Chapter 4 Leo
LEO
Dawn breaks over the palace grounds in shades of pearl and gold, the ancient stones taking on an almost ethereal quality in the early light.
I’ve been awake for hours, unable to sleep with the weight of what’s to come pressing on my mind.
And, if I’m honest with myself, with memories of last night’s dinner—the press of Rangi’s knee against mine, the way his voice seemed to caress me.
Groaning, I spin away from the window to stride across my bedroom, searching for something—anything—to distract myself.
The sacred sites project means everything to our people. It is not just about the protection of our heritage, this project represents the preservation of who we are—the delicate balance of modern monarchy and ancient traditions. Kit may wear the crown, but this project... this is mine.
Today, at the fulquernah, we’ll begin mapping our sacred places, sharing stories that haven’t been spoken to those outside of tribe in generations.
Stories of pain and privilege, of blood and bone.
I adjust my ceremonial peripuni, the warrior cloak feeling both familiar and strange against my skin.
The marks of my father’s line ripple across the traditional hide, telling stories of mountains and battles, of wisdom earned through sacrifice.
Growing up, I’d traced these patterns with childish fingers while my grandmother taught me the old songs, her voice strong despite her age.
“Our traditions aren’t chains, little warrior,” she’d tell me. “They’re roots. They give us strength to grow, to change, while keeping us true to who we are.”
A knock at my door pulls me from memories. “Enter.”
Victoria appears, tablet in hand. “The elders are gathering at the Murmuranay. Her Majesty asks if you’re ready.”
The Murmuranay is known in our culture as a meeting place.
A place that straddles two times, the before and the after.
It is where births are celebrated, and deaths are mourned.
A grove located in the city centre, its sacred ground is filled with the hopes and tears of our people.
Those who set foot on it are invited into connection with land and blood, time and memory.
Centuries of stories are carved in the growth of the trees and laid in the fertile soil.
It is there that the fulquernah will take place. Where we will sit under the open skies and be shaded by the trees, and feed the fire as we discuss our stories and map our songs.
“Nearly.” I check my reflection one last time. The formal uniform sits perfectly, medals aligned with precision born of military habit. But it’s the warrior marks painted on my face that draw my attention—subtle lines in deep blue that mark me as a son of the northern tribes.
Last night’s promise to sing weighs heavy. Rangi and I haven’t practiced, we haven’t even discussed which song would be appropriate. But I remember every note of every song we shared on deployment, his voice blending with mine under desert stars and mountain forests.
“Your Highness?” Victoria prompts gently. “We should go.”
I nod, squaring my shoulders. Outside, the first rays of sun streak across the gardens, turning the morning dew to diamonds. Our people believe dawn ceremonies carry special power—the perfect balance of night and day, when the veil between past and present grows thin.
At the edge of the sacred grove, I pause.
Charlotte and Roy are already there, my sister’s excitement barely contained despite the early hour.
Kit stands at the entwined trees—the ancient eucalypt gums having been joined together generations upon generations ago.
Jonathan hovers protectively nearby, his gaze watchful.
The tribal elders form a loose circle, their own peripuni catching the morning light.
And there’s Rangi, tall and proud in his ceremonial dress. The warrior marks on his face emphasize his cheekbones, make his dark eyes seem deeper. More intense. When he turns and sees me, something flashes across his expression too quickly to read.
Focus. This isn’t about him. This is about our people, our heritage.
Kit hands a basket to Kiri, as the oldest member of the fulquernah, it is her duty to connect with the ancestors and invite their wisdom to our circle.
Elder Kiri moves to the centre of our circle, her weathered hands scattering herbs into the fire which is promptly swept up by the morning air. The smoke curls up, fragrant and sweet, carrying our prayers to the ancestors.
“We gather in the time between night and day,” she intones in our native tongue. “When the veil is thin, and wisdom flows like water between the worlds.”
She dips her gnarled hand into the basket, pulling out another handful of herbs to scatter in the fire. “We call to the blood in our veins and the spirit in our heart to lead our souls and open our mouths with courage and conviction.”
