Page 5 of What Fury Brings (Wrath and Fury #1)

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?”

“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 cunning 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.”

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 years 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 accident 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.

“The king has five sons. Why Andrastus?”