Page 4 of Fate's Wicked Oath

The strike vibrated through Faren’s breastplate into his sternum, sending him stumbling backward. Dust swirled around his legs as he regained his breath.

Warner chuckled heartily and swung his practice sword with a cocky flourish. “Distracted, are we?”

Faren flashed him a winning grin. “Only because fighting you is rather unexciting.”

The training yard at Castle Might was filled with the clamor of sparring knights. Metallic clatter, raucous laughter, grumbles, cheers, and the scuff of boots. On the opposite end of the yard, archers were practicing trick shots with athwack, whoosh, thudas their arrows sunk into straw-stuffed targets. The mood was boastful, but good natured.

From the sidelines, Shae snorted. “You two fight like children,” she said, biting into an apple.

Faren and Warner both glared at her, then reset their stances and crossed swords. In unison, they chanted the traditional, “Fate, Fortune, Death,” then began again.

Faren took the offensive this round, advancing on Warner with confident strides, practicing his reverse grip. Warner met his efforts with precise, unhurried blocks. As sparring partners, they were well matched: similar in height and stocky build, both proficient with shortswords, and where Warner was perhaps quicker on his feet, Faren possessed more finesse. As they fought, sweat beaded on Faren’s temples and along his spine. He enjoyed the rhythmic give and take, his muscles flexing and stretching with a symphony of endorphins.

Unlike when he first took his Oath as a young buck eager to prove his mettle, Faren had, over time, cultivated a sense of ease in his skill. He relished the assuredness of his own mastery.

“Booooring!” Shae heckled.

“Fuck off,” Warner called back, swinging his sword at Faren’s head.

With a grunt, Faren deflected the ballsy attack, advancing with the detached, practiced exactitude of a seasoned fighter.

Faren had been a proud Mighty Knight for ten years, working diligently to earn his place in this esteemed Order. As the second son of a noble family, his position in the pedigree was rather unimportant; Faren wanted nothing more than to set himself apart, and what better way to achieve greatness than to serve the realm?

The problem was, as of late, he’d found his usual guard shifts, the repetitive training sessions, and the general pomp and ceremony…tedious. He had more than demonstrated his obedience and talent over the years—but a life of meaning wasn’t made simply by wearing golden armor and making rounds. He wanted tolead.

Thatwas the true reason for his distractedness; it wasn’t overconfidence that made his mind wander, but ambition.

He’d recently caught wind of brewing trouble in the west, and the need for a trustworthy Mighty Knight to embark ona clandestine mission outside the city. Faren knew it was the perfect way to advance within the ranks—to reach that next step on his path to glory: Captain—and he had submitted his name for consideration. Just thinking of the opportunity had him preoccupied all over again, allowing Warner to land another embarrassing blow, this time on the cap of Faren’s shoulder.

The pain was blunt, halfhearted, but it still rang through his touch magic like a bell.

Shae threw the core of her apple at him, booing.

“Hard to feel smug when victory comes so easily,” Warner remarked, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Faren shook out his arm. “Are you…complaining about winning?”

“Is it a win if it’s handed to me on a gold platter?”

The two of them swiveled as Shae sauntered into the ring. “You’re useless today, Faren,” she said, “even more than usual.” She flipped one of her daggers in the air, caught it by the blade, and used the sharp tip to scrape a bit of apple skin from between her teeth. “My turn.”

“We’re two and two,” Faren said, gesturing at Warner. “Give us one more round.”

“Not my say,” Shae said, jerking her chin in the direction of an orange-clad castle squire on the sidelines. “Seems it’s time for you to find out about that mission.”

Faren’s chest hummed as if he’d been struck in the breastplate all over again, a mix of anxiousness and excitement vibrating through him. Fast clouds swept overhead, revealing and concealing the sun, their shadows making strange patterns in the dirt. He handed Shae his practice sword and strode out of the circle of dust that marked the sparring area.

“Goodluuuuuck,” she sang.

“Don’t need it,” he called back. He felt good about his prospects. Self-assuredness was a shield, and Faren utilized it whenever possible, relishing the strength it lent him.

He approached the squire. “You’ve need of me?”

Rather than speaking, the young man bobbed his head, then turned, silently leading Faren along the circumference of the training yard.

Knights called out to Faren with friendly hellos and teasing jokes; he responded with laughter and jest, keeping his tone light. His friend Lee aimed a pair of arrows at one of the archery targets and fired in quick succession, sinking two bullseyes before offering Faren an optimistic grin.

Like any family, there was plenty of squabbling and conflict among the Mighty Knights of Fenrir, but Faren cherished the camaraderie. He went out of his way to help new recruits with training, to trade shifts so that his friends could take time off, to always lend a hand when someone in his regiment needed assistance. He enjoyed fostering those bonds, demonstrating his value, serving his Order with care and integrity. He would be proud to carry out those tasks as a captain someday—and he hoped that today he’d be given the chance to prove his worthiness.