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- Herausgeber: ONE
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
It is only a matter of time before you want me, before you ache for me... For centuries women have reigned in Amarra. Now Olerra, fearless warrior princess and queen potential, is ready to make her bid for the throne. But to do so she must prove her worth by kidnapping and taming a husband. Not just any - the best. The most beautiful prince of their greatest enemy, the kingdom of Brutus, where men are still in control. Then in a terrible twist of fate, Olerra steals the wrong prince. Her betrothed, a proud, hot-headed fighter, does not want to be mastered - nor to admit the growing attraction he feels towards his captor. As scheming rivals gather to threaten the kingdom and her life, can Olerra make her plan work before her heart takes over? What Fury Brings is an unforgettably fierce and spicy romantasy featuring a gender reversed power dynamic, a matriarchal world and kidnapped husband. *This book contains mature content and scenes of a graphic nature, please see the author's note and trigger warnings before reading* HYPE FOR WHAT FURY BRINGS: 'The perfect blend of romance and fantasy with nostalgic, incredible characters that had me staying up until 2am to finish' Amy (@amymaybooks) 'This is THE book on female rage and revenge' Silvia (@bookishdesiree) 'A totally refreshing romantasy - Olerra and Sanos brough the perfect mix of spice and sizzling chemistry, while also leaving me giggling and kicking my feet!' Jadey (@jadeyreads) 'Sharp, daring and unapologetic' Karishma (@floatingthroughfiction) 'An intoxicating novel that proves sometimes the most powerful magic lies in the fury of a woman determined to claim what's hers' Abby (@abbyhopepatrick) 'What Fury Brings is the goddess of romantasy, it's dark, sexy and hilarious' Nabz (@nabzrealbooktalk)
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Seitenzahl: 496
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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i
‘Tricia Levenseller’s romantasy is unhinged in the best way: fearless, unforgettable, and unlike anything else’
Sarah Mughal, author of Hope Ablaze
‘A fierce dark romantasy with a unique feminist heart. Filled with burning tension, female rage and vengeance. Levenseller’s intricate world-building and fast-paced plot is filled with brutal resistance, slow-burn romance and hope’
Jennifer Delaney, author of Tales of a Monstrous Heart
‘The perfect blend of romance and fantasy with the nostalgic incredible characters that had me staying up until 2 am to finish’
Amy (@amymaybooks)
‘This is THE book on female rage and revenge!’
Silvia (@bookishdesiree)
‘An empowering, eye-opening, vengeful delight; full of pure feminine rage, high stakes and even higher tension’ ii
Shannon (@shanjcoe)
‘A sharp, daring and unapologetic dark romance fantasy that explores power, gender and the societal structures that define us’
Karishma (@floatingthroughfiction)
‘For fans of dark Romantasy, this is an unflinching exploration of female rage and vengeance, filled with gender bending stereotypes that make it deliciously subversive and a thrilling story for revenge!’
Meg (@meg.inthepages)
‘An intoxicating novel that proves sometimes the most powerful magic lies in the fury of a woman determined to claim what’s hers’
Abby (@abbyhopepatrick)
‘The dark Romantasy that bites back; full of feral feminine rage, all-consuming romance, and revenge that is best served hot’
Porsche (@porschereads)
‘Unapologetic feminine rage, power struggles and a beautiful slow burn romance; consider my heart stolen and my jaw dropped!’
Tehillah Rose (@theroselectory)
‘A totally refreshing romantasy – Olerra and Sanos brought the perfect mix of spice and sizzling chemistry, while also leaving me giggling and kicking my feet!’
Jadey (@jadeyreads)
‘What Fury Brings is the goddess of romantasy, its dark, sexy and hilarious’
Nabz (@nabzrealbooktalk)
‘Fierce, beautiful, and unapologetic – this book doesn’t tiptoe, it confronts. Power is a weapon, and the roles you thought were fixed are shattered’
Ana (@for_yourshelf)
iii
v
FOR ROSY,
BECAUSE YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE I KNOW FOR CERTAIN
WHO WON’T BE OFFENDED BY THIS BOOK.
IT’S PAYING FOR YOUR KIBBLE.vi
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Thank you so much for picking up my first romantasy for adults! However, if you’re under the age of eighteen or my father, then this story is not for you. Please come back later! Unless you’re my father, in which case, this book is still not for you.
What Fury Brings contains scenes of graphic sexual content, graphic language, and graphic violence. If you’re wondering what graphic violence means, let me share that there is a penis guillotine in the novel that is used on rapists.
The society I’ve created is a reflection of our own but reversed. What this means is that all the atrocities committed against women over the course of history have actually been committed against men. Men cannot hold property. Any money they receive belongs to their wives. Men can be married off as soon as they’re old enough to perform. Men are the weaker sex. Men should be seen and not heard. Men should smile and flex whenever a woman looks at them. Only men can be punished for infidelity.
Please note that this is not what I think the world would look like if women were in charge. Far from it. Rather, this book is flipping the tables to show a new lens through which to view our own history.
This book is called WhatFuryBrings, and it is all about my fury. Every time a man cut me off when I was speaking on a panel at a convention, every time I found out a male author with my same sales numbers was viiireceiving higher advances than me, every time someone made me feel small for having a vagina instead of a penis, every time someone told me my only calling in life should be that of a wife and mother, every time anything at all sexist or misogynistic happened in our world—I worked on this book.
It is my fury mixed with my love of the romance genre. It is harsh and it is sexy and it has a happily ever after.
If you, like me, are angry, I think you might like this book. If you’re just here for the romance, I still think you’ll like this book. I’m incredibly proud of it. That said, please be aware of the following trigger warnings:
Mentions of sexual assault, but no scenes depicting it
Physical and emotional abuse by a parent and a spouse
Dubious consent
Kidnapping/bondage, sometimes sexual
The auctioning and selling of men
Sex workers
Mentions of grooming and underage sexual partners
Animal deaths, including warhorses (shown inexplicitly on page) and a dog (that died in the past and is only referenced)
War themes and military violence
The aforementioned penis guillotine
If you do choose to continue, then happy reading.