She gathers another handful of herbs, this time sprinkling them over the gathered circle. “So say we.”
The traditional response rises from our gathered throats, my voice blending with the others.
“So say we.”
Rangi’s rumbled response draws my attention, his voice making my skin prickle with awareness. He stands opposite me in the circle, his bearing perfect, his presence commanding even in stillness.
Kiri returns to her spot in the circle and turns to Kit, awaiting the official opening.
Kit speaks next, her words careful and measured. As Queen, it is her duty to open the sacred space.
“Today is about learning. It is for continuity, for us to be a part of the past as it flows into future. Our decisions here today, our stories, our agreements, these are part of all the generations that came before us, and they will be a part of all the generations that are yet to come.”
Her hand rests on her swollen belly as she speaks.
“Let us be guided by our duty to those who come so far in the future that they are but a wish of our hearts. Let us think of them as we make truth today.”
She gestures for us to sit, taking her own cushion on the solid ground.
Settled, she looked to Kiri. “Speak your stories, share your truth.”
This fulquernah requires each tribal representative to tell the stories of their sacred places, marking them on the great map spread before us. But it’s more than simple geography—each location comes with a story, a song, a piece of who we are as a people.
While the circle is closed to those who aren’t part of the tribal delegations or aren’t the Prime Minister, around the circle sit politicians and policy advisors, each taking notes and remaining silent as they observe.
It’s an unusual meeting, but one which I’ve fought for years to bring to fruition. As progress moves forward, our sacred places are at risk of damage or destruction. I hope this will be the first of many meetings that will bring about change in our laws.
Elder Kiri begins.
“I speak of the Kahra tribe who come from the Kaie mountains where my people’s songs were first formed.
” She selects a coloured paint from the pots beside the map to draw the mountains upon the canvas.
“Deep in the heights are the toaeria caves, the warrior caves.” She selects another colour, inking the blue with dots of red.
“These are where our people made camp. Homes. Family. They are where our warriors once trained. Our stories are inked on the walls, our songs whispered by the winds that flow through their caverns.”
She continues, creating a picture on the canvas of the movements of the tribe and their places. She speaks for a long time, telling us of their stories of creation, of healing, of birth. When she’s done, she passes the canvas and paints to the next Elder.
Each Elder speaks their truth, sharing stories of the healing springs, the ancient groves, the burial grounds, and meeting places. The places where our ancestors first made peace with rival tribes.
When it’s my turn, I accept the canvas, even though I am not an Elder. Kit asked me to lead our story as the keepers of the royal line.
“In the name of my ancestor grandmother, I speak of the warrior’s path.
” My voice carries across the sacred space as I trace the route along the map.
“My blood comes from many tribes and many places. We are entrusted with the care of Astipia, with the protection of our people. And so my tribe settled here, in the centre of ruminka.” I touch the earth under me in emphasis.
I pick up a red tinted brush, the paint made from the ochre soil. Each of these paints is made naturally—as it was when my ancestors first began to tell their stories on stone walls.
“I tell the story of the Rumingha, the protector tribe who was tasked by the gods to oversee all that is, was and will be.”
I feel Rangi’s gaze on me as I speak of the establishment of the royal line, of the daughter chosen by the tribes to lead them.
I speak of the merging of my many greats-grandmother’s blood and hand with that of the foreign prince.
Of the stillness and wisdom in our meditation spaces, of the blood and grit that coats our training grounds, of the ancient places where we might seek guidance.
Rangi watches me, his dark gaze never leaving me as I paint the stories and mark these places. Heat rises along my spine under that unwavering attention, and I find myself speaking more to him than to the gathered circle. I find I have to force my hand not to tremble as I mark the map.
His gaze becomes a physical weight—a touch I can feel through the air between us, electric and unsettling.
My pulse quickens beneath my formal attire, and I can feel a flush warming my cheeks.
When I chance a glance at him, the intensity I find there nearly steals my words.
Recognition. Appreciation. And a hunger that makes my stomach tighten with a familiar, dangerous longing.
His presence reminds me of nights where rank and duty fell away and we were simply two people sharing our people’s songs.