Page 60 of Fate's Wicked Oath

But instead, he said, “Villains hurt good people.”

Faren appeared struck by the statement. His forehead wrinkled, his mouth pulled into a line—but then he was nodding. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Like Kieran, your aunt and I protect good people. Sometimes that means we fight villains.”

My mother had a shimmer in her eyes. My father’s hands were clasped tightly in his lap. Celia smiled dotingly down at her son, as did Bard.

“But swords are always a last resort,” Faren added, sliding his weapon back into its sheath and setting it aside with the other.

“Why do you have two swords and Ana only has one?”

Faren smiled at me. “That’s because Ana is a better fighter than me. She only needs one.”

Heat prickled my cheeks.

“No way,” Timand said.

“I swear on my Oath, it’s true.”

My nephew’s attention fell to the swords again. “Can I see the other one?”

“Of course,” Faren said, grabbing his second weapon and sliding it free.

“How do you tell them apart?” Timand asked.

“The pommels are slightly different, see?” Faren held the hilts side by side. “This one is called Mercy,” he explained. “And this one is named Honor.”

Timand poked one of the pommels. “Swords have names?”

“Special swords do.”

Timand looked to me. “What’s your sword’s name, Auntie Ana?”

“It doesn’t have one,” I said.

“Well, that won’t do,” Faren said to Timand. “Do you think Ana would let you name her sword?”

Timand spun toward me with a look of pleading. “Can I? Please?”

I pretended to consider the request, tapping a finger on my chin. “Perhaps,” I said, “but you’ll need to inspect the sword first.”

Timand clapped his hands. I rose, hurrying upstairs to retrieve my weapon. When I returned, Faren was flipping throughKieran and the Red Dragonagain. I caught a glimpse of the title page, the inscription my father had left for me when he gifted me the book nearly thirty years ago. I didn’t have to read it over Faren’s shoulder to know what it said:

Happy birthday, my dear Ana. Let this tale of bravery inspire you to believe in your own courage. — Papa

Faren was frowning like it was the saddest thing he’d ever seen.

“Alright,” I said, announcing my return. Removing my sword from its scabbard, I knelt in front of Faren and my nephew, presenting it on my outstretched palms. “Here it is.”

My nephew had a point, it was shabby compared to Faren’s swords. Where the Mighty Knight’s weapons sported fine tooling and gold plating, my sword was purely utilitarian. A plain, unadorned pommel. A worn leather grip. A cross guard with countless scratches and dings. But the blade was shiny and sharp, and I could see in Timand an undeniable sense of reverence. It felt strange, showing such a delicate part of my life the weapon I used for my most brutal tasks. Yet I also felt lucky to introduce Timand to the tool I’d used to give my family a better life.

“See?” Timand said to Faren. “It’s dull.”

“I don’t know,” Faren replied. He ghosted a finger along the cross guard, and it was as if he’d stroked my skin. “I think it’s rather pretty in its simplicity.”

From behind Bard, Celia raised a brow at me with an expression that was not unlike my mother’s suggestive glances. I rolled my eyes at her.

“What do you think?” Faren asked Timand, almost conspiratorial. “What sort of name begets it?”

Timand worried his lip, considering it. Then his face brightened, and he stood, holding his arms out to the room—his familial audience. “Windthorn,” he announced.