Dezo, king of Steza, had "expand the empire" etched so deep into his skull it probably glowed at night. Dropping a million bear-riding Denefremim warriors into Fien's lap wasn't an act of brotherhood; it was a long con. She was just another piece on the board—one he figured he could yank off whenever the mood hit.
The plan was simple; let her smash a path to Dalab, then swoop in later, grab every new acre under the polite banner of "shared victory." Clean. Clinical. Very Dezo.
What he never penciled into the margins was how fast loyalty melts once Fien turns that lethal charm to full blast. The seven commanders he loaned out were supposed to act like a hidden spine—send regular raven scrolls, leak her plans, slit a throat if she got uppity. Six of them kept the program. The seventh—Geleam—got hopelessly, stupidly, head-over-bear-paws obsessed.
Credit Shæz for that. She clocked Geleam's crush a mile away and whispered the obvious play: "Let him think he owns a piece of you. A man guarding his own heart fights harder than any paycheck." Fien didn't need to be asked twice. Opportunity knocked the night before fighting Mesa, Fien opened the door—and the bedroom in the name of war traditions. That unforgettable sweat-soaked night in the command tent—no witnesses, lots of creative positions, exactly the kind of memory that rewires a soldier's purpose. By dawn the guy would've body-blocked a meteor for her. Geleam was essentially branded property of Queen Fien,
Now every "secret" dispatch Dezo expected? Dead on arrival. Geleam kept them tucked under his armor like love notes. Worse—he started feeding her the real plan: how Dezo planned to call the army home the moment Dalab's gates cracked, leaving Fien overextended and easy pickings. He swore he'd crash the sabotage himself if she just said the word. Fien didn't even blink. "Hold that thought until I ask," she purred, and Geleam metaphorically carved FIEN 4EVER on his helmet.
At first light they rolled out of Mela like a biker gang at Sturgis—Shæz up front on her white stallion, Gulutel hulking beside her on that nightmare of a black bear, a five-hundred-strong centaur posse clopping along in formation. Behind them thundered the bear brigade: shaggy brown tanks mixed with sleek black chargers, each one snorting steam like a busted radiator.
Fien wanted every last spear in the city, but Shæz talked her down. "Only the volunteers, Your Majesty. Dragging conscripts is how you get stabbed in your sleep." So the fence-sitters stayed home, and the ride-or-die crowd saddled up. Dalab sat a week's march ahead—assuming no flash floods, ambushes, or Fien's infamous "ooh, shiny ruin, let's explore" detours.
General Geleam couldn't keep his eyes off the queen. Armor catching sunrise, hair whipping in the wind—she looked less like a monarch and more like a prophecy with great cheekbones. Every time she tossed him a casual smile, the poor guy nearly steered his bear into a tree.
Night draped over the camp like a busted tarp—full of holes, letting moonlight leak onto a patchwork city of tents and snoring bears. The whole column was wiped; even the war-drums were yawning. Shæz ducked through the canvas flaps of the queen's pavilion just in time to pass Gulutel on the way out. The big guy—seven-foot brick of muscle, smelled faintly of pine tar and murder—leaned down, kissed her forehead like a favorite cousin, and lumbered off toward the bear lines as she entered.
Shæz smirked. "Please tell me you did not just jump Gulutel's bones. huh?."
From deeper inside: a laugh, low and lazy. "Relax. The man popped in while I was still shaving. He wanted to tell me something I think "
Shæz arched a brow. "You? Shaving? Since when do you—"
Fien emerged from the inner alcove, gloriously, recklessly naked—skin still dewy from bath water, hair up in a messy knot, razor in hand like a tiny silver dagger. "Since battlefield sand started exfoliating places sand should never exfoliate," she said, giving her hips a playful shake. "Anyway, sit. I have show-and-tell."
Shæz dropped onto a pile of cushions. "Before you whip out more artifacts … serious question. What's your body count at this point?"
Fien's grin went full shark. "Sweetheart, how old are you again?"
"Twenty five."
"Cool. Then I've slept with a man for every single sunrise you've seen. Plus weekend double-headers." She grabbed a wineskin, took a gulp, tossed it over. "Hydrate. You'll need it."
Outside, the rest of Steza's brass were holding a hush-hush pow-wow behind the cook tents. Six generals, no Geleam—conspicuously absent. They muttered about troop morale, supply lines, and whether Fien had gotten too chummy with their lovesick comrade. Paranoia floated over that little circle like campfire smoke.
Just then Gulutel rumbled past on his midnight-black bear, not even sparing them a glance. The generals froze, watching the giant fade into darkness.
Back inside, Fien knelt beside her travel chest and flipped open a hidden panel. "Remember that 'extra insurance' I told you I swiped from Dezo's vault before we rolled out?"
Shæz leaned forward. "The obsidian disc that hums when liars talk?"
"Uh-uh." Fien lifted a small velvet bundle, unwrapped it—boom: a dagger forged from translucent blue glace-steel, runes pulsing like club lights. "This little diva used to sit on the Altar of Oaths in the Capital. Cut someone with it, and any vow they make is soul-binding. Break the promise, you bleed from the cut till you die. Dramatic, right?"
Shæz whistled jokingly. "So … you planning to stick that in Geleam when he starts stammering love sonnets?"
"Maybe." Fien's smile went mischievous-soft. "Or maybe I'll stick it in Gideon when we finally meet, make that sneaky bastard swear real fealty. Haven't decided."
Shæz chuckled, but her eyes were doing math. "Fien, power toys like that attract attention. If the Setrums get wind—"
"Setrums can choke on their own halos." Fien re-sheathed the blade. "We play our game, on our terms."
From the door-flap, a shadow shifted—Geleam himself, dusty from a late patrol, caught half the conversation. He cleared his throat. "Majesty? Shæz. Scouts saw torchlight on the eastern ridge. Could be the hunters."
Fien's gaze lingered on him, wicked and fond all at once. "Thanks, General. Post double sentries. Then grab some sleep; dawn's going to suck."
He nodded, but those eyes—yeah, utterly captured. He ducked out.
Shæz exhaled. "We've got him, you know?"
"I'm aware." Fien stretched, utterly unapologetic in her naked power. "Chess pieces, sister. Some are pawns, some are queens. I just happen to enjoy playing both."
Outside, the generals' meeting hit a tense crescendo. Inside, the queen and her adviser clinked wine cups, plotting the next seven moves while the camp dreamed of tomorrow's march. Somewhere out beyond the firelight, Gulutel's bear growled at the night, as if warning the dark itself. He was riding in I've-got-no-time kind of mood to a place he didn't even know.