Chapter 2 The House on the Hill

Killian POV 

Empty. EMPTY?! 

The word settled in my gut like a stone. 

The streets should have been alive with screams, defenders, or desperate citizens trying to save what little they could. Instead, there was only silence. 

Doors hung open on broken hinges. Shutters slammed against stone walls in the wind. Household goods lay scattered through the streets—an overturned cradle, shattered pottery, a child’s wooden horse abandoned in the mud. A loaf of bread had been trampled into the cobblestones, already buzzing with flies. 

It looked like panic. 

But panic lied. 

I had marched through enough villages after raids to know the difference between true chaos and death. Where were the bodies? Where were the pools of blood? Where were the abandoned wagons that always clogged narrow streets when people fled in terror? 

Something was wrong. 

I crouched beside a deep wagon rut cut into the muddy road. The grooves were fresh, dozens of them crossing over one another. 

“They left in a hurry,” I muttered. 

I rubbed the damp earth between my fingers before looking toward the rooftops. 

“But not without purpose.” 

My captains waited for my judgment. 

“The Romans aren’t fools. If they’ve abandoned this quarter, they’ve done it for a reason.” 

I slowly scanned every rooftop, every alley, every darkened doorway. 

“They knew we’re coming.” 

My grip tightened around the hilt of my sword. 

“And they know exactly where they want us to go.” 

I turned to my warriors. 

“No one walks alone.” 

Every conversation ceased. 

“Search every house. Every cellar. Every stable. Watch the rooftops before you cross open streets. If you find soldiers, signal before engaging.” 

I let my eyes travel across the younger men. 

“And if you find civilians…” 

I paused. 

“…they are not your enemy.” 

Several warriors nodded solemnly. 

“We fight Rome’s legions—not frightened families.” 

The order needed no repeating. 

My warriors spread through the district with practiced discipline, never rushing, never bunching together. They moved as we had trained for years, each man watching another’s blind side. 

I advanced more slowly than the rest. 

Experience had taught me that silence could kill more men than battle cries. 

Every intersection was approached from the side instead of the center. Every doorway received a glance before I passed it. I listened as much as I looked—the scrape of leather, the creak of timber, the flutter of disturbed pigeons. Tiny sounds had saved my life more times than any shield. 

A frightened city was dangerous. 

A silent one was worse. 

Near the end of the street, one house caught my attention. 

Unlike the others, whose doors had been left swinging open, this one was closed. 

Not tightly. 

Just enough to suggest someone had shut it after everyone else fled. 

I stopped. 

Someone was inside. 

I entered slowly, drawing my sword halfway from its scabbard.   

The smell struck first. 

Stale bread. 

Cold ashes. 

Human sweat...mixed with floral notes. 

The rooms below were vacant so I climbed the stairs carefully, avoiding the center of each step where old wood groaned the loudest. 

The upper room lay in shadow. 

At first I saw only a bed. 

Then movement. 

A figure crouched low beside it, almost hidden by darkness. 

Not hiding well enough. 

I nudged a small wooden stool with my boot. 

It clattered across the floor. 

It exploded into motion....no, she. 

Fast. 

Much faster than I expected. 

Steel flashed toward my ribs. 

I barely turned in time for her gladius to scrape across my blade with a sharp metallic crack. 

Good. 

Very good. 

She didn’t swing wildly in panic. Every strike came with purpose. 

A thrust toward my stomach. 

A quick withdrawal. 

A slash aimed high to force my guard upward before driving low again. 

Someone had trained her properly. 

Most frightened civilians attacked with desperation. 

She assaulted with discipline. 

I gave ground instead of overpowering her, watching. 

Measuring. 

She favored her left foot after each lunge. 

Strong shoulders. 

Balanced stance. 

Controlled breathing despite the fear in her eyes. 

Bright green eyes. 

A soldier. 

Or raised among them. 

I held up a pacifying hand, “I’m not going to hurt you,” I tried to assure her. 

She let out a humorousness laugh.  “Ha. I’ve heard that before.” 

She immediately feinted toward my shoulder. 

I didn’t bite. 