All my best,
AMARRAN TERMINOLOGY
x
xi
1
Given the extreme size of the king’s sword, Olerra felt certain the man was compensating for something.
This was the fourth time General Olerra Corasene had met King Atalius’s troops in half as many years. Always, the man would hide behind his fighters, shouting orders from the back, the coward.
Today he dared to appear on the front lines, massive sword cleaving the air like an ax. The king himself was equally massive—by far the largest man she’d ever laid eyes on—yet that didn’t necessitate the size of the greatsword. Just who was he showing off for?
Furthermore, Atalius wore a tabard over his breastplate that bore a single black crown on a bloodred background: the royal crest of Brutus.
He might as well have painted a sign on himself.
I’m the king. Attack me!
It was hard for Olerra not to laugh at the thought of a king on the throne. Men were unfit to rule. They were easy to provoke, and they always thought with their cocks instead of their heads, which was why they were better suited to the bedroom.
Olerra was distracted from her assessment by three new Brutes, who all charged her at once. They tried to swipe at the legs of the horse she rode, but Olerra used her left hand and calf to direct the horse in a perfect sidestep, avoiding two of them. Simultaneously, she plunged her sword point into the third man’s helmet, sliding right into the gap 2meant for his eyes. As she tugged her sword free, red streaked across her thigh and the white coat of the equine beneath her. The gelding was unnamed, as most warhorses were, though it helped little when they fell during the heat of battle.
Olerra was determined to ensure they both made it.
No sooner had the first soldier fallen than Olerra spun her horse around. In an incredibly fast arc that Enadra would have been proud of, Olerra brought her sword down precisely in the middle of the second Brute’s helmet, cleaving both it and his skull in two. Her momentum stopped somewhere in the vicinity of the dead man’s nose, and Olerra had to place her foot on his chest to wrench her sword free.
The third man fled.
Olerra returned her attention to the king—hoping he was finally in position—just in time to see him fell one of her soldiers.
Countless battles into her career, and Olerra still felt a sharp sting whenever she lost a brave fighter. She was too far to help. She had to maintain this position atop the small hill, where she could see both the front lines and the rear of the Brutish forces.
Come on. Just a few more yards. She needed the king and his troops to clear the forest.
Atalius was quick to engage another Amarran. He ducked under her strike and cut her legs out from under her, leaving her crawling in the dirt. When he faced his next opponent, he broke through her guard in two moves before driving his sword through her heart.
He never stopped. He never slowed.
Anger burned through Olerra. Atalius had to be nearing sixty years of age, yet he fought like a lion.
Everywhere else on the battlefield, men were succumbing to the superior strength of her soldiers. One woman locked swords with a Brute, only to quickly overpower him and shove his own blade into his 3neck. Another rode her horse alongside a Brutish rider and kicked him clean off his steed. A third Amarran picked a man off the ground and threw him into another.
Yet the king held his own. A well-timed strike from one of her soldiers broke through Atalius’s defenses and imbedded into his left arm. Atalius growled, pulled the spear from his flesh, and severed the woman’s head from her shoulders.
Olerra despaired at the loss of another soldier, but Atalius was finally where she wanted him, where her fighters on the front had lured him. She bent to retrieve the gonfalon from where she’d stuck it in the dirt before the start of the battle, hoisting it high and waving it back and forth. Her hidden forces in the woods joined the battle, flanking Atalius’s soldiers from behind.
Now she could finally face the king.
Olerra dug her heels into her horse’s sides, urging him down the hill. She struck downward against the foot soldiers who came between her and her target. Her sword sliced the gaps between helmet and breastplate, her horse jumped over fallen bodies, and the wails of the injured lowered to a dull roar as Olerra honed in on her target.
The Brutes at Atalius’s back had turned to meet Olerra’s reinforcements, but despite the shouts of pain and fear, the king pressed on. Rage fueled him past the point of common sense. Made him blind to the reinforcements joining the fray. Another woman fell to his blade.
“Faster!” Olerra urged the gelding.
“Who’s next, eh?” the king shouted. He spun in a circle, having picked up a fallen spear in his free hand, keeping everyone at bay. His helmet had been knocked off in his latest scuffle. “I see your goddess doesn’t have enough power to protect you all!”
Without slowing her horse, Olerra slid sideways in the saddle to scoop a rock as big as her fist from the ground. 4
“To me!” Atalius shouted to his retreating soldiers. “Give them no quarter. They—”
Olerra threw, hitting her mark, which was the king’s rather large head. Atalius fell in a heap of bent armor and unjustified male ego.
“Let his troops scurry back to their homes,” she said, addressing the soldiers nearest her. “Bring the king to my tent. I think it’s time he and I had a chat.”
The general’s word was law, and her soldiers chased their enemy back across the border. Meanwhile, Olerra helped carry her wounded to the healers and gave a swift death to any Brutes left injured on the battlefield. She placed her dead in carts so they could be returned to their families. She surveyed the damage to the outskirts of the city, assigning soldiers and townspeople to help with cleanup and repair any damage. She paid off families who lost livestock and businesses that lost income during the hour-long battle.
She was in the running to be queen one day. Olerra would do right by her people. Make them see that she should be the one to sit on the throne.
Not her insufferable cousin.
When all was as it should be, Olerra returned to her tent, one last chore before her.
Atalius was strapped to a chair, bound and gagged. His wounds had been tended to, he’d been cleaned, given fresh clothing, and offered a hot meal. Not that he deserved it. Olerra, still filthy with dried blood and dirt, grabbed a chair from the war table, flipped it around, and straddled the seat with her arms resting along the back. She flicked her wrist at the king, and one of her captains stepped forward to remove Atalius’s gag.
He coughed once it was gone but said nothing.
For two years they had fought over this border city. Shamire was rich in resources, with golden fields of wheat and the Fren River running through it. The neighboring kingdoms of Kalundir and Ephenna 5often brought their merchants here to exchange goods. It was a boon to whomever held the city.
