Praetorian Rising

name around her tongue but feeling no familiarity.
"I have no doubt you're wary of your surroundings right now, but in due time, things will come back to you," Peter added with a small smile.
Camille looked up at him with curious, searching eyes, before staring at the skinny black and brown cat by her feet. "That's all you have to say?" Camille asked, furtively reaching down to scratch the cat's furry head.
How curious, she thought with each stroke, that this cat's presence makes me feel—calmer.
"I'm afraid so. I'm to care for you until it’s no longer needed. That's all I know."
"That doesn't tell me anything," Camille countered. "Who left me here? You said it was a 'friend.' Who are they, and how do they know me?" Her bottom lip poked out with indignant frustration as she turned an icy glare on the man, hoping it would force loose a sliver of information. The man was like a new gravestone, unyielding and aloof, hiding the depth of its secrets far beneath the surface.
"I can't say any more, child. I apologize. But I can assure you that you're safe and most welcome in my home," Peter said, moving slowly to pour Camille a steaming cup of tea.
She accepted the chipped stone-ware mug and sniffed at the purple-tinged liquid inside. It smelled flowery. "What's this? Some sort of draught to knock me out?" Her stomach gurgled again in a desperate plea that she indulge despite her misgivings.
Peter glanced at her with a comical expression.  "It's just a cup of lavender tea."
Camille couldn't muster the energy to question him further.  Sudden heaviness weighted her eyelids, dragging her down with more insistence than her stomach’s hunger pangs. She sipped the warm liquid that tasted of lavender and mint and set the cup down as the cat jumped up beside her. Petting the cat as he cuddled against her hip, Camille slid down on the flat feather pillow and drifted back into a heavy sleep.
***
The wind picked up, whipping against the ancient trees of the Dun L'er Forest like a hungry monster, every branch alive in the dance of early Fall.  Despite the pounding sense of danger riding every wind wisp, Peter was relieved. The uprising was finally underway—a whisper of reckless abandon hummed through the bitter air—and this time they'd be ready.
Peter shuffled from the kitchen counter to the whistling kettle to pour himself a fresh cup of tea before he settled down across from the sleeping Camille with a plate of turkey and cheese. Neeko was curled into a ball against her stomach, purring contently. The pair of them appeared at ease in slumber, short-lived but much needed. It had been so long since he'd last seen her, but even to his old and frail eyes she hadn't changed in the least.
He recalled the first time he'd seen her face, seven years before on a night chilled by the oncoming of winter. Her eyes had blazed a deadly black, and her entire body had been slathered in blood—she'd worn it like a token of achievement.
He should fear having her there after witnessing what she'd done to the ones he loved. Almost his entire family had been slaughtered right before his eyes, one after the next, in swift slashes of metal. Whoever hadn't escaped his village when she'd arrived had died—yet she'd left him and his grandson untouched. Not a word had been expressed, not a single sound had crossed her lips, as she stared down at them, eyes ablaze with ballistic rage, before she turned and walked away.
He didn't know then, or now, why she'd kept them alive, but it was enough of a reason to allow her into his home. Peter believed Vesyon—Camille was the key to their rebellion, and her past was not a reflection of who she was, but what she was capable of being. Aspera had suffered enough under the strong arm of the High King. Allowing this woman to sleep under his own roof was the least he could do to aid the rebellion if it kept their weapon safe from the High Court's greedy fingers.
He'd made a promise to Vesyon, an honest vow to keep her protected and hidden no matter the consequences. Despite the truth of his word to lay down his life to protect Camille, his grandfatherly worry for the small child sleeping above their heads prickled at his conscience. But, without her help in the rebel movement, Aspera would fall, and there'd be nothing left to fight for:  no viable future for his grandson, Lunci.
"Please, Mother Ma'Nada, giver of life and protector of this land—please guard my family against evil," Peter whispered as he brought his palms together before his chest. He repeated the prayer over and over again, his words a steady stream of faith and devotion. The Mother Ma'Nada, though fierce and powerful in the many stories of his faith, had always bestowed good fortune on Peter. The loving goddess had never abandoned him through his many battles, and he held tight to his faith with white-knuckled determination.
The storm began its rhythmic song as the wind whistled through the empty grounds of Sierra Village, picking up speed and rattling the fragile windowpanes in Peter's kitchen. His eyes flicked back over to where Camille slept, her vivid red hair cascading over her shoulders in wild curls. Though he couldn't see them now, he'd been utterly surprised earlier to learn she possessed green irises identical to her mother's. She looked so much like a normal girl of seventeen: lithe and gawky, with muscled biceps, curls that flowed halfway down her back, and a spray of freckles over her petite nose—but he knew better.
She was their only weapon against High King LeMarc. But, if she failed to learn to control the monster living inside her, no one would be able to survive her next explosion.
"Ad Astra per Aspera," he whispered, sipping his tea. "To the stars through difficulty, Camille."

Chapter Two
Hide and seek
Eleven moons later…
The