Page 135 of Fate's Wicked Oath

Faren tried to appeal to his other sisters. “Surely the rest of you might consider—”

“We’ve traveled all this way—without our paramours, in the mud and frost—to maintain our family’s prominence and serve as representatives of the Lothgaimian court,” Persephone said.“As much as we’d allloveto do anything other than make small talk with strangers in a loud and overly hot room, we must.”

“Andwe want to cheer on our favorite brother.” Eva held out a Lothgaimian truffle, its hard shell topped with a dried raspberry. “Don’t we?”

Beatrice grunted. Persephone turned the page in her book. Eva smiled at Faren and lifted the truffle a little higher.

He plucked it from her palm and ate it in one bite, barely tasting the jammy filling as he swallowed it down. The sugar soured in his throat; his stomach fizzed with nerves. He tried to tap into the same hopefulness he’d felt on that gauzy, golden morning with Mariana, but he couldn’t.

We have Fate on our side, Oderin had reminded Faren countless times over the past few weeks, but the Major didn’t know about Faren’s Mirror visions. And the closer Faren got to tonight’s ceremonies, the more he wondered if—in addition to his family being at risk—he was closing in on his own Fate, too.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Great Hall, the night was inky black. Faren peered through the stained glass, straining to see past his own watery reflection, but the world beyond—and the dangers lurking therein—remained hidden. He turned back toward the raucous dining hall, sweeping his anxious attention across the packed space, and seeing nothing of concern.

His Captain’s ceremony had gone without incident. He’d managed to hold in his sneer as Lord Haron recited the words, to stifle his wince as the ledgermasters updated the Ledger of the Mighty with his name, and to grin widely—woodenly—as Eva cheered and his family clapped politely from their places at Archer Loth’s long table in the center of the room.

Following the promotions was the Unity Ceremony itself. Because the sitting Lord of Lothgaim had recently taken ill, Archer Loth represented Lothgaim in his father’s stead, and he’d gone through the motions with Lord Haron with an air of detached pageantry. Gifts were exchanged, the Fenriran and Lothgaimian victors of the week’s tournaments had been awarded their prizes, and speeches had been made that Faren had not retained.

The feast had come next. A glazed pig on every table. Roasted duck served with marmalade. Venison pies with root vegetables and gravy. Stacks of ornately braided bread loaves. Sausage pastries. Onion soup. Huge wedges of cheese. Seated at one end of the Lord of Fenrir’s head table, Faren had picked at his plate with little enthusiasm, finding that none of it tasted as good as the breakfast he’d eaten on the floor with Mariana at her parents’ home. He’d excused himself from the table just to escape the need to pretend he had an appetite.

Now—from his place on the sidelines, watching the servants bring out gooseberry pies, fruit jellies, and tiered cakes for dessert—Faren wondered how the Lord could eat like this when homesteaders were rationing their limited stores for winter. Was this what Horace Bellkeep’s taxes had contributed to? A marble hall with ruby-crusted chandeliers? Silk tablecloths destined to be ruined with grease and spilled wine? Had Mariana starved as a child just so Lord Haron could glut himself on food and finery? No doubt half of tonight’s spread would go to waste—and for what?

Faren used to see the opulence of court as a show of patriotism, but now it all seemed hollow. This was not the realm Faren loved. The realm Faren loved were rolling hills and the River Wend. Small-town celebrations with ribbons to twirl and bonfires around which to dance. The quaint charm of the countryside, whether it was Fenriran or Lothgaimian orfarther afield. The beating heart of his great kingdom weren’t the nobles in this hall—they were ordinary folk. Generous and hardworking, strong of character and soft of heart. Folk who would probably never see a room like this, even if they were the ones who paid for it.

That’swho he wished to serve with his Oath. That’s what he was holding onto.

The fact that their Fates all rested on the shoulders of a cruel and power-hungry Lord—along with the monsters he alchemized and the criminals he employed—made the current regime all the more sickening.

It made him all the more resolved to fix it.

“Have you no control of your face?” Oderin asked, sidling up to Faren beside the stained- glass window.

Faren wiped a hand over his jaw as if to clear away his tight expression, though it did no good. He had been bracing himself all night for the Valiant’s inevitable entrance, both relieved by the peace thus far and edgy with anticipation. “Why are they not here yet?”

Oderin casually rested his hand on the windowsill, the obsidian ring on his index finger glimmering in the light of the sconces. “If I were them, I’d wait until folks were good and drunk.”

Faren took in the sea of red-faced nobility. “Soon, then.”

“Soon,” Oderin agreed.

Their plan relied upon the chaos that would ensue upon the Valiant’s arrival. After all, Lord Haron and Heris Morvain couldn’t defeat one another if they weren’t in the same room.

To ensure that the Valiant indeed penetrated the many defenses of Castle Might, Oderin had shared Faren’s intelligence from the Yar mission with the Lord himself, convincing him that the Unity Ceremony and feast would be the perfect trap for Heris. The Lord’s desire to shame the Valiant leader—paired with his lack of concern for his own nobility and that of Lothgaim’s—meant that he’d agreed easily. This had cleared the path for Oderin to station his loyal knights—the knights who knew the truth—at all major entries and exits. As soon as the Valiant arrived, Oderin would order attending knights to usher the nobility out of the Great Hall to safety, then join Faren in the fray.

The risks were plentiful. The potential outcomes varied. But the chance to defeat two power-hungry leaders before they destroyed Fenrir for their own gain was worth it. To do nothing would be to guarantee that more towns fell victim to the same tragic end as Yar-on-Gray. Not to mention the outright war that would unfold—among Fenrir’s ranks and between the territories—if Lord Haron finally achieved what he had set out to do with the Morta. The damage to the city and the lives lost would be immeasurable.

So, to do nothing was not an option.

Which meant that, as much as Faren hated it, tonight’s risks were the only way forward.

Faren wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs. “I know we’ve discussed this from every angle, but now that the room is full…” He trailed off, finding his family in the crowd.

His father was speaking with a fellow Lothgaimian representative while his mother sipped her wine; Rown was nodding along as if it were a business meeting, a thoughtful line bisecting his brows, while Kate yawned into her fist. Down the table, Beatrice was red-cheeked and gesturing wildly. Persephone was poking at a flower-shaped jelly with her fork, ignoring the nobleman who sat beside her. And Eva was watching…Faren.

When their gazes met, she offered him a small wave. He waved back.

“I know,” Oderin whispered. “But we’ve accounted for all variables, all players. Assuming we can trust Mariana—”

“We can,” Faren insisted, heart clenching.