Queen Lemya, Olerra’s aunt, had won the city decades ago from the Brutes, and it was Olerra’s job to maintain that control. When Vorika, the head of Olerra’s spy network, had told her of Atalius’s plans to attack, Olerra had rallied her forces to meet him with the might of Amarra.
The king and general were finally meeting face-to-face, yet the man had nothing to say.
Oh, she would get him to speak.
“Normally you take the coward’s way, Atalius,” she said, meeting his gaze head-on, “fleeing before we can be properly introduced. I didn’t know you had it in you to stay and suffer the consequences of defeat. Did you grow tired of running?”
When that didn’t get a rise out of him, she tried a different approach.
“My name is Olerra Corasene, queen potential of Amarra, and I have beaten you four times now in your attempts to reclaim Shamire. I think it’s time you admitted you can’t take it back.”
Atalius clenched his teeth, trying to prevent himself from speaking.
“Nothing to say? Perhaps this topic will interest you. Your fate. What should I do with you?” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I could simply kill you, but I worry one of your many sons will take your place and declare a foolhardy campaign against my country to seek revenge. As much as I love our little border spats, I don’t think either of us wants a full-scale war. You especially. I hear you’ve already got your hands full with the Ephennans on your southern border. Do you really want your forces divided to take on a second country?”
It took a moment, but the bound man finally said, “I do not wish for war between us.”
At least he wasn’t a complete idiot.
“I could ransom you,” Olerra mused, “but we really don’t need the money. Shamire provides a steady income on top of all our other assets. 6Perhaps I should demand it anyway. Bankrupt your country so it’ll take you longer to attack again.”
Atalius didn’t look away as she thought aloud about his future.
“Or perhaps a trade,” she said. “One of your sons for your life.”
The king glared at her with such heat she might have thought it capable of melting his bonds.
“He’d be well treated, for the most part,” she continued. “A prisoner to stop a war from happening. Besides, you have plenty of sons. Isn’t that the whole thing with you Brutes? Your god blessed you with virility? More children than you could possibly know what to do with?”
Rumors also suggested that the god Brutus blessed the men born in his country with large cocks, but wasn’t it just like men to claim such a thing? Besides, that greatsword was evidence to the contrary.
Regardless, it was a pathetic gift in comparison to what Amarra gifted the daughters of her country: the ability to physically overpower men. It was a miracle that Atalius had lasted as long on the battlefield as he had.
“No,” the king spat.
“Your god didn’t bless you with too many sons?”
“You cannot have a trade,” he clarified.
Did I really find his weakness so easily?
“Can’t I? Are you saying you’d rather die than give me one of your sons? Are you willing to bet your kingdom’s future on that? I sure hope your heir is prepared to take your place, then. I hear he’s amassing quite the reputation as a general in your skirmishes with the Ephennans. What was his name? Stantos?”
The change was almost instant. One moment the king’s face was pale white, the next, purple. Was it the way she’d intentionally said the crown prince’s name wrong? Or was it the fact that his son was gaining more popularity than he was? 7
“Is that why you showed your face on the front today, waving that massive sword around?” she asked. “To remind your people that you’ve still got fight in you? Is your heir getting a little too popular for your liking?”
“His. Name. Is. Sanos.” The words were clipped, and the prince’s name came out like a curse.
His heir is definitely a sore spot, then. Good to know.
“Ahh. How is Sanos coming along? Does he have a mind for politics to match that battle prowess? Have you taught him the ways of my people so he’ll be prepared to deal with me in the future?”
“You’re not queen yet,” Atalius spat, “and I hear your cousin has garnered more favor than you.”
The words stung, as they were meant to. Olerra hated that he knew exactly where to poke to cause the most pain.
Olerra may have had the army on her side, but her cousin, Glenaerys, had the money. Glen had much of the nobility in her pocket already, and since it was a majority vote by the nobility that would grant one of them the title of crown princess (an outdated term since Amarran Queens didn’t wear crowns anymore), Olerra was in a precarious position.
She needed to make a strong political move to bring more of them to her side, and Atalius was giving her an idea.
She said nothing of his jibe. “Which son can I have? Do I get to pick? Perhaps the youngest, Ikanos? He hasn’t had quite as much time to be influenced by you and your heathen ways.”
The king didn’t say a word.
“No? Then perhaps the spare? I hear Andrastus is a very pretty man. A poet, yes? He would make a beautiful addition to my harem, don’t you think?” Atalius didn’t need to know that she didn’t actually have a harem or any intention of starting one. “How much is your life worth to you, 8Atalius? Maybe I’m not asking for enough. Perhaps I should demand two sons in exchange for you. Maybe three? Who do you—”
“Stop!”
Olerra grinned at the victory.
“Just stop,” Atalius said. “You’ve made your point. I’m at your mercy, but do not bring my sons into this.”
“And what will you give up for that, Atalius? Your pride? Would you beg? Let’s hear it. Beg me not to take your sons and turn them into whores.”
A vein stood out in the king’s neck. He looked as though he were struggling against his bonds, but they were too tight to give him even an inch of movement. “I will see you dead for this,” he said, his voice lowering to something Olerra could barely hear.
“How are you to accomplish that from your chair?”
He screamed his fury into the tent.
When he finished, Olerra said, “Before I make my decision, there is one more thing I wish to know. Why didn’t any of your sons join you on the battlefield today? They can’t all be fighting the Ephennans.”
No answer. The mostly one-sided conversation was somehow becoming even more entertaining.
“Have you not battle-trained them all?” she prodded. “Are they cowards?”
Nothing.
“Do you know what I think, Atalius? I think that, deep down, you knew you would lose, and you didn’t want them here to see your defeat.”
His eyes met hers, and Olerra knew she’d struck the mark. “Oh, Atalius. At the end of the day, you’re just a man. Insecure yet overconfident. Hotheaded while tied to a chair. Condescending when you’ve been so hopelessly beaten. A series of contradictions that will never work in your favor. You should have retreated the moment you spotted 9my reinforcements. Perhaps you wouldn’t have taken a rock to the head. How is that pounding headache?”
