Page 46 of Fate's Wicked Oath

Dagger in hand, I slashed sideways, meeting only air. My chest heaved and I blinked into the darkness, remembering where I was: the homesteader’s barn, sitting up in my bedroll on the hay-strewn ground. Faren’s dark shape lay a few feet away, still asleep. I heard Pete’s soft snores coming from the other end of our shelter, the rustling of sheep in their stall, the cow chewing its cud.

I lowered the dagger from my invisible foe.A dream, I told myself.Just a dream.

Grinnick and I had been racing through a field of wildflowers, laughing. Then a pack of diseased wolves had appeared, and our frolicking had morphed into a run. At some point during the chase, Grinnick’s dark hair had transformed to light brown, and his black breastplate had turned gold. I’d awoken when the first wolf was upon us, instinctively reaching for the dagger I kept inside my bedroll.

Setting the weapon aside, I forced a breath, willing my heart rate to settle back into this reality. I’d slept in my trousers andundershirt, and the fabric constricted my body in a corkscrew, seams biting into my skin. Hay had worked its way into my waistband and cleavage, giving rise to a mild rash. My magic prickled with annoyance, heightening the itch and the lingering hurt in my ribs, setting me on edge.

Stifling a groan, I reached for my cloak and stood.

Outside the double doors, the night sky was a deep cobalt dotted with stars. The moon was mostly full, illuminating the poplar branches and casting long shadows on the wreckage of the cottage. The air was frigid, windless, smelling of charcoal and mud, with the faintest reek of rotten apples and monster blood.

I sat on a crate against the side of the barn. In the privacy of predawn, I slipped my hand in my pocket and retrieved the orange silk ribbon that I’d kept from the summons for this mission. I stroked the smooth fabric between my fingers, relishing the texture. It gave my hypersensitive magic something to focus on—something simple and soothing, that was not my rumpled clothing or the biting cold.

My eyes drifted closed. I tipped my head back against the charred siding of the barn, allowing my magic to focus andfeel. The temperature of the air, the texture of my clothes, the hardness of the crate’s wooden slats—all of it faded in favor of the ribbon. Gradually, my senses eased. This was about as close as I ever got to peace: a quiet night, a moment of solitude, something other than a weapon in my hand.

But all nice moments had to come to an end.

Footsteps roused my attention. A calm, familiar presence approached. The crate next to mine groaned as he sat.

“Nice night.” Faren’s voice was rough from sleep.

“It is,” I answered, eyes still closed.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Finally, I regarded him. The welts on his cheeks had faded, leaving behind faint freckle-like marks. A bruise lingered on his temple, the purple color obscured by the charming swoop of his hair. I recalled the way his body had been thrown sideways by the Morta’s strike, the terrible metallic clang of his breastplate crashing on the cobblestones.

My grip tightened on the ribbon, and I worried it between my thumb and index finger. “No,” I answered. “You?”

A half-shrug. “Restless.”

“About?”

Wordlessly, Faren gestured at the wreckage of the cottage.

At first, I had thought his insistence to see the homesteaders safe had been about duty, and perhaps a moral obligation. But now, it occurred to me that perhaps he also felt guilty for meddling in my fight against the Morta and the creature’s subsequent escape. I could see the question on his face, his heavy conscience. As furious as I’d been when he’d disobeyed my orders, I could not begrudge his mistake. Not when it was becoming clear that his actions had not been driven by ego, but from a genuine desire to help.

He might’ve served the person responsible for the Morta’s creation, but I was beginning to believe that Faren had good intentions. A good heart.

I met his honeyed eyes. “We don’t know if it’s the same one.”

“It was clearly already bleeding when it got here,” Faren said, voice thick. “Because of me, it escaped Yar and came here.” His jaw clenched. “Why would it come here?”

“They used to keep to the Western Wood,” I said, “but they’ve grown more bold over time—more corrupted, I think.” I rubbed my sternum, feeling troubled. “Either way, this is not your fault. Internalizing it will only make you miserable.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience.”

I didn’t respond, my discomfort growing with the vulnerable conversation.

Mercifully, he didn’t pry. “And here I thought youlikedseeing me miserable,” he mused.

I felt my lips twist into a small smile. “You have a surprisingly formidable positive attitude,” I said. “It’s alarming when you aren’t cheerful.”

He tipped his head back, laughing softly. My attention caught on the bulge in his throat, the Oath tattoo around the base of his neck. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and the scruff added a ruggedness to his usual well-groomed appeal.

“You sure I can’t convince you to return to Fenrir?” I asked. “To rid me of your prolonged presence?”

“Sorry, Mariana,” Faren drawled. “I’m determined to do the right thing.”