Page 19 of Fate's Wicked Oath

“Your song choice is not the issue,” I ground out.

“Oh, so you’d rather talk, instead?”

The rain had momentarily stopped again, as if the weather was holding its breath. We were heading south of the city, paralleling the River Wend in a shallow basin of pastures and farmland. Homesteads peppered the valley, framed by proud rows of yellowing poplars. Sunlight streamed through a crack in the clouds, illuminating fields in honeyed beams, as if the Fates themselves were reaching down to touch the grass.

After the crush of the city—the constant noise and bodily jostling an assault on my senses—I wanted to hear the river. The birds. The sighing of the wind through the trees.Notthe push of air through Faren’s lips, anddefinitelynot the lilt of his accent in pointless conversation.

“Silence,” I stated. “I’d prefer silence.”

Faren raked a hand through his hair, which looked rather luscious despite the morning’s on-and-off rain. It was light brown in color, threaded with sun-kissed blond that sparked in the fast-changing daylight. His eyes, I noticed, were also light brown, and combined with his proud nose and dimpled chin, he had the look of a nobleman descended from countryfolk: not so pretty that he appeared fragile, but not rugged enough to hide the privilege of his upbringing.

In short, he was handsome—if stereotypically so. I couldn’twaitto see his cheeks smudged with dirt and campfire ash. His hair tangled from the relentless autumn weather. His armor scratched and dented. A falter in his easygoing grin, his confidence shaken. Mighty Knights…they had no concept of the cruelty of their beloved realm; walled off in their castle atop amountain, they saw the word from a high view and didn’t bother to look closely enough to see its flaws.

I would relish the day Faren was knocked off his high horse.

“Not a fan of small talk?” he asked.

“Not a fan oftalk,” I replied.

“Why is that, do you think?”

“Men rarely have anything important to say.”

He didn’t appear the least bit offended. “I take it your Order is primarily made up of men?”

“Women do less crime,” I pointed out. “And the few who join the Valiant usually don’t last long.”

Catching my meaning, Faren’s mouth pressed into a grave line. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You did something wrong and are living out the consequences,” he conceded. “But the cruelty of your fellow knights isn’t part of your sentence.”

I arched a brow. “Isn’t it?”

His head tipped in question, so I went on.

“You think I was alone in my cell in the dungeon at Castle Might?”

This time, he blanched. He must’ve already heard about how old I was when I was convicted.

“Cruelty is thepoint,” I went on. “Compared to a dungeon, this—” I gestured at the world unfurling before us, the sunlight spilling down—“might look like freedom, but it is still a cage. And animals in cages…they get mean.”

“You don’t seem mean.”

I knew I was taking his bait when I asked, “How do I seem, then?”

He regarded me plainly, his gaze tracking over my hair, my face, my armor. His assessment was efficient, neither lingering nor hurried. I ventured a breath, thankful that my breastplatehid the shallowness of my inhale, how confined I was—physically and otherwise.

When his eyes found mine again, he held them for four strides of his horse’s relaxed gait. Then he said, “You seem afraid.”

I scoffed. “I’m a monster hunter. I fear nothing.”

“Maybe nothing tangible,” Faren mused. “But there are worse Fates than a gruesome death.”

I gritted my teeth and forced myself to look forward again, thinking of Grinnick. He had, indeed, died a gruesome death—and in my grief, there had been days I’d wished we could switch places. Living after losshadfelt like a worse Fate.

“A gruesome death would be far preferable to listening to you talk for the next few weeks,” I muttered.