She knew he wouldn’t answer, so she stood when she was done. Olerra turned her back to him, which she knew was a grave insult in his country. One never turned away from a king. She smiled as she spoke low to her watching captains.
“Blindfold him. Let him think you’re going to kill him, then return him to his kingdom. Leave him somewhere to be found by his sons. Let them see his defeat.” After a pause, she added, “And take back everything we lent him.”
“Yes, General,” they said in unison.
Atalius had unintentionally given her his weakness. He cared for his sons very much, and Olerra was forming a plan that would not only strengthen her standing as queen potential with the nobles but also get back at Atalius for the battle that cost her twenty-four good soldiers.
The first step was to let him go. The fun part would come later.
“Farewell, Atalius,” she called over her shoulder. “I hope to never see you again.”
Then Olerra left to find a hot bath.
2
Sanos rode hard for home, eager for a respite after months away on the battlefield. The campaign was grueling work. He spent his days slaying Ephennans and his nights strategizing for more battles with more Ephennans. He caught sleep when he could, but it was becoming rarer and rarer.
Thank the gods for his upcoming birthday. It was one of the few times he was permitted to visit home, get a full night’s rest, and see his family. Though his mother and sister wrote to him weekly, he was eager to see with his own two eyes that they were well.
He never knew what his father would do while he was away.
Thankfully, the king had been engaged in plans to reclaim Shamire from the Amarrans of late. Brutus needed the extra income the city would provide in their campaign against the Ephennans.
Knowing his father’s temper, Sanos hoped the king had good news for him upon his arrival.
As his horse drew near the castle gates, Sanos had to weave through an unexpected crowd of soldiers and nobility. They seemed to configure around a central point, and the prince decided to see what caught everyone’s interest.
“Sanos!”
The prince turned his head and found all four of his younger brothers grouped together. When he reached them, Canus, third-born, 11practically wrestled him off the horse, and all his brothers joined in on an enormous hug, nearly squeezing the life out of him.
“All right. All right.” Sanos smacked their backs in return. “Let me go before I put you all on your asses right here in front of this crowd.”
They stepped back, and he asked, “Why is there a crowd?”
An unnerving grin took over Canus’s face. He pointed up ahead, and Sanos followed the line of his brother’s finger.
He blinked twice to ensure his eyes weren’t failing him.
The king was strapped to a wooden post in the middle of the road, and he was as naked as the day he was born. Ropes spread his arms and legs wide, ensuring nothing would be hidden from the crowd’s eye.
Atalius appeared to be unconscious, though Sanos had to ask, “Did anyone check if he’s breathing?”
“I got close,” Ikanos, the youngest of the Ladicus brothers, said. “No such luck. He’s alive.”
“And no one has bothered to get him down?”
“Do you want to be the one to wake him?” Andrastus asked.
Sanos most certainly did not, but this couldn’t continue. More and more courtiers were pouring out of the castle to see if the rumor was true. The crowd was growing in size, and the fallout would only get worse.
Sanos sighed. Sometimes he hated being the oldest.
He handed off his horse to the nearest guard with instructions to stable him. The soldier frowned, clearly put out to miss the excitement, but he did as he was told.
“Welcome home, Prince,” he said as he left. “It’s good to see you well.”
At his words, more surrounding guards turned and spotted his arrival. Some of them had the decency to look guilty for making a spectacle of the king.
“You,” Sanos said, firming his tone. “Go fetch a robe for the king. 12You lot there, go untie him. And the rest of you, start clearing out this crowd. Now.”
His orders were quick to be followed, but not before he received more greetings and well-wishes regarding his return. He was proud to be so well-liked by his fellow soldiers. He was prouder still that people listened when he spoke.
“Spoilsport,” Canus said.
“You should all go,” Sanos said, “before he—”
“Get me the fuck down!”
Sanos turned. The king was very much awake now. His face was turning bright purple as he discovered his state of undress and the too-slowly receding crowd.
Canus had to turn around to hide his laughter.
“Don’t,” Sanos cautioned. “He will beat you within an inch of your life.”
“Worth it. I’m going to remember that look on his face for the rest of my life.”
It was a spectacular look. The king of Brutus was a proud, ruthless man, and to see him brought so low was, in a word, everything.
“I could kiss whoever did this,” Canus said.
“That would be the Amarrans,” Sanos replied. “Father went to fight them for Shamire once again. We’ve been exchanging battle briefs.”
“He must have been captured this time.”
“Along with his clothes,” Sanos couldn’t help but say, and Canus lost it again.
Andrastus, Trantos, and Ikanos looked horrified at the two of them and took a step away, likely because they didn’t want the king to think they were in on the joke.
When Atalius’s eyes swung to them, Sanos was quick to remove all signs of mirth from his face. He was the battle-hardened firstborn son. 13Stoic and lethal—his father wanted him to be just like him. But there was an unforeseen danger that came from instilling that level of brutality and ambition within the prince.
Sanos knew his father feared that he had designs on taking the throne early.
He didn’t, yet there was nothing that could assuage his father’s paranoia.
The king’s arms were unbound now, and two men held him against the post so he didn’t topple off-balance while the others were working on his legs. This kind of humiliation was worse than losing the battle against the Amarrans in the first place, Sanos knew. Whoever ordered it was calculating and conniving, and Sanos wanted to congratulate them personally for it.
Canus was right. It was worth another beating to see this.
Sanos let none of this show as his father continued to watch him. Since the Amarran general was not here, Sanos would be the one he took his rage out on. He always was.
It was going to be a very bad day.
The robe arrived at the same time the king fell from the post, collapsing in a heap of limbs, sore from being up there for however many hours. The soldier hovered near his liege, unsure what to do except hold open the robe and wait.
Atalius leaped to his feet, snatched the robe, and backhanded the soldier who’d offered it.
“You dare to look upon your king’s nakedness?” he seethed.
The soldier went to his knees and said nothing.
The king strode forward, now robed, magically managing a superior gait. When he got to Sanos and Canus, he said, “Come,” to his oldest son.
