The Fiera Princess: Inamorata, #1

PROLOGUE

Grandmother Clara waits at the front of her captive crowd, studying us with the same amount of awe that we return in our hungry gazes. She looks out at us, thousands of us, and shows off low-hanging jowls, but shrewd eyes of fiery copper, as youthful now as the day she was born. Her softening, rounded body makes her appear old and frail, but she’s arguably the most successful warrior in the history of our people.

Our world is over three million years old. Her voice is sharp, cutting, and a direct contrast to her elderly appearance. The Luméa Empire—though of course, we were named something else in that time—grew from nothing. Just a speck in the universe. We nurtured, we built, we fell in love, we repeated our peaceful cycle and prospered for many years.

My grandmother sits at the head of the royal table with her trusted counsel, while the rest of us spread out on the grassy knoll. Grandmother Clara, the Queen Mother, turned Queen again, of Luméa is now more than four hundred years old. Wife and inamorata—soulmate—of my late grandfather, King Jacques, she’s the oldest Lumé to still walk our land in good health.

Our people can live for a half millennium and beyond. We’re hardy, us Lumé, but in the year 4590, just four hundred years ago, our world was torn apart, and millions of our own paid the ultimate price.

A small boy sitting toward the front of the crowd thrusts his hand in the air and wiggles from excitement. Tell us how you fought, Grandmother Clara. Please tell us!

She’s not his grandmother by blood, as she is mine, but our youth call her the same thing. We’re family—all of us. This includes my best friend, who sits beside me, leaning his shoulder on mine, and chuckles.

We do this every single year. On the eve of the anniversary of the great battle between the Lumé and the Xeo, our people meet under the light of the moon to celebrate those who survived, and remember those who did not. Though the numbers to mourn are far greater than those to celebrate, what was once a terrifying and tragic time for our people has now become a cause for storytelling, a legend of exciting adventure.

Grandmother Clara humors the boy, flashing a kind smile even as his mother shushes him in a panic. Our youth call her grandmother, but those of us old enough to know better call her Queen. She is formidable but fair in leadership; she’s had to be, to pull us out of the great war in one piece.

I’ve missed you at commons this week, Enzo, she tells him. It’s so good to see you.

Enzo practically vibrates in his mother’s lap, tremoring from the excitement of being spoken to directly by the Queen.

He’s been unwell. Enzo’s mother shyly clears her throat. With the fever.

But you’re well now, Enzo?

Quite well, his mother answers for him once more. He was very excited for tonight. I’m sure it spurred on his recovery.

Grandmother Clara gives an indulgent smile, then her eyes come back to her audience and take us all in with pride. Her people. Her legacy. Hers to protect.

Her fiery eyes find mine amongst the thick crowd, pause for a moment and sparkle, then they continue on. I will tell you of my time in battle, but to tell that story, I must first tell you another. She looks toward Enzo and winks, then she looks back to us, slips off her friendly grandmother hat, and replaces it with the one of the leader of our world.

King Alexander, my father⁠—

Without prompting, every man, woman and child sitting below the stars bows their heads in remembrance.

King Alexander, she continues, "was a great warrior. He fought in two wars in his time, the second taking his life before it even began. When he was but forty-five years young, he fought in a minor battle for power in the west quadrant of our lands. The Udens wanted the throne, and they fought hard for it.

They led King Alexander toward an ambush. Half of his soldiers were willing to put their life down for him—and they did, she adds solemnly. Many died protecting their king. The other half were enemies in sheep’s clothing. She scans our crowd to emphasize her point, as though she suspects some of us may be the enemy. Though of course we’re not.

We’re wiser now, and we’ve weeded out the bad.

King Alexander survived that battle. He was young and stout. He was an amazing warrior, strong and true, because our Royal Family does not become lazy or complacent. We train harder than our soldiers. We are the strongest of all we lead. She smirks and adds, It is in our blood.

Clara’s eyes move around the darkened area, lit only by torches in the trees and fairy lights in the sky. We live in peace now, but three hundred years after defeating the Udens and maintaining power, we were thrust into war again when King Alexander was deceived in the worst of all ways. At just three hundred and seventy-two years old—older than all of you, but not so very old for our people… he was still strong, and he was in love. Grandmother Clara sighs with longing. Sadness. "He was betrayed, and his inamorata, my mother, murdered.

