Page 39 of Fate's Wicked Oath

“Now you get it,” she bit out.

Then she was advancing, barreling toward the creature with everything she had. It staggered backward, cowering from her onslaught while bleeding its black ooze.Maiden Morta Killer, Lee had called her. Now, Faren understood why the nickname stuck. But before she could slay the monster, it turned abruptly away from her. Like a frightened animal, it loped out the square, its whines carrying into the night.

Mariana rested the tip of her sword on the cobblestones as she watched it go, her empty fist balled tight.

Faren rose on shaky legs. Retrieved his weapons from where they’d fallen. Approached Mariana’s back. Her hair was tangled. Her body rocked with her panting breaths. The heat of her exhales curled up toward the moon.

“Mariana—” he began.

She ignited her sword—burning off the caustic blood—then shoved her sword into its scabbard and turned to face him. Her scowl was deep, but there was a glimmer in her eye, a hint of lingering fear. Not for the creature itself, but for…him? Or perhaps the name she’d shouted in place of his?

“Let’s go,” she said, striding past him, heading east.

He needed to apologize for disobeying her orders. “Mariana—” he began again.

“Let’s. Go.” Her statement did not invite further conversation.

15

Porridge

Mariana

We were two miles from Yar when dawn broke. The rising sun smeared pink across the sky like jam on a porcelain plate. At our backs, the moon hung low over the Western Wood, veiled in blue. Safe within the shelter of the grove that Farenshould’veescaped to, I dropped my gear in the grass, knelt, and began rifling through my pack.

“Mariana.” Faren’s voice was low, shaping my name into an apology. “Mariana, I—”

“There’s a creek,” I interrupted, jutting my chin in the direction of the trickling water, its soft song filling the underbrush a short way south. “Wash your wound.”

Faren set his pack at the base of a tree and began unstrapping his breastplate, vambraces, and scabbards. He set them in the wet grass, then straightened and removed his shirt. I averted my eyes, focusing on finding the small jar I sought in the bottom of my bag.

Once he was out of sight, I let out a rough sigh and sat back on my heels. My fingers shook; I pressed them against my eyelids,desperate to make the world disappear for a moment.Steel does not feel, I told myself, but all I could see was the Morta striking Faren to the ground. StrikingGrinnickto the ground. The memory had rushed in at me from all sides: the pain in my vocal cords as I screamed, my tears hot against my cheeks, the jarring physicality of my heartbreak rending me in half as I ran to safety.

I had faced many Morta since Grinnick died—had fought alongside many Valiant Knights and seen plenty of them fall—yet never had the memory hit me so squarely as it had tonight.

“Are you all right?”

Faren stood two paces away, his bare chest glistening with creek water. His skin was pebbled from the frigid morning air. Bright red blood welled from the wound at the top of his arm, but I saw no trace of black veining. Aside from the lump on his head from where he’d hit the ground, the rest of him appeared unharmed.

“I’m fine.” I stood and tossed the jar of salve at him. “Put this on the wound.”

He caught it easily. “What is it?”

“Hylder.” I’d purchased a couple jars from Hattie the last time I’d visited Waldron for more vials of cure. “It’ll stop the disease from spreading.”

His eyes widened. “Is it possible I could—”

“You’ll be fine,” I told him.Just fine, I assured myself—then wondered why I craved the assurance. My heart was still in my throat, and I swallowed hard. “I’ll be right back.”

Grabbing a fresh shirt, I headed off toward the creek. The water was clear and cold, reflecting the blushing sky. I splashed my face and bare arms. The welts from the Morta blood stung bitterly, but I was no stranger to the sensation. I cast my soiled shirt aside and removed the wrap around my ribs; the injury still ached at the top of an inhale, but the bruising had lessened, and I wanted to breathe freely. Moving swiftly, I shrugged the cleanshirt over my head, tied the laces to my liking, and rinsed the blood from my dirty clothes.

When I returned to our small clearing, Faren was seated on a boulder, dabbing salve on his wound. Soft morning light filtered through the trees to kiss his bare shoulders and collarbones. His pecs were wide set, his stomach flat and defined, his biceps lined with plump veins. He was solid. Sturdy.Fine.

“You’re back,” he observed, glancing up from his task.

My attention darted back to his face. “I’m back.”

“Wasn’t sure you’d come back.”