Instead, I caught the rhythm she’d settled into. 

Three attacks. 

Reset. 

Three attacks. 

Reset. 

Predictable. 

When she committed to the next thrust, I stepped inside her reach before she could recover. 

My hand caught her wrist. 

A twist. 

The gladius wavered and clattered to the floor. 

Momentum carried us backward onto the bed. 

I controlled the fall, keeping my weight balanced so neither of us struck the wooden frame too hard. 

She didn’t hesitate. 

Her free hand darted toward a dagger at her belt. 

Of course. 

Always a second blade. 

I admired that. 

The knife sliced across my thigh before I trapped her wrist. 

Pain burned through my leg. 

Not too deep. 

But enough to remind me she’d never stopped fighting. 

I stripped the dagger from her hand and tossed it across the room where it struck the stone wall with a loud clang. 

Even disarmed, she continued struggling. 

Not blindly. 

She searched constantly for leverage, trying to turn her hips, trying to free an elbow, trying to force me off balance. 

Most opponents quit once pinned. 

She adapted. 

That alone earned my respect. 

I held her wrists firmly without causing unnecessary pain. 

“Enough,” I said evenly. 

She glared as though she would rather bite than surrender. 

“Get off me!” she spat. 

Good. 

There was spirit in her. 

Spirit survived wars. 

Cowards rarely did. 

For the first time since entering the room, I truly looked at her. 

Dark hair spilled across the blankets like raven feathers. Bronze skin contrasted sharply with striking green eyes that burned with equal parts fury and determination. 

Fear was there. 

Anyone would be afraid. 

But fear did not command her. 

Defiance did. 

She stared back as if daring me to underestimate her. 

I almost smiled. 

She reminded me of young warriors I’d trained years ago—those stubborn enough to fight impossible battles simply because yielding offended them. 

I steadied myself and pinned her gently, drawing her hands above her head with mine. Neither of us spoke for a moment; the only sound was our breathing, close enough that I felt the warmth of her exhale. 

She smelled of lilac and citrus, a bright, impossible scent that I wanted to bathe in. The sight of her—jaw set, lashes damp—clawed at something low and old in me.   I got lost looking into her eyes.  I get a sense of her anger, annoyance, fire and fierceness from them.  Her scent was intoxicating.    

My eyes start wondering and tracing the features of her face; her perfect nose, angular jaw, and her polished plump sweet looking lips.  Her neck led down to her beautiful, heaving chest.  I could see the outlines of her sensual curves through her dress.   

She was impeccable.  

If I ever thought about what a goddess would look like, she would be it.    

My eyes travel back up to her neck, noticing her pulsating carotid artery.  It was not the only thing pulsing now.   

When I notice my own member throbbing, I jerk my eyes to meet hers, but they were closed tightly; her face turned to the side trying to get as far away from me as she could.  I hadn’t noticed that one of my hands had traveled down the side of her body to rest on the side of her hip.   

Oh shit! She must think I’m going to… 

Her eyes met mine and, for the first time, she did not try to look away. In them I saw challenge, disdain—and something else, something like curiosity. My throat went dry. 

I immediately stand myself up and pull her up by her wrists until we are both standing on our feet.  Her eyes are now open wide in surprise.   

“Why are you here?” I asked, voice low. 

She snorted. “Ask the armies that left their citizens here like livestock.” She tried to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear; it fell back, defiant. 

“You fight well,” I allowed. “Your arm is quick.” 

Her mouth twitched. “You’re not so bad yourself for a giant.” 

Heat licked my face—she was mocking me, and it felt like a caress. We circled around each other in words now, the blades set aside. There was an electricity to the quiet, the way her breath came fast when she drew in, the way the pulse at the side of her throat jumped when she swallowed. I wanted to test the line between us and see whether she would step over it. 

But that would have to wait.  

Distant voices echoed through the streets below. 

My scouts. 

Work remained. 

I clear my throat trying to get rid of the tension and say, “Let’s go” and take her again by a wrist. 

“Where are we going?!” she asks with a slight tone of fear sliding into her voice and tries to pull away. 

“You’re coming with me.”