Page 42 of Fate’s Sweetest Curse (Mirrors of Fate #2)

Shame

Noble

T he air was humid on the day Noble sought to take the Oath of the Order of the Mighty.

In the parade grounds of Castle Wynhaim, he stood among a hundred other prospective Oath-takers, all lined up in neat rows in the searing late-summer sun.

A grand stone dais overlooked the field, backdropped by the western wing of the fortress; a magnificent white tent had been erected to shade the numerous witnesses—individuals Noble knew from growing up within the castle walls.

At the back were members of court—siblings and cousins of the royal family, mostly, along with Noble’s mother and other prominent wives—lounging on silk chaises, sipping chilled wine, and snacking on cured meats.

Attendants swung massive paper fans back and forth, back and forth, cooling those privileged enough to sit in the shade, while twelve royal guards encircled the tent, on patrol.

In front of the more relaxed congregation were the raised royal thrones.

There, King Cassius Braven and Queen Yvira Wynhaim sat, wearing delicate golden circlets atop their heads.

To the left of the thrones was the podium that held the Ledger of the Mighty: the magical tome that recorded knights’ names and tethered their Oaths.

A ledgermaster—an esteemed Adept of the Order of the Arcane, tasked with overseeing the ledger’s magic—stood behind the podium wearing the customary dusky brown and gold robes, the cowl hood obscuring their face .

And finally, stationed directly to the king’s right, was Noble’s father: Kalden Asheren, General of the Order of the Mighty, leader of the king’s personal guard and Marona’s Mighty legion.

His golden armor was splendid, finely tooled around the edges and polished to a high shine; the ornate sword that hung at his hip was as much a part of Kalden as his own right hand.

He nodded at each prospective Oath-taker who climbed the stairs of the dais—his acknowledgement an honor in and of itself.

As the most esteemed Order in the Seven Territories, few were admitted into the Mighty—especially the branch that served Marona.

Those who’d made it to the parade grounds were of the small percentage that had passed the rigorous physical trials and mental tests.

But the Ledger’s magic did not accept just anyone; the Oath itself was the final obstacle.

One by one, the Oath-takers approached the podium and attempted their Oath before Kalden, the ledgermaster, and the rulers.

Noble moved with the crowd, sweating profusely in the damp heat.

Up ahead, he heard snippets of men and women reciting the Oath that Noble had known by heart since he was a boy.

—I pledge my life to the protection of the realm—

—I will not falter from the Mighty path—

—I vow to hold nothing in higher regard than the sacred honor of my Oath and Order—

That last statement was where most hopefuls failed. If one did not believe deep in their heart that they could adhere to the extreme loyalty the Oath required, the ledger would reject them.

Indeed, Noble heard more rejections than acceptances; pained grunts and sorrowful cries far outweighed the shouts of triumph. He winced at each spurned would-be knight, fearing the possibility of his own dismissal. And he was almost to the front of the line, now—only two hopefuls ahead of him.

He watched as both failed their Oaths.

Then it was Noble’s turn .

He ascended the stairs slowly, keeping his head held high.

He reached the king and queen first and sank to a knee, bowing deeply at the couple whose table he’d supped at countless times, whose daughter he loved like a little sister.

King Braven offered Noble the smallest of nods, along with a minute tightening of his bearded cheek—the closest he’d get to familiarity in such a formal setting.

The queen, on the other hand, was more forthright in her encouragement; her blue eyes seemed to glimmer as she offered him a warm smile.

Their kindness only made Noble more nervous.

As Noble rose from his bow, he saw his mother watching him from her chaise.

The pair of women she’d been conversing with were still talking, gesturing with their wine chalices, but Helena didn’t seem to hear them as she stared at her son with irises the same shade of green as his own.

The tawny skin around her eyes was tight with tension and seeing her anxiousness… it only worsened his own.

Noble turned toward his father next, bowing quickly at the waist as was customary when greeting a general. Kalden remained stone-still, staring down his strong nose, his square jaw set. His gaze was as heavy as a mountain on Noble’s shoulders, more oppressive than the day’s heat.