Canus gave him a look of sympathy as Sanos followed a step behind 14the only man in the country who outranked him. The only man who could raise a hand to him. The only man who could best him with the sword. The only man whose opinion mattered. The one who held his future entirely in his hands.
“Report,” the king said as they walked.
“I have taken the cities of Eritus and Blathe,” Sanos said. “We’re pushing more into Ephenna and claiming its territory as our own. The campaign is going very well. The men are in good spirits and health.” Though more food rations would be welcome.
Sanos did not need to ask how the fight against the Amarrans went.
They arrived at the king’s chambers, and Sanos was made to wait as his father bathed and dressed. After two weeks on the road, Sanos wished he could bathe himself, but he knew better than to leave when his father had ordered him to stay.
The prince sent for food, and the king downed sausages and eggs as he eyed his son. Sanos remained stoic, waiting for the king to bring up what he really wanted to talk about.
The silence was agonizing. He might prefer shouting. At least then he would have some idea of what was on the king’s mind.
“I met the Amarran general,” his father finally said. “She’s a dishonorable wretch. Didn’t face me sword-to-sword. No, she threw a rock at my head while I took on a dozen of her best soldiers.”
That was indeed unsporting, but effective, if it resulted in his father’s capture. Of course, he couldn’t blame anyone for not wanting to cross blades with his father. Atalius was a beast of a man, bigger than any other Sanos had met. Only Canus grew close in size, but none were the king’s equal with the sword.
A rock to the head was perhaps the only way to best him.
“Despicable. Unsporting.” Sanos kept his response brief.
“She also had some interesting things to say about you. Rumors of 15you growing more popular than I. Rumors that there are those who wish to see you on the throne before your time.”
Shit.
This was what the king was building toward. More accusations of treason.
“Do I need to remind you what will happen should I meet an early demise?” the king asked.
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Your mother and sister have no value to me. I already have five sons and no use for a daughter. Should anything at all happen to me, I have assassins in place to deal with them. It will not be quick. You will be made to wait years before finding their broken bodies.”
Sanos swallowed but kept the fury from his face. He forced himself not to look away.
Gods, but he hated his father.
If Sanos wanted the throne early, it wasn’t because of any ambitions he had but because he wanted to rid the world of his father’s evil. He wanted his family safe.
Sanos had to learn the hard way that his father was a master at finding weaknesses and causing the most pain possible. When he was ten, his mother declared that they didn’t spend nearly enough time together and took the prince on an outing into the city, just the two of them and a handful of guards. They sampled candies and purchased toys. At the end of the day, Sanos was allowed to select a pup from a local breeder.
But when he returned home, the king was furious. He said the queen had no right to take Sanos away from his tutors. To go into town without his say-so. The king wrested the pup from Sanos’s fingers and snapped her neck before he could even begin to protest.
When he was fourteen, Sanos had a best friend: Vanus, the son of a count. The boys practiced the sword together in their free time. They 16shared their hopes and dreams. Sanos wanted out of the city. He wished to see the world. Vanus didn’t want to be a count. He wanted to be a singer. Sanos encouraged Vanus to follow his dreams, and Vanus said that Sanos would make a better king than Atalius. He should take the throne early and see the world.
To this day, Sanos still had no idea how Atalius found out about the treasonous words, said mostly in jest.
Vanus lost his head, and Atalius had made Sanos swing the ax, else the king would put the prince’s little sister, Emorra, on the chopping block.
Sanos learned that no one could show him any sort of favor or love. The king wanted him isolated so he had few allies should he make designs on the throne. Atalius wanted his son to rely on him and no one else. It was Sanos’s good behavior alone that kept his family alive and intact.
The ax was always there in his mind’s eye, waiting to drop.
So the prince fought the king’s battles and did his utmost not to garner any special favor at all.
And now some Amarran general was spewing idiotic things into the king’s ear. Things that could result in unspeakable horrors happening to his family.
He wanted to wring her neck almost as much as he wished he could kill his father.
Sanos said, “People will amuse themselves with rumors, but that doesn’t make them true. I am devoted to serving the crown of Brutus. I am devoted to you, Father. Any victories I achieve are only because of your training. I win battles for your glory.”
Talking to his father was like balancing on a rope. One wrong word and he’d suffer a one-hundred-foot drop.
The king washed down his meal with a heavy drink of wine. “You mocked me today. With your brother.” 17
“No, Your Majesty.”
“And what else did Canus find so amusing, then?”
“I told him a joke.”
“A joke, is it? Let’s hear it. Make me laugh.”
Sanos’s mind went completely blank. His brothers had told him all kinds of lewd jokes over the years, but when it counted most, when the skin of his body depended on it, he couldn’t recall a single one.
“I don’t remember it,” he said at last.
“How unfortunate.”
Sanos waited on his father as he strode through the castle. He listened in on a meeting with the advisers, as his father updated them on the situation with the Amarrans. He waited while his father visited his mother, doing gods knew what while he stood outside her chambers. He followed as his father selected a new warhorse for himself, since he’d lost his last one in the battle. The day was agonizing as Sanos was made to wait for his punishment, following and serving his king.
When Canus was sent for, Sanos knew it was time, and he could finally relax. He didn’t have to guess when the ax would drop. It was here.
They were led to a room deep under the palace. Near the dungeons. The walls were padded to muffle the screams of their enemies. And of the princes.
“I know you both think I’m hard on you,” Atalius said as he drew off his outer garment, leaving him in shirtsleeves and leggings and boots. “But to be a Brute is to be a hardened warrior, impervious to pain. Able to withstand torture without giving up a single scrap of information. It’s been far too long since you’ve both undergone a training session. Today is a good day for it.”
It was amazing how often these sessions corresponded with the king’s foul moods. 18
Sanos tried to find something pleasant to think about instead of the pain that awaited him. His birthday was in two weeks. He looked forward to going out with his brothers. They always visited a brothel at the end of the night, and Sanos thought of the promise of pleasure rather than pain as the king ordered them both to strip and face the wall.
Canus was angry. His face showed everything, the loathing and fury. Sanos maintained an air of indifference.
“I take no pleasure in this,” the king continued.
A lie.