King Alexander trusted his best friend. She sets aside the sadness and longing in her voice, and presents us once more with rage, leadership, and the part of her still bent on revenge. Mannix Noble, she spits out. The most powerful Xeo warrior to ever live. Alexander trusted Mannix with Katarina’s safety while he was away.

Clara gestures to her left and smiles. My brother Akin and I were just children. Too small to know our father was gone from home. Alexander explored the new world and studied the beasts of the in-between for just two hundred and seventeen days—such a short span of time for our people—and when he returned, the men were in disagreement about our people’s future. Alexander was king, it was his decision, but Mannix was his most trusted advisor. When Alexander refused his counsel, Mannix flew into a fit of rage and killed Alexander’s inamorata, his soulmate. She studies the grass when her voice crackles.

Our crowd mutter their condolences all over again as we think of our great-grandmother Katarina.

It’s said that I’m her lookalike. Katarina, Clara, my mother, and I share the same copper eyes and long, dark brown hair stretching toward our elbows—though Clara’s is shorter nowadays, for ease and comfort.

King Alexander married Katarina when they were no more than thirty years old, my grandmother continues when she’s able. Unlike Mannix, whose marriage was arranged to create stronger ties with the east, Alexander and Katarina married for love. They had more than three hundred years of happiness together. Pausing and studying the glass of liquid resting on the table in front of her, Clara takes a sip, leaving her crowd hanging on tenterhooks before continuing on.

This is a story she tells every single year, a telling she perfected long ago for full dramatic effect.

"As we all know, the Lumé mature as humans do until our fortieth birthday, then our bodies stop aging, though our minds and hearts continue to grow and learn. We’re frozen in time in the prime of our lives, and there we stay until we reach three hundred and fifty years outside the womb. Then our final hundred and fifty years is a slow and peaceful progression into seniority.

A woman can choose to have children at any point from her eighteenth year to her three hundred and fiftieth, as we can conceive and carry children easily. Clara looks to me with eyes glossed with sadness as she clarifies, The danger lies in delivering them. Not all births are successful, and that is the very reason most of you are single children, or have only one other sibling. It is just too dangerous for us.

Roman DeLuca’s hand closes around mine and squeezes until I smile in thanks.

Rome is my best friend. We’ve grown up together, known each other since his mother moved into our estate when she was pregnant and in need of work and stability. Laura DeLuca became my official nanny when my mother passed during childbirth, and a mere couple months after that, Rome was born and became my most constant and beloved companion.

He would lay his life down for me, and I’d do the same for him without pause.

"Alexander and Katarina were blessed with two children; since the crown passes down through the womb, Katarina held the power of the throne in her blood, despite Alexander being king. So when their small children, Akin and I, were discovered in the large, stone castle, hungry and alone and wondering where their parents were, a battle for power began.

"Mannix was Alexander’s strongest warrior, and the Xeo were Alexander’s most powerful army, but Mannix had trained them, so for some, their loyalties lie with Mannix instead of their king.

"One Lumé soldier discovered Mannix cowering in an alcove, close to death and cowardly hiding from his crimes, and slit the advisor’s throat in hopes of ending the war and restoring order—but in retaliation, one of Mannix’s men rose and took the king’s head, thus sparking the Great War.

"The fifty years that followed were spent in a constant state of upheaval. For years, millions of soldiers fought without direction. Death was bloody, carnage surrounded us, and it was all made worse because no one would—no one could—lead. Confusion abounded, and all four quadrants joined the battle. The Uden and Zeme had not previously been involved, but they were scared, they didn’t know what else to do.

"Each quarter—the Uden from the west, and the Zeme from the east—brought what small army they had. The Xeo—Mannix’s men—moved down from the north, so once our Lumé migrated up, the Great War became a world war that swallowed many lives and left men bleeding and dying in the in-between.