Until it lifted over Noble’s shoulder to land on another face in the crowd.

Noble couldn’t help but look back to see where his father’s attention had gone.

An acrid, jealous anguish seared through his veins when he spotted Brendan Harrow not far behind him in the procession.

Brendan had continued to train with Kalden into young adulthood, taking pleasure in always being one step ahead of Noble in skill, loyalty, and bootlicking.

Under Kalden’s gaze, Brendan’s expression was confident, smug—but when he noticed Noble staring, the fucker grinned .

Noble faced ahead again, waiting for his father’s nod to proceed.

When it came, he didn’t linger; he swiveled to face the podium .

The Ledger of the Mighty was bound in faded umber leather. Splayed open atop the podium, it was thick as a mattress, the paper old and brittle. Noble could see the arcane writing on the fresh page, only nine names out of forty men and women who’d recited the Oath this afternoon.

Noble offered the ledgermaster an acknowledging nod, then lowered himself to his knees and tucked his chin.

Sweat trailed down his temple, slid along his jaw, and dripped from his chin onto the stone—yet in spite of the heat, he shivered.

Since the moment Noble was born—perhaps even before—Kalden had dreamed of his son following in his Mighty footsteps.

This was the culminating moment. Noble’s chance to prove that he was worthy of his father’s pride.

And he was as ready for the commitment as he’d ever be.

Hattie had been gone for ten months, and in that time, Noble had done nothing but read and train— anything to keep his mind off her absence. He was faster, stronger, and more determined than ever. It was high time Noble step into the future his father always intended for him.

Noble cleared his throat and began: “I, Noble Asheren, hereby offer myself to the Oath of the Order of the Mighty, the King, and Kingdom of Marona.” Noble spoke slowly and clearly, allowing his voice to carry through the grounds.

“I pledge my life to the protection of the realm and the safe keeping its citizens, secrets, and sovereignty. I will not stray from my duty; I will not falter from the Mighty path. I bear my charge with honor, compliance, and bravery. For the good of the realm, I am bound.”

Noble paused. The next part of the Oath was the vow that would seal his future: his promise that he’d hold nothing in higher regard than his duty.

If he was false in that claim—if in the deepest part of his heart, he knew he couldn’t favor the Mighty over all else he loved—the ledger would reject Noble’s bid.

When you make your vow, clear your mind of all but the sacred honor of serving your kingdom , Kalden had advised Noble the night before. Think only of your love for the realm.

Staring at the gritty stone beneath his knees, freckled with his sweat, Noble breathed deeply, filling his chest. He willed his voice not to quaver as he continued: “I vow to hold nothing in higher regard than the sacred honor of my Oath and Order. By the Fates and the arcane power of this Oath, I swear fealty to the great realm of the Seven Territories of the Kingdom of Marona, never to forsake my duty except in the honorable retirement of my Oath or death.”

As he spoke the words, he envisioned the entire continent, from the eastern shores of Orhal to the Western Wood of Fenrir.

He imagined the majestic rolling hills of the central territory of Marona and the colorful sprawl of its capital.

He imagined the three-hundred-foot plateau overlooking the city, and the castle built into the stone.

He imagined the river that gushed past the fortress into a magnificent waterfall, and the bridge that spanned the waters that led to its perilous drop.

Fate’s Landing.

The moment the bridge entered his mind, so, too, did a memory.

Hattie stood by the marble railing in a scarlet dress, its hem fluttering against her shins.

She was laughing at a joke he’d made, the sound lost to the roar of the falls.

They were shrouded in a haze of mist, delirious with the exhilaration of such close proximity to the water’s force.

But the thing that thrilled Noble most was the way she’d abruptly sobered, stared into his eyes, and said, I’m in love with you .

Deep down, Noble’s unavoidable truth was this: nothing in the world made his heart feel as full as Hattie’s presence—not even the realm.