“My father was also hard on me. Someday, you will look back and realize that I only wanted to make you stronger. When you are indifferent to pain, you will become a true Brute. You will thank me for this.”
“Did you thank your father?” Canus asked brazenly.
Sanos wished he’d shut up.
“I did. On his deathbed.”
The cane was a long stick, smooth from time and use. It was important not to break their skin. To make wounds they would heal from without scarring. They couldn’t have lashes on their backs like servants. Sanos didn’t know why. Perhaps it was his father’s ego. He wanted perfect sons, beaten into submission to their king, yet rulers and conquerors to the rest of the world.
They weren’t restrained. They didn’t need to be. If they laid a hand on their father, it was treason. So they could do nothing but withstand the torture.
Slap.
Canus was struck first, and Sanos flinched. It was worse when it wasn’t his turn. He anticipated pain but didn’t receive it. Felt the tiniest bit of relief. Then the cane would land on him, and the pain would be worse when it followed that burst of relief. His father alternated. Sometimes hitting Canus three times in a row before switching back 19to Sanos. He didn’t know when it would land. He didn’t know when it would end. He didn’t know anything.
Slap.
Slap.
Slap.
Time could only be measured by counting the strikes. Twenty-five. Fifty. Seventy-five.
On and on it went. The king even forgot the farce of “withstanding torture.” Atalius didn’t bother to ask them a single question. He didn’t promise the pain would stop if they gave up their country’s secrets. Today, the king was too far gone.
When Atalius finally decided he was done, he told them to get dressed.
“It’s time for sword training.”
They were both so sore they could barely stand. But the way of the Brute was to fight even when wounded. There was no choice but to follow the king to the training yard.
Sanos weathered the beating better than his brother. Perhaps because he was more used to it. As crown prince, he was trained the hardest, preparing to be king one day.
They practiced with real swords, the king taking on both him and Canus at the same time. On a good day, they could probably beat him together, but the king had set them up for failure by leaving them hardly able to move.
Yet something came over Canus once a sword was placed into his hand. He charged their father with all the rage of a boy who’d been beaten into a man far too soon. At almost twenty-three, Canus wasn’t quite at his physical peak. He hadn’t been sent to fight in any battles, likely because the king didn’t want them banding together against him. Canus had no real battle experience, but he had all the best tutors, just like Sanos. 20
The move was precise, cutting straight for their father’s head.
Atalius ducked and swiped, cutting a hole in Canus’s shirt. Sanos charged from behind, rallying his strength. His father took his legs out from under him, too fast for Sanos to even track it in his delirium of pain.
He fell to the ground on his already-blistered back.
And screamed.
“Get up,” the king demanded.
They both charged again and lost.
“Get up,” the king said a second time.
It continued until there was nothing but pain and his father’s voice.
Sanos didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious when he woke in his rooms to a cold pinch.
“Shh,” his mother said. She put another salve-soaked cloth on his aching back, covering every injury one at a time. Ferida was beautiful, with white-gold hair and smooth features that made her look doll-like. She was small. So small compared to all her grown sons. Too small to have been paired with the likes of his father.
When the queen was done, she stood, taking the bowl away to the adjoining bathing chamber. She walked a little funny.
“He hurt you,” Sanos said.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Canus—”
“Emorra is with him.”
“Good,” Sanos managed.
He seemed to sink farther into the bedding beneath him.
“Your reign can’t come soon enough,” she said. 21
“He’s too fit and healthy. It’ll be years and years yet.”
“He’s too battle hungry. One of these days, his pride will get him. And if it doesn’t, perhaps we should help it along.”
The words sang to his soul, but Sanos didn’t have the heart to tell his mother that they could never help it along. He didn’t want her to worry over the threat his father had made to them. Or worse, hear her say she wasn’t afraid of death if it meant it would save her sons and country from Atalius.
So instead, Sanos said, “One day,” to give her hope.
“One day,” she agreed.
3
Olerra’s first order of business upon returning to Zinaeya, capital city of Amarra, was reporting to her aunt. She marched through the palace with a small retinue of soldiers, their steps loud on the red obsidian tiles. Olerra was still unused to the constant company, but precautions needed to be taken because her cousin kept trying to have her killed.
They were intercepted on the way, but not by anyone dangerous.
“Olerra!”
“Ydra!”
Her sister-chosen grabbed her by the shoulder and put her forehead to hers. “Thank the goddess you’re unharmed. Why wasn’t I sent for upon your return? Are you headed to a battle brief?”
The two separated, and Olerra explained, “I have to put something in motion quickly. The queen is expecting me.”
“Anything I should know about?” As Olerra’s second-in-command, Ydra was usually at all the important meetings. This was something a little different, though.
Olerra leaned forward so as not to be overheard. “I’m going to ask for permission to kidnap a Brutish prince for my own.”
Ydra covered her mouth with her hands in delight. She had to work very hard to keep her voice low amid the excitement.
“Now? After all this time?” 23
“It’s mostly political. I need to overshadow Glen.”
Ydra nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, go see the queen, and I will start making preparations. Oh, we’ll need to go to the Pleasure Market! And then the Hunters Market. Can’t wait!”
Her friend squeezed her hand before taking off down the corridor.
Olerra couldn’t help but smile as she continued walking. She, too, was excited by the prospect of having a man in her life, but she knew it would also be a lot of work. Especially if that man was a Brute.
When she reached her aunt’s chambers, the guards on either side of the room nodded to her in greeting before opening the doors wide. Each woman was clad in steel armor that shone with just the slightest tint of scarlet. Their spearpoints were made of red obsidian, a unique variety found only in their country. Spikes protruded from their helmets, positioned above their foreheads. The queen’s guard had a fondness for bashing in the skulls of their enemies.
“Wait here,” Olerra said to her guard.
The queen stood near the fireplace, sipping a glass of wine, her wife, Toria, at her side with her arm slung around her back.
“How did we fare?” the queen asked. Lemya was a tall woman, broad of shoulders, with black hair cropped short to her scalp. She wore no crown, as Amarran queens did not need one to know their worth. She wore a pleated dress that came down to mid-thigh and belted at the waist. Olerra wore a similar outfit. Warrior women liked their ease of movement, and the hot climate in Amarra necessitated shorter garments.
