In her mind’s eye, Amara sees Britannica in the brothel again, Felix holding a blade to her face, his hand grasping her thigh in an unspoken threat of sexual violence. It was the only time Amara ever saw Britannica afraid.

“I am Senovara of the Iceni,” Britannica says, stepping forward, her weapon raised, her intention to fight unmistakable. She cocks her head at Felix, like a hawk trained on its prey. “You will obey her, or die.”

Felix draws his weapon. They circle one another in silence, each watching the way the other moves, both stripped down to the very essence of who they are: two remorseless killers. At the edge of her vision, Amara is conscious of Victoria weeping into Beronice’s arms, but she does not look. She cannot take her eyes from Britannica’s face, willing her friend to succeed, not daring to imagine her defeat.

It is Felix who makes the first move, a feint to test Britannica’s response. She dodges him easily, retaliating with a swipe of focused aggression which nearly hits his arm. And then it seems to Amara that the pair are in constant motion, striking at one another so fast she cannot see if anyone has been hit. Their dance is both ugly and graceful, propelled by a savagery and speed that is horrifying to watch.

Amara cries out as Felix aims a blow which she is certain will be fatal, and yet, Britannica evades him, melting from his grasp like smoke. Felix charges before Britannica has time to fully recover her stance, driving her toward the tables at the back. He strikes again, and Amara fears this time he will surely hit home, and yet, Britannica springs backward, leaping up onto the table behind her. In the split-second of surprise that she gains, Britannica aims a kick at Felix, hitting him hard in the face. He sprawls backward onto the floor, and she falls upon him, knocking his weapon wide, her knee at his chest, her knife at his throat.

“Yield to me.”

There is complete silence. Even Victoria is too shocked to continue weeping. Amara walks slowly to where Felix lies on the floor, blood smeared on his face. He looks up at her, and it is to Amara he addresses his answer, not Britannica. “I will never yield to you.” She opens her mouth in shock, and he smiles. “Not what you were expecting? I swore by all the gods to destroy you. You will continue paying, Amara, because every penny you give me reminds you that I own you. I will always own you. You don’t like it?” He flicks his eyes toward Britannica. “Then let her kill me. And what do you imagine will happen then. Do you not think I have your secret written into my will? That if you murder me, you will destroy your own child?”

“He is liar,” Britannica snarls.