No one knew who was fighting who. Clara looks to the sky. "There was no trust between soldiers, not even between those who considered themselves brothers in arms. Especially not them. Because if Alexander and Mannix could turn on each other, that meant no friendship was safe.

"Akin and I reached maturity during that war, and as soon as we were old enough, we became soldiers. We might have been the angriest of them all. Our mother and father had been murdered… though of course, the murderer was long dead; there was no one left for us to demand retribution.

"As a united front, and possibly the only two soldiers who truly trusted each other, Akin and I fought to restore peace for more than a decade, and using every power and tool within our reach, we finally contained the carnage. Allegiances were forged, and lines slowly but surely drawn.

But before we became these soldiers, during our training years, Akin discovered his element. His ability to move and manipulate the air was a welcome weapon in our arsenal.

Enzo’s wiggling increases as Clara’s story weaves through the night. Show us your fire, Grandmother! Please show us your fire.

Clara smiles that same indulgent smile from earlier, then with the subtlest flick of her wrist, flames crawl like fingers along the grass, closer to the boy as he giggles with delight.

Power pulses through my body. I feel her fire just as surely as if it were coming from my fingers.

Our people possess one of the four elements, Clara explains in that same storytelling mode, even as she playfully taunts Enzo with her safely contained flames. Wind, water, earth, and fire. For the most part, the Uden control wind, the Zeme control the earth. The Xeo control water, and we, the Lumé control fire. There are, of course, strengths. She flicks her wrist so a ball of flame shoots into the sky, explodes like fireworks, then sprinkles tiny embers toward the ground until they fade into nothingness. "Most of our people can create a small flame, enough for visibility or to start a campfire. Then there are the crossovers, when a member of one quadrant mates with another—as when Mannix from the north married Phillipa from the east. Powers can mix, they evolve, they’re fluid and adaptable.

There is one single exception in every generation, she continues. An exception made only by blood. There is no voting system, no lucky draw. There is no bribe big enough to buy the power. It was written in the stars a million years before any of us were born. Queen Katarina, then myself, then the late Queen… and now, her daughter… we all possess the power.

Rome squeezes my hand again, then he leans in and lays a gentle kiss on my temple before helping me stand.

This is my part of the story.

Clara beckons her flames back as I move through the lounging crowd, careful not to step on children or fingers as I approach my grandmother.

She takes my hand when Roman releases me, and smiles in that adoring way I’ve known since infancy. Today marks my granddaughter’s eighteenth year outside the womb.

The crowd vibrates with excitement at her announcement. These people know me, of course. I grew up beside them all, learning with them, training with them, partying and playing with them.

But today, everything changes.

Clara turns so we stand toe to toe, then she takes my other hand in hers. Tallulah Aurelia Della Katarina King, the Lumés’ twelfth-generation Fiera princess… She looks into the crowd with gleeful eyes. She comes of age today.

Clapping and cheers erupt from the crowd surrounding us. The attention makes my palms sweat and my stomach jolt, but I release one of Clara’s hands and turn to face my people.

I have a part to play, a role I must accept.

My name is Tully King, and at eighteen years old, I become the newest recruit of the Lumé army. When I’m ready, when Clara steps down, I’ll become the new leader of my people. I’ll become their queen. Tomorrow, I begin honing my skills, learning to control my fire as skillfully as Grandmother Clara does hers.

And when it’s time, my job is to track down any living descendants of Mannix and Phillipa Noble… and assassinate them before they assassinate me.

1

TULLY

TULLY IN TRAINING

7 years later

G et up! Go again!

Bodies grunt and slam around me as warriors train for a battle that may never actualize. I clamor for air, drag it through my tightened chest, and hate the fact I’m struggling when the fighting is fake.

How can I win a real war, a real life-or-death fight, if sparring on my own land reduces me to this?

We enter our fourth consecutive hour of physical training for today, the final hour before we take a break, as my hair, long and curling from sweat and humidity, sticks to my forehead and dangles in my eyes. Heaving for breath, I swipe an arm across my brow to relieve the annoyance, but all I manage is to transfer sweat and make it worse. Shit.

