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I’m close enough that the sounds from the tent grow sufficiently loud to discern individual noises, the cacophony of drunken laughter, clinking goblets, and the rhythmic groan of bodies in motion separating out into distinct beats.

My jaw tightens despite my resolve. I’m far from ashamed or embarrassed by the nakedness of the bodies piled on one another. This sort of activity has been as common for me as swinging a sword or setting fire to a homestead. It doesn’t mean I have to take the excess lightly.

Because that’s what it is, pure and simple.

Inside the massive command tent, music and laughter drift over flickering torches, joined by the rhythmic groans and cries of those on the cusp of release.

Rugs of expensive weave and thread have been spread about to cover the filthy ground, though blood and worse has soaked through in places, the soldiers and courtiers in the throes of intimate pleasures ignoring what rises with single-minded focus.

All while my mother, Jhanette, queen of Heald, observes their activities, stretched across silk cushions on a raised dais just for her.

She’s shed her heavy armor, bare to a thin blanket draped over her hips, though her breasts are exposed, large and full, and being eagerly catered to by a pair of slim, enthusiastic young men.

I focus on her face, on her slitted eyes as she half-smiles, stroking their hair with her bloodstained hands.

Mother pauses, inhaling. Shudders and arches her back, long, black braid swinging free from the binding she’s contained it in for battle, the thick cable of it striking both men on the way past. And then she sags just a little, nostrils flaring before she reaches for a glass.

A delicate concubine surfaces from between my mother’s thighs, bows to her, and leaves as Mother waves her off.

I know she sees me. The queen takes her time, helping herself to a slice of fruit, refilling her glass as the young men sink to their haunches in front of her and stare at me with eager eyes.

“I’m happy to share,” she says, full lips languid, her offer the same one she makes every single time. As if I’d willingly join her and her naked lovers and courtiers celebrating in this ridiculous orgy of food, wine, and flesh.

Yes, ridiculous. She’s never satisfied with simple pleasure, my mother.

I shake my head, hoping she doesn’t see my lips purse as I fight to keep them steady.

The heat of the tent is already making me sweat, reminding me just how lovely it will be to bathe.

I clear my throat as someone groans and cries out right next to me.

Mother watches my reaction, and again, I hope she sees nothing I don’t want her to.

Flushed and feral, Mother shifts so the blanket falls away and is now clothed in nothing but the dried blood of her fallen foes, her silver goblet dangling from her fingers, crimson liquid inside sloshing like blood.

Of course, she’s drinking red wine. What else would she choose?

“My glorious daughter returns, victorious and still armored. By the fire, Remalla, my darling, must you always spoil my pleasure with that disapproving scowl?”

Am I scowling? I nod to her, choking on air thick with incense and arousal. “I haven’t had time to wash,” I say. “Knowing you’d be waiting for my report, that is.”

Mother laughs, low and sultry, and beckons with her ring-covered fingers.

A lithe man rises from my right and goes to her, kneeling in front of her.

She samples more fruit that she glides over his thickening shaft, teasing the tip until it glistens.

He groans and leans into the caress, but she stops before he can find satisfaction, popping the chunk of juicy flesh into her mouth.

“Very well,” she said, pushing him aside with lazy grace.

He falls into the arms of the two young men who proceed to finish what she started, their trio of moans the loudest in the tent, so loud Mother has to speak above them.

“You’ve won, as always. As we do, the warriors of Heald.

” She shouts that, and everyone who can cries out a cheer of response.

“Now, you celebrate. Or do you think you’re above pleasure, daughter? ”

The same conversation, as expected. Is this what Aunt was concerned about? “I prefer to do so in private. With my own people.” I glance at one of the women kneeling beside the wine basin. She’s flushed and dazed, her lower lip marked by a bite, her dark eyes hungry.

My mother waves dismissively, then crooks a finger, calling a servant to refill her cup.

“You’re so terribly prudish, Remi. You take after your father far more than I’d like.”

She so rarely speaks of him. In fact, she barely mentions my father. More, I’ve been prompted not to ask about him, even when she brings him up. What’s made her talk of him now? While the barb of that absence and lack of knowledge lands, I wish she’d go on.

Silly, I suppose, to long for anything about he who helped make me, the man I’ve never met nor have a name for.

She’s trying to get a rise out of me with words if she can’t with this lasciviousness. “I assume,” I say, “you summoned me for more than commentary on my choice of partners.”

Mother’s smile widens, grows predatory. “My darling daughter and heir,” she says.

“How to the point. And yes, if you’re unwilling to pause and enjoy the fruit of our labors.

” She turned and grasped a robe lying on the dais, sweeping it around her, closing in on me as she tied it loosely around her.

She towers over me by half a foot, her shoulders as big as any man’s.

But where she has brute force, Aunt has trained my body that is more like hers in whip-fast subtlety, and though there are times I wish for Mother’s mass, I’m grateful I know how to take advantage of my own strengths while knowing my weaknesses.

“You’re to ride within the week,” Mother says. “For the headland and Winderose.”

The capital? I’ve never been, have never had the need. What’s in the Overking’s court that could possibly be of interest to my mother, or me, for that matter?

She doesn’t wait for me to ask the obvious question.

Mother leans in and grins at me like a wolf ready to bite at the first wrong move, dark eyes watching me carefully.

“It’s my command, daughter and heir, that you wed the Overprince of Protoris and claim Heald’s place on the throne of the kingdom. ”

The room quiets. Even sounds of pleasure pause. Her words cut sharper than any blade I’ve ever held.

“No.” That word escapes before I can stop it.

I now know what Aunt was concerned about, why she encouraged me, this night of all nights, to stand up to my mother.

And it’s worse than I could have imagined.

Women of Heald don’t marry for politics.

We aren’t chattel to be traded like some other kingdoms. I am a free warrior, not a harlot to be paid out for power.

No. What is she thinking?

She lifts one heavy brow, almost eager. She’s anticipated this, of course. “No?”

I speak up for all to hear because if I’m going to stand a chance against her, I have to be heard. “I am a warrior. Not a broodmare for some silk-soft princeling.”

Mother stares without speaking, without responding. Waiting for me to crack. I know her ways, her methods. I hold my own stillness until she breaks it at last.

“You’ll do as I say,” she says. “You are Heald’s blade—your queen commands you.”

Around me, breath quickens again. The music resumes. A man groans. But I don’t absorb any of it any longer. My mother’s words ring louder than the moans around me. My life—my future—just changed forever.

And I have no idea what game she’s playing.

Anger, hot and fierce, ignites in my chest. My hands begin to tremble with the force of it, my emotions finally showing through despite myself, despite Aunt’s warning. How can my mother, who prides herself on independence and strength, make such a choice for me without my consent or consult?

“Mother,” I say, my voice low and shaking, struggling to keep it from rising to a shout. “I would speak to you privately.” My eyes meet hers, and for the first time, I don’t see my queen or my mother, but a cold, calculating strategist, a general who would sacrifice anything for victory.

But what war is she fighting now behind those dark eyes?

Mother’s gaze narrows slightly, her smile finally vanishing. The celebratory glint in them is replaced by something colder, sharper. She seems to weigh my request, to measure the audacity against her willingness to hear me.

Betrayal tastes like a battlefield that I can’t hope to survive, but I have to try.

“Very well,” she says. “But you won’t change my mind.”