So, when Noble—kneeling before the ledger, his father, and the king—tasted the bitter rejection of the Oath in the back of his throat…he wasn’t even surprised.

But he was ashamed .

The magnitude of it came on slowly, like the cracking of ice on a distant mountainside.

Kalden Asheren’s son, failing the Oath of the Order of the Mighty.

For a moment, Noble forgot to breathe. As a shocked silence swept across the grounds, he was buried by the avalanche of his father’s crumbling expectations.

His mother’s delayed gasp shook him from his stupor. Whispers swept through the crowd. Noble looked up, directly into the eyes of his father. Kalden appeared neither pained nor angry; his face was hard and blank as granite. Crushing .

What happened after that was a blur.

Noble rose to his feet and left the dais, lingering only long enough to watch Brendan’s triumphant bid and Kalden’s proud grin—a grin Noble had never seen on his father’s face before.

Then, after the ceremony, the argument: his father’s fury, his mother’s tearful pleas for Kalden to have compassion, and the ringing in Noble’s ears as he packed up his things and left Castle Wynhaim for good.

Not knowing where else to go, Noble had traveled west into Fenrir Territory. He’d considered seeking Hattie out in Poe-on-Wend, desperate to know how her new life was treating her—but Noble had already put her in enough danger. The king himself had demanded no one contact her.

He went to Fenrir City instead. In the days following, he met an Adept of the Order of the Arcane who was in search of would-be knights for an experimental Order under the Lord of Fenrir’s banner. There were promises of superior strength and glory, and Noble hadn’t thought —he’d simply joined.

Becoming a Knight of the Order of the Morta was just one mistake in a long series of failures.

Failing Hattie by breaking her heart on that bridge.

Failing to contain the rumors about her father that ultimately forced her away .

Failing his father and the Mighty.

Failing the mission of his Order.

Failing Phina with his inability to alchemize a cure.

But seeing the cold shock on Hattie’s face in the training yard with Oderin today—fear and betrayal and disbelief— that was his worst failure yet.

He knew he shouldn’t have showed up at Hattie’s sparring session.

Knew it was a bad idea when he contacted Oderin, arrived at the training yard, when Hattie had picked up her sword.

The problem wasn’t knowing better . It was the fact that apparently, he no longer had any Fates-damned self-control. Not when it came to her .

All his life, he’d tried to do the right thing by keeping his true feelings from her, but no amount of logic or self-loathing could dull his desire.

In the gardens two nights ago, he’d tried to keep his hands off her, but her skin had looked so soft.

At the sight of Hattie’s goosebumps, her blush, her arousal… his resolve had simply snapped.

He’d given her a chance to change her mind, to ask him not to share how he truly felt, but she’d demanded his truth anyhow. He’d found he could no longer deny her, so he’d been honest with Hattie for the first time in their lives.

And today, she’d learned just how wretched he truly was.

An actual monster.

Just the sight of the black blood welling on his skin had been enough to awaken the cruel, awful curse inside of him. He’d had to leave immediately—not just to protect his secret and spare himself a little humiliation, but to keep the curse from taking over, as it did in his nightmares.

Even now, as Noble wove his way through the streets of Fenrir—following the quickest path back to the Royal Inn—his fingertips ached with the threat of claws. But not once did he remove his hand from the shameful blood beneath his palm .

When he burst through the door of his room, he quickly closed himself inside, rushing over to the newest vials Phina had given him.

Hattie’s Black Lace tincture. He ripped the cork out of the bottle with his teeth and drank the purple liquid in three gulps.

Then he gritted his molars, waiting for the Hylder’s influence to take hold. He counted to twenty, thirty.

Finally, the abomination in him slackened, falling again into slumber.

Noble wasted no time. Still shaking with adrenaline, he went to the small wash basin in the corner, and—doing his best not to look too closely—rinsed the beads of coagulating black blood off his arm. Then he swiftly wrapped a bandage around the cut, biting one end of the cloth to tighten the knot.

When he was done, he sank to his knees on the floor, buried his face in his hands, and growled into his palms.