Janson, the general training the Lumé army, crouches down until we’re eye to eye, then he screams so loud that my ears ring. Get up, King! His face burns red from anger, the throbbing vein in his forehead threatening to burst, and spittle flies from his mouth, narrowly missing my flesh and landing on my already sweat-soaked shirt. Get up or die!

I just need a sec, sir. My chest lifts and falls, searching for life, desperate for air. Just a sec.

No. You. Don’t! His eyes stretch impossibly wide. "You are the Fiera princess, but all I see on these training fields, day after day, is a spoiled princess. Where’s your fire, little girl? Not feeling it today?"

I feel the fire inside my gut, I feel it in my core as it spreads and burns. When my power manifests as a living, breathing thing on the outside, I’m able to control it any way I want. Janson knows I have the fire. I’m the best Fiera since Grandmother Clara. I’ve worked hard this week, I pant. I just need a sec. I’ve taken on double dut–

You gonna tell that to the Xeo when they corner you? he roars. You gonna tell them you’re tired from doubles, so they shouldn’t slice your throat open when they catch you?

No, bu⁠—

No! he shouts. End of story.

A familiar pair of military-supplied training boots step in to my peripheral vision on my right.

We—the Lumé army—wear the same boots, the same pants, the same shirts. We wear a uniform, because we’re one, and to build on our unity, we’re all equals. We wear the same clothes while training, men and women alike, and we train equally. There are no handicaps for the women; there is no record of the men’s strongest lift versus women’s. There’s no prize for the fastest man and the fastest woman. There is simply the fastest Lumé. The strongest Lumé. The smartest Lumé.

The shoes that approach now are only recognizable because of the scorch mark at the top right at the very tip, where I accidentally attacked my best friend when he was kind enough to volunteer as my guinea pig.

General, Roman grumbles in his deep, gravelly voice. He’s a man now, tall and strong. My eternal knight in shining armor.

When he stops beside us, I push tall and clutch my hips, breathing through the ache in my lungs. If I’m going to be the damsel, I’ll damn well play the part with my chin high and proud.

Tully’s been on doubles for weeks, my knight explains. He’s as predictable to me as the sun rising in the east. Clara wants her to work on her fire, not hand-to-hand combat.

Janson turns and stares at Rome with the silence a mountain cat possesses seconds before he pounces. Clara wants her to live, right?

Well—

Our sweet little princess won’t have fire to use if she’s dead.

Rome’s eyes darken. Janson⁠—

Mikey! Janson glances across the field, past my friends and soldiers who fight amongst themselves, as they roll on the ground in an attempt to lock and subdue, or as they stand and attack.

At his shout, his second-in-command jumps to his feet and locks eyes with his commander. They communicate without words for a beat, then Mikey nods, bumps fists with his sparring partner, and breaks away, sprinting across the field toward us.

Yeah, General?

Roman sighs in defeat.

DeLuca just volunteered for the gauntlet.

Sir—

Get him started on ground-and-pound. Full gauntlet, but don’t pass him along in the round robin. I want you and him one-on-one today. No one else.

Yes, sir. Let’s go, Rome.

I stretch my pinky out and brush it along the top of his hand in apology just a second before he’s forced away from our spot on the crest of the hilly field, then I sigh and look at my trainer.

There goes your white knight, Princess.

Sir, he didn’t mean⁠—

He did, Tully. He meant to save you from the big bad general. His tone softens, and that hard-ass drill sergeant act he loves so much is pushed aside for the friend I know he is beneath. He’s doing you no favors when he doesn’t let you work out here. I’m okay being the dragon in his eyes, because your survival is more important to me than his friendship. You’re the last living heir to the throne, Tully. You’re Clara’s successor. He claps me on the shoulder and knocks me forward a step. You’ll thank me someday. Now get moving, give me twenty laps.

Janson!

His eyes flash with anger. He’s a friend, yes, but a military trainer too, and insubordination is worse to him than a cheating wife. Good idea. Thirty. Go.

Goddammit.

I sprint away before he adds more, and skid down the steep edge of the hill until I reach the flat that has been worn from recruits running the same punishment for thousands of years. Even my great-grandfather Alexander and his former best friend Mannix Noble ran this track once upon a time.

