Page 2 of Fate's Wicked Oath

The sickest part of this was that all of us—Heris, myself, and my fellow knights—wanted the same thing: freedom from our Oaths. Not just retirement—as Heris had already achieved—but the complete removal of the magical leash. Because even after a sentence as a Knight of the Order of the Valiant ended—ifthe sentence was indeed one that would end—an Oath still bound the individual to keep its secrets. And none of us considered being tied to the Lord of Fenrirforeveras a true form of liberty.

I understood Heris’s frustration. When former Valiant Knight Idris Togren emerged from the Well of Fate without his Oath tattoo—entirely free—we had all hoped that we, too, could dissolve our Oaths in the magical pool. And we had all been devastated to discover thatourOaths remained, that there was something else at play. Something that even Idris himself could not explain.

After that, Heris had sent me back to the alchemists, who’d had me race all over the territory in service of their research to find a cure for the abominations: former knights called Morta. An unlikely apprentice had solved that riddle two months ago, and—thankfully for us—hadkeptthe news from our corrupt Lord. But apparently my assistance in the discovery was not enough for Heris. Nor were the numerous bottles of cure that I’d brought back for his cause.

I shouldn’t’ve been surprised; my efforts were never enough for him. That’s how he kept his hooks in me.

“Have you even tried administering the potion?” I wheezed. The pain in my abdomen was radiating outward like a hot coal,my touch magic making it glow each time I inhaled. There was a real possibility that Castor had cracked one of my ribs, but I forced a bloody, taunting smile. “Or have you failed in your endeavors?”

Castor snarled, clearly insulted by my (quite accurate) insinuation that the majority of Heris’s faction of the Valiant were incapable of felling a Morta without a considerable team effort. Let alone managing to get a potion into the abomination’s bloodstream.

Heris wiped a hand over his thin lips. “The plan remains in motion.”

The plan: cure the cursed former knights running loose in the Western Wood, rally them, then use our combined forces to usurp and ideally murder the Lord of Fenrir.

“Then why am I being punished?” I asked. “I brought ten bottles of cure back from my source. It’s not my fault you can’t—”

Brom reared back his fist, winding up for a punch that would no doubt shatter the rib Castor had already cracked. I closed my eyes this time, mentally berating myself for my inability toshut the fuck up—even when I knew I was right. I’d served Heris for the better part of twenty-four years, ever since I was knighted as a child and he took me under his wing. I knew better than to call out his faulty logic, to push back against his sour moods. It was better to comply. To agree. Totake it. The problem was, Heris had chipped away at me over the years, carving me into something that was all jagged edges.

I dragged in a shallow breath, tensing for the coming blow.Curse the Fates for giving me touch magic. While most touch magicians could increase their sensitivity to sensations at will—giving us a reputation as lustful heathens—my magic didn’t work that way. It was never soothed, never dulled, never something Icould snuff out. I felteverythingat maximum intensity all the time.

Every punch.

Every split lip.

Every hot-oil splatter of monster blood.

Every pebble under my bedroll.

Every pinprick of rain.

Every drag of my wet tunic across my skin.

You are a sword, I told myself in anticipation of Brom’s strike.Steel does not feel.

But the punch never came.

I opened my eyes to see Heris’s back to me, facing the trees beyond the square. A figure was emerging from the gloom, a black silhouetted shape. Castor and Brom still gripped my arms, holding me in place, but even they were distracted. I glanced down at Brom’s boot, wondering if it was worth stomping on his toes to wrench myself free.

But I, too, was curious about the newcomer. After all, the Valiant’s rebel hideout—located in the ruins of an ancient city deep in the monster-infested Western Wood, surrounded by treacherous geothermal pools that each possessed a different and terrible magical effect—didn’t often receive visitors.

But this was no stranger. He wore the customary black breastplate of a Valiant Knight, with leather pauldrons strapped to his big shoulders like the interlocking scales of a snake. His red beard was braided and studded with tiny silver cuffs; when he exited the shadows of the surrounding pines, his beard glimmered, giving his identity away.

“Ivan,” Heris greeted, blocking my view.

“Mariana here?” Ivan called.

“Unfortunately,” I muttered.

Ivan leaned to one side, peering past Heris to see me. “Oh, I thought you were a prisoner.”

Am I not?I thought. Though I knew I could take Castor and Brom if I had to, freeing myself of their firm grips wouldn’t make me any less captive. My whole existence was a cage.

“We were in a meeting,” Heris said.

Ivan’s attention skipped over my bloodied mouth and rumpled clothing with the efficiency that only a sight magician could display. “Apologies for…”—his eyes rested on my face for one more beat, then flicked back to Heris—“interrupting.” He held a scroll aloft. “I come bearing a summons.”

“Forher?” Heris asked.