“Very well, Auntie. We lost far less than the enemy, who turned tail and ran. Atalius was captured and questioned, then returned to his home.”
“Alive?” Lemya clarified.
“Yes, I thought it best not to start a war with his death.”
Lemya smiled and turned to her wife. “See? She already has the 24cunning of a queen. Tell me, Olerra, that you at least took a finger or something to shame him?”
“Oh, I took something.” Olerra deposited the clothing she was carrying onto the floor, including the tabard that bore the king’s crest.
Her aunties looked at the clothing before bursting into laughter.
“Where did you leave him?” Toria asked as she wiped tears from her eyes.
“Right outside the castle gates.”
The queen composed herself. “This is why you’re my favorite niece.”
Olerra beamed. “I have more ideas for shaming him. Could we speak in private for a moment?”
Lemya nodded, turning to her wife. “Why don’t you relax in the bath and wait for me?”
Toria kissed her cheek before retreating toward the adjacent bathing chamber, not the least bit put out to be excluded from the conversation. She knew it must be something political, rather than personal, to be asked to leave.
In fact, it was both.
As soon as the door closed, Olerra proclaimed, “I need a husband.”
Lemya blinked once before processing the words. “Arguable, but go on.”
“I’ve come to learn that Atalius cares for his sons more than anything, save his pride. I’ve decided to kidnap one and claim him as mine. Doing so will punish the king of Brutus further while also strengthening my claim to the throne of Amarra.”
“I’m impressed.” Lemya’s tone didn’t quite match her words.
“You have reservations?”
“Concerns.”
“Glenaerys has secured much of the nobility in her favor,” Olerra explained. “I must take the next step in proving myself the perfect candidate by kidnapping and marrying a man.” 25
In Amarra, the art of husband hunting was as old as the Goddess’s Gift. It wasn’t mandatory, but many families prided themselves on keeping their bloodlines noble. That was nearly impossible to do without looking outside of Amarra, for most of the noblemen in the country were dead.
Olerra thought it was ridiculous that so many cared, considering that women with harems couldn’t prove that their children were sired by their husband. It didn’t matter, though. Any child born to a noblewoman was raised by her husband and, therefore, noble.
Olerra couldn’t care less about the purity of her future daughters’ blood. No, kidnapping a husband was a necessity for an entirely different reason.
“I’d hate to see you wedded before you’re ready,” the queen said. “Your mother was dear to me, Goddess bless her soul. I don’t know that she would have wanted this for you.”
“The throne or marriage?” Olerra asked.
“To marry at so young an age. You’re only twenty-one. What if your tastes should change in the next ten years?”
It was certainly a risk, but once Olerra had the throne, she could ship her husband away to the farthest reaches of the world if she wanted to—which was indeed her plan. She couldn’t risk him learning her secret.
“Husbands come and go, but Amarra is eternal,” Olerra said.
The queen nodded, accepting this answer, as Olerra knew she would. “I wish your mother were still with us. Gods, but I miss her.”
“I do, too.”
Sometimes when she closed her eyes, Olerra could hear her laugh or smell a hint of her perfume. But her face was gone. She could not remember its shape or features, having only been four years old when she was orphaned.
Ivanisa was killed by Olerra’s sire. Her mother had kept him for five 26years before he managed to get the better of her. It was not a quick or painless death.
And it was utterly unexpected.
Because of the magic granted to them by the goddess Amarra, Amarran women could physically overpower any man they came across. For a man to kill a woman, he’d have to have surprise or skill on his side. Olerra’s sire, the third son of some earl from Dyphankar, should have had neither.
No one had witnessed the murder. Her sire had been found trying to flee the country. He was killed while the guards had attempted to apprehend him.
To die by one’s husband was rare, but it happened. Just never before to the royal family.
That’s why Olerra had more to prove than most. Because she was her mother’s daughter, and her mother had died to a man. She had to show the women of her kingdom she wouldn’t be beaten so easily. That they could trust the Corasene line.
And she had to prove it by breaking a man of her own.
Olerra would take the Amarran throne by any means necessary. The queen alone could not bequeath her kingdom. The love of the people went a long way, but it was the loyalty of the nobility that Olerra truly had to secure—a tricky feat when her cousin spent more time with them, overseeing both political maneuverings and even dipping into the spy network. Not only could Glenaerys foster the proper relationships to win over the nobility, she likely had the means to bribe them into doing her will, if needed.
A general’s salary paid well, but it was nothing compared to the wealth of Glen’s mother. That’s why Olerra’s grandmother had wed her son to her.
There was no pride in inheriting wealth. It was no more than an 27accident of birth. Olerra earned her station by being the best: the best fighter, the best battle strategist, the best teacher. She had a deep respect and love for her troops. Owning the trust of Amarra’s fighting force went a long way. That would sway many of the nobility to vote in her favor.
Yet managing a husband would sway those who were hesitant about Olerra because of what had happened to her mother.
“You have declared yourself differre. Does this still stand true?” the queen asked.
Olerra blinked at the change in topic. She wished she could claim to be sirem and like women as her aunt did. Olerra had tried to be physical with women before, but there was no denying that her attractions lay elsewhere.
With men.
“It does.”
“Most differres of your age and standing already have a kept man or have started their harems—”
At the look Olerra gave her, Lemya added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with not wanting to keep a man.” She grimaced at the thought. “The people of Amarra are welcome to whatever their tastes may be. As far as I’ve seen, you’ve never courted a man or even paid particular attention to one. Are you sure you’re not amise?”
Olerra certainly was not indifferent to nor repulsed by sex. She’d been repressing her sexual drive all her life—but she couldn’t very well admit to her aunt her greatest shame.
“I am not amise, Auntie. I have only been biding my time for personal reasons. Now, may I have your blessing in this task?”
Lemya raised a brow at her tone but let it slide. “All right. I only wanted to be sure this is truly what you want. Which son of Atalius will you take?”
