers to your questions, child. But I promise you're safe in my care."
His response failed to temper her racing heart, but she removed the blade and stepped back. She remembered nothing about herself, not even her own name. Where had she been born? Who were her parents, and where were they? This man wasn't familiar in any way.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled, sitting on the bed and placing the knife beside her. She gathered the furs that had pooled around her worn leather boots and pulled them tightly around her shoulders, shaking her head. She'd smelled that knife, its hard steel tang, before visually locating it on Peter's belt. She'd identified every entrance and possible exit in the tiny home before her fingers had even reached the blade—they amounted to four if she counted the little window above her head. She even heard the soft rush of breath from a sleeping child overhead in a makeshift bedroom loft—all of these skills, and yet she couldn't recall anything before the moment she'd opened her eyes.
Peter appeared to understand her fright and confusion and busied himself with stoking the fire into a decent flame as she angrily wiped moisture from her eyes. "Your name is Camille Scipio," he said, "and you were brought to me eight nights ago by a close friend. I'm to care for you until he returns."
"Cam-EE-ill," she said, rolling the syllables of her first