Page 42 of Fate's Wicked Oath

Faren had knelt in the grass beside his sister and held his hand out for the dog to sniff. It’d felt like victory when she nosed his palm, allowing him to pet her soft ears. “How’d you do it?” he’d asked Persephone.

His sister had shrugged. “I didn’t ask anything of her.”

Faren’s morning with Mariana had felt much the same. It seemed that the less he pushed, the more she opened up; the less he expected, the more she offered freely; and the more they experiencedtogether, the less guarded she became. Persephone’s lesson echoed in his mind as he and his intrepid guide hiked back toward the homestead.

Last night had felt like a turning point, altering the tension between them and within himself. Because her fear had revealed another side to her: not just the courageous fighter she was known to be, or the snarky nuisance Faren dealt with on the road, but a woman who’d clearly lost someone important to her. A man. A lover, perhaps. The knowledge had reshaped Mariana in his mind, like the rising sun reshaped a landscape, the flat silhouette of a mountain range becoming stunningly three-dimensional with detail.

In spite of her lewd jokes, Faren hadn’t thought of Mariana as someone’s lover before. Then she’d sat down beside him andtended to his arm, and every fleeting brush of her fingers had ignited his skin like steel striking sparks from flint. When she’d touched his bare arm, Faren’s magic had kindled. It had taken him a few seconds to realize how scorching the moment had become.

Sheisyour type, Warner had teased him in Fenrir’s Ire barely a week ago. Faren had scoffed, rebuffing the outlandish and—at the time—utterly incomprehensible idea. He had been unable to imagine a world in which he found Mariana tolerable, let alone alluring. Yet between their tender conversation atop the tower, her breathtaking bravery with the Morta, and her ministrations to his wound this morning, Faren had—for the briefest of moments—found both his feet planted firmly in that world.

Fates, he still did.

As he followed Mariana through the countryside—over gentle hills and along hedgerows, heading back to the homestead to retrieve their horses—he couldn’t help a glance or two at her backside. How had he not noticed the perfect shape of her body until today? She was lithe and strong—a tantalizing weapon—and paired with her cutting wit, Warner had a fucking point. Faren did have a weakness for complicated women, and Mariana was about as puzzling as they came. The mere presence of her seemed to challenge his worldview, to convolute things that had once seemed simple, and he found himself captivated. Whiplashed.

He needed to get his head right. He was here for a purpose, and that was to serve his duty, investigate a tragedy, prove his worth to his Order, and secure a promotion. His opinion of Mariana might’ve become more nuanced, but that did not change the fact that she was a distraction—a criminal.

Yet his feelings toward Mariana hadn’t been the only thing to evolve last night—so, too, had his viewpoint on the realm he served. Because Yar-on-Gray was a travesty.

The instructions that came with this assignment—the list of items he was supposed to report upon—were worthless in detailing the complete and utter devastation of the town. He thought of all the missing citizens—innocent men, women, and children—and was nauseated to think of what had happened to them.

If Mariana had been telling the truth about the Valiant requesting Lord Haron’s assistance—and he believed she was—then the Lord was also at fault for Yar’s destruction. Faren didn’t agree with the Valiant’s choice to delay help for the sake of secrecy—nor Mariana’s awful insinuation that the survivors had been killed for knowing too much—but he also didn’t understand why Lord Haron had not sent any Mighty Knights. Two Orders under the Lord’s rule, with the power to save innocent lives, and yet a whole town ended up destroyed. Had the Lord not believed the Valiant’s plea? Or had he decided toallowYar to fall?

The tragedy of it made Faren sick. It made him furious. It made him want to burn the Western Wood—and all the Morta therein—to the ground.

But it also made himdoubt…and Faren did not want to doubt.

“You’re quiet,” Mariana remarked. It was the first thing she’d said to him since the awkwardThanksshe’d muttered after eating the porridge he’d cooked.

“So are you,” he replied.

“Yes, but I’m always quiet.” The soft mane of her hair slid over her shoulder as she glanced back at him. “You’re not plotting my demise, are you?”

Faren smirked. “That plan is already well underway, sweetheart.” He gained some ground, so they walked side-by-side. “I thought you preferred silence.”

“I do,” Mariana said, “but I’ve come to realize that our arguments also provide a certain sustenance to my soul.”

“You have a soul?”

Her dark eyes glinted with amusement. “I fear that if we don’t bicker viciously at least once per day, I’ll perish.”

They were walking up a slight rise, trudging through snarls of brown grasses that caught at their boots. A cool wind ruffled Faren’s hair, his collar. Wispy, fast-moving clouds floated across the sky. A curl of smoke rose in the distance, leading them toward the homestead. It was just the two of them, alone in the vast and undulating landscape.

“Well, if your life depends on it…” Faren gave her a magnanimous grin. “What would you like to bicker about? My Order? Your Order? The handsomeness of my face? The nobleness of my manner? How much you’re going to miss me when our mission is over?”

Mariana’s nose wrinkled, tugging the scar that bisected her upper lip. “Never mind, let me die.”

“Oh, come now,” Faren said, on a roll now. “You clearly missed the sound of my voice. Perhaps a song?” He belted out the first verse ofThe Song of Fenrir, a heinously patriotic tune that was sung at all major ceremonies.

Mariana let out an exasperated squeal and covered her ears. “What have I done?” she lamented. “Fates, save me from the torture.”

“Come on, you know the words.” Faren sang louder, and small birds—which had been flitting in and out of the grasses in search of seeds—took to the sky, fleeing the disturbance to their midday peace. He began drumming on his breastplate in time with the chorus, and Mariana broke into a jog, escaping to the top of the hill.

Faren continued at a leisurely pace, undeterred. He was just reaching the song’s climax when he caught up to Mariana at the crest of the field, and—

He broke off.

Ahead of them, smoke plumed not from a chimney as he’d expected, but from the charred wreckage of the homestead. The cottage in which they’d had tea just yesterday appeared as if it had been crushed by a giant tree, the roof splintered and caved in. What was left of the rubble was smoldering from a great fire, and the poplars that lined the property were singed black.