Page 47 of What Fury Brings (Wrath and Fury #1)

The blade at Sanos’s throat was abruptly wrenched away, and Olerra spun him in place. She swept her eyes over him in a look that was so possessive it was making his blood heat.

“You listen to me, and you listen well,” she said. “I don’t give a fuck what your name is.”

His eyes widened.

“You’re mine,” she continued. “I claim you, and I choose you. And while you’re going to spend forever making this up to me, there is no way I’m giving you back over to that tyrant. I made you a promise. He would never hurt you again. I’m keeping it.”

Hope rooted in his chest as she spun him back around. He had no idea how there could be a way through this, and she had already started speaking to his father again before he could ask.

“We both want to avoid war, Atalius, so I’ll tell you what. You want your heir? I’ll fight you for him. Single combat.”

Sanos reached back for her, as though he could stop the words she’d already said. The queen was turning toward them, clearly surprised by this turn of events. Good, maybe she can stop this madness.

No one faced his father and lived.

The king’s advisers swept forward, ready with more opinions on the matter. Atalius shooed them all away with a single flick of his wrist.

The grin he shot Sanos froze his blood.

“Deal.”

Sanos spun around on his own this time, heedless of whatever act he was supposed to be putting on. “What are you doing?”

“I just said what I was doing.”

“You can’t fight him. Let me fight him.”

Olerra smiled, clearly touched by his offer. “This is a fight over you, Prince. You can’t fight it. Besides, you said you couldn’t beat him. I can.”

He took her hands in his. “It’s not that I don’t believe in you. It’s him. He’s too good. I will not have you die for me.”

“Yes,” the queen interjected. “I will not have you dying for him, either.”

“I will not die,” Olerra said. “Trust me. I can do this. It will solve all our problems.”

Sanos didn’t know what other meaning Olerra was hinting at, and he didn’t care. He needed her safe. Sanos prayed to his god that the queen would put a stop to this. If Olerra wouldn’t listen to him, surely she would listen to her aunt.

“I trust you,” the queen said at last. “Do what needs to be done.”

“No!” Sanos said.

Olerra removed her hands from his and gripped him by the upper arms. Her right hand covered the armband.

“I know you want to kill him. I know he has been tormenting you for years. I don’t know the extent of your suffering, but I know this: I will end it.

If you were to kill him publicly like this, fighting for the Amarrans, you’d have no hope of becoming the next king.

You’ve spent your whole life protecting others. Now let me protect you.”

“How am I supposed to become king and be with you?”

“ Trust me.”

He didn’t want to. He wanted to rage and tie her up and hide her somewhere his father would never find her again. Sanos was a warrior. He’d been trained all his life to fight, to withstand physical torture. To lead and strategize.

He didn’t know how to let another fight his battles. He didn’t know how to stand by and do nothing.

But he realized that if there was any hope for their future, he had to fight for them, too.

By doing nothing.

By supporting her, believing in her when he didn’t even know the full extent of her plan.

It nearly killed him, but he said, “All right.”

The gates were opened, and Sanos remained standing between the queen and Ydra as Olerra strode between the two armies alone.

He eyed her best friend, looking for some hint of concern or worry, but Ydra seemed perfectly relaxed.

Did she know who the better fighter was?

Had she seen his father in combat? Was she at any of those battles in Shamire?

As Olerra’s second-in-command, she might have been required to stay behind and lead the forces here.

An overseer announced that the king and Olerra could each bring in two weapons. Sanos knew that meant his father would bring the Kingsword, a weapon passed down from father to son for generations, and a dagger, sheathed at his side.

Olerra brought in what she always wore, a sword and the whipblade.

He was regretting giving her his support. Losing her would destroy him, and losing her to his father would end him entirely.

Atalius said loudly, “I would tell you to leave the goddess’s power out of this fight, since you’ve already got two weapons at your side, but if the rumors are true, you don’t have a lick of magic in those veins.”

Olerra’s comeback was immediate. “I’ve lost count of the number of Brutes I’ve killed just fine without it.”

The retort was good, but Sanos could sense her fury from here. His father had struck precisely where it would do the most damage. How did he know already? If he’d had spies in the palace, then how did they not know he’d been taken sooner?

“To first blood?” the king asked.

“To the death,” Olerra amended.