“Prince Andrastus,” Olerra answered. 28
“The king has five sons. Why Andrastus?”
There were many reasons why Andrastus. “He’s said to be a timid and loyal thing, which makes him the perfect candidate for housebreaking. He’s the second-born prince, so I’m less likely to start a war by taking him.” Though she knew to expect some repercussions from Atalius once he found out. “He’s also rumored to be very pretty.”
“King Atalius may still come for his son. He is a proud man. Stupid, but proud,” the queen observed.
“We will be wed as soon as he’s on Amarran soil. The marriage will be consummated immediately so he will be soiled goods. No other woman of noble birth will have him, and he can be of no further use to his father.”
“No noblewoman in Amarra would want him after that, but you forget that other kingdoms’ ways are not our own.”
Ah yes. Other kingdoms and their backward ideals. In Amarra, a differre man was only as valuable as the seed he could give a woman. Once that seed had resulted in a child, it could be of no further value to a separate woman. Mothers with children born of the same father? Ludicrous. It wasn’t done. Sure, men could be shared for the purposes of pleasure. They were bought by the dozens from the common classes to fill harems. But when it came to marriage, fidelity was demanded of men.
But Olerra had heard tales of kingdoms that encouraged men to put their seed in as many women as possible. It was a sign of prowess, even. As if a man should be proud of what his cock could do. Losing his spend wasn’t difficult. Pleasing a woman in bed was. Which should he be prouder of?
Olerra knew her aunt wasn’t truly arguing with her. She was simply poking holes in Olerra’s plan to see if she was strong enough to handle the onslaught.
Olerra said, “It is important that Atalius suffers the consequences 29for coming after our land. He hates Amarrans and would rather die than see one of his sons wedded to one. We have the might to withstand him should he make hasty advances, and he won’t know for some time that it’s me who has taken his son, despite the threats I made when I spoke with him. Why come back and kidnap a son when I could have traded the king for one? And once we’re married, there’s hardly anything Atalius can do about it.”
Lemya nodded. “Very well. You have my blessing in this. If it’s what you truly want.”
“It is.”
“Who will you take with you on your prince heist?”
“Just Ydra.”
“Are you certain? Even the lowliest of noblewomen are permitted a retinue of three guards.”
“The fewer the better. I will prove myself.”
Lemya pulled Olerra into her warm embrace before kissing the top of her head. “You have nothing to prove to me, niece. I love you no matter what. You know that, right?”
“I do.”
“You must do this only if you wish to rule. If you don’t—”
“I do wish it.”
“Very well.” Lemya was silent for a moment. “You needn’t marry the Brute right away. The five hundredth anniversary of the Goddess’s Gift is approaching. What better way to celebrate than with a royal wedding?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“That’ll give you three months to break him once he’s on our soil.”
“Child’s play,” Olerra said.
“Let me know what resources you need and they’re yours. Otherwise, happy hunting.”
Olerra cracked her knuckles as she left the queen’s quarters. It was 30the only thing she could do to get her attention off the sensation of her sinking stomach.
There was a reason she’d put off courting men for so long. A reason why she was still a virgin.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want a man. She’d felt a yearning for a man for the first time when she was thirteen. That yearning only grew stronger the older she became, but she’d resisted her impulses because it was the only way to keep her secret.
All women in Amarra could use the magic of the goddess to keep men in line.
All of them except Olerra.
As eager as Olerra was to see Ydra again, she needed to visit her cousin first. Politics weren’t as natural to her as they were to Glenaerys, but Olerra knew when a good brag was in order.
Olerra made the trek to Glen’s wing of the palace. Glen had many estates throughout Amarra, but she spent most of her time here, working and gaining the support of the courtiers.
When Olerra arrived, she walked into a private auction, happening right in the middle of the main greeting chamber.
There were two ways in which noble Amarrans found their men: They stole them from neighboring kingdoms or bought them from the common classes of their own people. While Olerra was determined to do the former like her mother before her, Glen employed the latter tactic.
While kidnapping men was a centuries-long tradition that many families participated in, it had become more common in the past ten years. A decade ago, the noblemen of Amarra, led by the queen’s 31brother (Glenaerys’s father), staged a coup against the matriarchy and lost. As punishment, they forfeited their lives and those of their eldest sons. Now the only males of noble birth were children.
Which meant that noblewomen had to steal noble husbands from other kingdoms. Men could be bought for harems, but the royals, like Olerra, needed to be able to claim their daughters had noble blood for succession.
Her cousin, Glenaerys, older by three months, didn’t have a husband despite also being differre. Her harem was thirty strong already, but they were all commoners. Pretty commoners, but peasants all the same. Glen didn’t have Olerra’s brawn, which was why Olerra suspected she had yet to hunt down a husband of her own. The Goddess’s Gift may have given her an edge, but fighting didn’t come naturally to Glen the way it did to Olerra—not that that stopped her from being too rough with her men.
There were five groups of people standing in the chamber. The first was a woman and sire standing behind a young man who must have just turned eighteen and didn’t have terribly much going for him. He was lean, clearly underfed, though maybe that could be helped over time with generous meals. Glen stepped up to him.
“Stick out your tongue,” she instructed.
He did so.
“Is that as far as it goes?” she inquired.
The mother gave her son an encouraging motion with her hands. Go on, it said. The boy extended his tongue farther.
“I assure you no woman has bedded my Armandis,” the mother explained. “I hear you prefer virgins.”
“Hmm” was all Glen said.
She stepped up to the next group. The man in front was more handsome than the first. Glen inspected his hands carefully. 32
“He keeps his nails well-trimmed,” the mother of this one said. “You won’t find a cleaner man around than Issan.”
“I have servants who prepare my men for pleasure activities,” Glen said haughtily. “He won’t need to worry about his own upkeep. Flex for me now.”
Issan bent his elbow, showing off an impressive bicep.
“Hmm,” Glen said again, and moved on.
The men grew more and more handsome down the line. When she reached the last pairing, a sire and his son, she had to look down rather than up to inspect her potential purchase. The boy couldn’t be older than fourteen.