Sweat continues to dribble along my spine. My hair flops into my eyes, and my breath is still difficult to come by, but my small break while arguing with Janson achieved exactly what I’d hoped it would—well, except the part where I got my best friend partnered with Mikey the Giant.

I got a minute to breathe.

It’s not that I’m lazy. I’m literally exhausted. I have, in fact, been running doubles lately, even triples. It’s barely past eight on a blistering hot August morning, and we’ve already been at this for more than three hours. I finished my rounds after ten last night, and despite the sun being long gone for the day, the air was still thick, so it felt like I was breathing water and running through glue.

I. Am. Tired.

A typical recruit’s day comprises a four-hour set in the morning before breakfast; cardio, combat, weapons training. There are a billion other things Janson likes to torture us with that he weaves into training when we’re at our weakest, when he wants to test our endurance.

We cannot grow if we don’t break that ceiling and keep pushing. Then, when we scale that newfound level, we break through to the next.

I might hate Janson twenty-three hours of the day, but he creates warriors. There is no army in the universe as strong as ours—and that’s quite the feat, considering the Xeo were our army, and we had to rebuild when Mannix betrayed Alexander.

After that first block of physical training in the morning, we get an hour in the common hall for breakfast, then we move across the military-type campus for group lessons specializing in our element. Our Royal Council consists of elders who specialize in each of the elements, and though some specialties aren’t as common as others in the Lumé quadrant, we still have a handful of each—a result of an intermingling population.

Three of our four quadrants are in a peaceful time. This makes the Xeo our universal enemy, the common target we all vow to destroy.

King Alexander was beloved. A fair king.

Mannix doomed his people with his actions.

After another hour for lunch in the commons, we head back across campus for more combat training and gauntlet-style sparring. A regular recruit’s day will end with a lesson on less used but equally important skills such as tracking, camping, and foraging. We’re taught how to follow the lightest footstep in the dirt, to recognize a broken twig where it shouldn’t be. We learn how to set up camp with nothing more than our wits and what nature has to offer, and those who cannot control fire are taught how to create it the old-fashioned way: with sticks and a little muscle.

That’s a typical recruit’s day.

But I’m special enough to have extra lessons; How To Be A Queen 101. Sitting, standing, eating, dressing, walking; all skills I’ve been taught since infancy, skills a queen must master to a standard higher than regular people. I’ve been educated on the history of our people, much the same as it’s taught in schools, but perhaps a little bloodier, a little less child-friendly. It’s possible I get that version to ensure I’m angry enough to lead our people to victory. As future queen, I’m taught how to orchestrate an army’s movements. I’m taught tactical warfare, and how to think under pressure. I’m taught how to brew potions—both the healing kind, and those that poison.

Training to lead your own army doesn’t come easily. And with my extra training on top of the minimum expected of any recruit, I simply don’t have enough hours in the day to progress as far or as quickly as I would like. I’m strong… but I’m not strong enough. I’m fast, but not faster than Janson. I’m smart, but I still have so much to learn.

Our army has a standard to maintain. To be the elite, we must be physically strong, we must possess seamless control of our element—so seamless we don’t even have to think about it, it simply becomes an extension of our body—and we must be so well-versed in our people’s history that when the day eventually arrives I find myself face to face with a Xeo, I can educate him.

Then I can kill him.

Luméa has had many chances over the years to capture the Xeo, but every time we get close, the traitors slip through our guard as fluidly as the water they represent. We boast the best trackers of our land, and our strongest soldiers, the Death Warriors, challenge them. But our enemies are trained too. They haven’t forgotten their sins, and they know a new queen is in training. My reign as ruler of the Luméa Empire and its districts will be the Nobles’ final years.

I’m not there yet, but I’ve been training hard since my eighteenth birthday. I have a legacy to avenge and people to protect. I intend to keep my promises, which means the Nobles’ freedom in my world will end before I do.

A shouted grunt from over the hill snaps my mind back to my dragging feet.

I haven’t kept count of the laps I’ve run so far, but I can’t be more than fifteen in. The track circling the oval is long, and as part of the punishment, joggers are separated from the rest of the recruits by the hill. Solitary confinement at its best. My head hangs low to combat the stifling heat, and my knees ache each time my feet touch down on the uneven path.