Sanos closed his eyes, keeping his emotions in check.

I will do nothing. I will stand here and show my support.

When he opened his eyes again, he made the mistake of looking at Glenaerys. She and her mother were both grinning from ear to ear, as though this turn of events was better than they could have planned.

Olerra’s suggestion was met with a pause from the king, as though battling to the death hadn’t occurred to him.

“Something wrong?” Olerra asked the king as she stretched her arms.

“I thought we were meant to be preventing war. Will your soldiers not attack the moment I kill you?”

“The Amarrans will honor the outcome of the fight. The winner gets Sanos. No matter what happens, the Brutes return home peacefully. Do you agree?”

“Yes,” the king said, loud enough for his troops to hear. “To the death, then. Brutish laws of combat.”

“You’re still upset about that rock? Or was it what came afterward? I thought the nudity was a nice touch.”

“Brutish laws of combat,” he repeated more forcefully.

“Very well. I will only use the two weapons I have brought in with me. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“And no biting or hair pulling. No groin shots,” the king said, as though perhaps she was unfamiliar with the full laws of combat.

If Olerra was insulted, she didn’t show it. “Anything else?”

“No breaks or reprieves. No one interferes.”

“Done.”

They both drew their swords, and Sanos crossed his arms in an attempt to still his nerves.

The king and Olerra stood in a makeshift ring lined with torches, somewhere just outside the walls, between the two armies. History was being made right there, no matter who won. The air was thick with it, so thick Sanos could hardly breathe.

His father struck first, launching forward and swinging with bone-crushing strength. Olerra raised her sword in plenty of time, taking the full force of the strike. Her arm trembled from the weight of it, but she held.

Sanos was mesmerized by her strength. He almost didn’t believe it wasn’t goddess-given. His woman was strong all on her own. She was large and powerful and beautiful.

Perfect. She was perfect.

And that’s why he didn’t want her to fucking die.

Olerra threw off the attack and made one of her own, slicing downward. The king jumped back, and Olerra stepped up for another sweeping attack.

The way she moved was incredible. Her steps were precise.

Her movements were so fast, faster than his father’s.

Yet his strikes were more powerful; Sanos knew she felt the impact in her bones.

But she didn’t let up. She didn’t show any weakness save for that slight trembling, the pushing of her muscles to the brink.

Most bouts with the sword were quick, ending in two minutes or fewer.

But this one? With two rivals of such skill?

It went on and on and on. Olerra started to expend more energy to dodge the king’s strikes rather than catch them on her sword, avoiding the pain of that contact. It must have been weighing on her.

It meant she would tire out faster.

Yet the king was not as young as he used to be, and those powerful strikes were costing him.

Sanos could feel his heart in his throat. Sweat gathered on his skin, and it had nothing to do with the Amarran heat.

The misstep could have happened to anyone. It was not an official ring they fought within. Though the space had been cleared quickly, there were still rocks and debris on the well-traveled road to the main city gates.

Olerra stepped on uneven ground and swayed off-balance.

“Recover,” Ydra whispered beside him, and Sanos could only watch helplessly as his father drew first blood.

The cut was shallow, thanks to the light armor she wore. The stripe across her stomach could barely be seen from this distance.

But the red along the Kingsword flashed in the torchlight.

Olerra didn’t make a sound of pain, only looked down at the wound, as though surprised and unfamiliar with it.

“It’s not too late,” the king said. “I will let you renegotiate to the drawing of first blood and call this my win.”

“Not a chance,” Olerra said, slamming forward to knock the king off-kilter with the weight of her own body.

It was becoming harder and harder to think as Olerra’s body began to tire. She’d taken only the one injury, but it slowed her further. There was also no denying the fact that the more she watched the king fight, the more she had to admit—

He was superior with the sword. He knew it. He was putting on a show for his troops more than anything else. Letting this fight carry on to be something that bards would sing about for years to come. And prolonging Olerra’s defeat.

“I really don’t see how it took four battles before we finally caught you,” Olerra said. “You fight like an old man.”

The taunt cost her.

This time the slice took her on the side of the arm and went deeper than the first. Olerra drew in a breath of air, adjusting to the fresh pain. It was her sword arm, and it flared whenever she moved her muscles.

“And you fight like a girl who’s been playing pretend for years,” he said.