Mercifully, the sound of rushing water filters through my sluggish mind.

Lifting my head, I find a steadily streaming waterfall that is definitely not normally there. I look over to my left, up the hill, and spot Rome standing with his hip cocked to the side and a silly smirk on his face. The sun isn’t high in the sky yet, so it’s low enough to sit behind him and give him an angelic appearance—though of course, I know better.

Roman DeLuca is no angel.

As though able to read my thoughts, he winks and flicks his wrist in my direction.

I’m still more than ten feet from the faux waterfall that stretches across the track, but Rome’s subtle action sends a stream splashing down over my face, soaking my hair with blissfully cool water, and rejuvenating my slack mind and body.

DeLuca! Get back to work!

Rome looks over his shoulder at Janson’s shouted words, then back to me. With a second flick of his wrist, more water splashes over me and dribbles down into my shoes, only to disappear as he turns away and my running track becomes clear once again.

I just know he’s going to have to do more rounds because of that.

Worth it.

Hey there, babycakes. Fancy seeing you here. Rome flops down on the bench beside me, bringing with him his exclusive Roman scent of the woods, dirt, and trouble, only to be punctuated when his broad shoulders bump mine as he settles close. Missed you today.

Yeah? I turn toward him with the energy I lacked while running, cock my arm back, and slam my fist down on his shoulder. You sure?

"Argh! He whips a hand up and massages the sore spot. What the hell, Tully?"

I smile and turn back to my food. I don’t need you to save me, Roman DeLuca. I’m no princess.

Well, actually… He chuckles and continues to rub his arm. "There’s a reason people around here call you the princess, Princess. ‘Cause, ya know, you are one."

I shake my head and scoop up the heaping burger leaking all over my lunch tray. I might hold the title, Rome, but I don’t need you to save me. I take a large bite and groan as flavors burst over my tongue.

I’m so ridiculously hungry, I would’ve eaten the cow whole if the burger wasn’t already assembled when I got here.

Rome rests muscled arms on the table in front of his large body—a body that finally caught up to the size of his giant feet around his seventeenth birthday. He was a scrawny kid, a beanstalk who weighed less than I did, despite being taller, then boom, the guy turned seventeen, his appetite went wild, and he finally grew into the man he was always destined to be.

Over six feet tall, long limbs and meaty hands… His eyes sparkle a shimmering green, and his lips sit in an almost permanent pout. He’s practically my brother, but I can’t deny, the way he wears his brown hair cropped short and tight, and the way his lips are almost always lifted into a troublemaking smirk—Roman DeLuca is handsome.

Well… He lets the word roll out when he catches me looking. What if I enjoy it?

A heavy tray smacks against our metal lunch table and brings my gaze up with a startled snap.

Kaliope, known to us as Kali, is a hard-ass, six-foot-tall, hand-to-hand combat warrior-in-training who I rarely enjoy partnering against, but she’s also my friend. Now, her green eyes—much like Rome’s—meet ours. What do you enjoy?

Making herself comfortable and pushing blonde dreadlocks back over her shoulder, she tilts her head when Rome doesn’t answer, then looks to me. Missed you today, Tully.

Ugh. Just thinking about how I spent my morning makes my calves ache. Janson was pissy and figured I wanted an extra thirty laps on the track.

You’ll be back on drills this afternoon, right? She studies her burger with a scowl, only for her voice to turn whiney. I hate when they pair me up with the bitches, Tull. They don’t fight, they pull hair.

I laugh at her pout because she’s big and bad and makes me ache every single day we’re paired, but then Rome leans into me, picks a fry off my tray, and winks when my eyes whip to his.

Thanks, Princess.

Don’t eat my damn food, I snarl. Men have died for less.

Laughing, he snags another and turns back to Kali. Hair-pulling is just so… He shakes his head. It’s embarrassing. We’re training to defend the free world, and this is what’s going on during drills?

I’m not the hair-puller! she complains. I’m the hair-pullee. The follicly challenged. I’m the damn victim, Rome.

I scoff and