Page 59 of Fate’s Sweetest Curse (Mirrors of Fate #2)

Fears

Noble

T he night was too peaceful for the tempest raging in Noble’s heart.

While starlight twinkled above, he was filled with wind and rain, a thunderous fury streaked with bright, brilliant fear. Yet he sat tall and stoic atop the horse Mariana had secured for him in Fenrir, keeping the storm contained, even as it threatened to tear his inner world apart.

Mariana had kept her word. As they rode out of Fenrir City, she’d explained what happened to Hattie.

How Mariana had been leaving Fenrir’s Ire and heard Hattie screaming her own name—her real name.

How Mariana ran toward the shouting and saw that Hattie’s assailants matched the descriptions from previous incidents.

How she’d watched them carry Hattie away, Mariana opting to notify Noble instead of pursuing them on her own (“Not because I couldn’t take them,” Mariana had said, but she hadn’t bothered to explain her true reasoning).

That had been twenty-four hours ago.

Twenty-two hours ago, they’d found the tracks of Hattie’s captors on the outskirts of the city, heading east.

Eight hours ago, while resting their horses, Noble had spotted a shiny, metallic flash in the grass: one of the pins Hattie used for her hair.

He’d had to take another dose of Hylder to maintain control of the monster inside him, even though a part of him wanted to let it rampage.

Hunt down Hattie’s captors and tear their limbs off one by one.

Now, the eastern flats of Fenrir unraveled before them like a pale ribbon, framed by the forested foothills of the Axe Mountains to the north and the jagged treetops of the Great Forest to the south. Stars twinkled, unobscured by clouds. An owl hooted, answered by the call of another.

Noble’s horse—a bay mare with a quick walk—snatched at the feathery tips of the tall grass stalks, surprisingly energetic considering their almost nonstop pace.

To Noble’s left, Mariana whistled a jaunty tune that made him want to wring her neck.

The calmness of evening and his company was not a comfort, but an insult.

How could the moon shine so brightly when Hattie was in danger?

How could the Fates continue to unspool their cosmic yarn when Noble’s entire future was at stake?

In truth, Noble never had much faith in Fate; his had changed too much over the years.

Because the Mirrors of Fate belonged to Fenrir—relics of the merging of Fenrir Territory with the Kingdom of Marona some seven centuries ago—the Mirrors only toured beyond the limits of their home territory once every seven years.

However, they were brought to the king and queen anytime, upon request, which gave those in the royals’ inner circle the chance to look upon their Fates with more frequency than the rest of the Seven Territories.

The first time Noble had looked into the Mirrors of Fortune and Death, he’d seen the willow tree in the courtyard at Castle Wynhaim as his Fortune and the steel of a sword entering his chest as his Death.

His father called it an honorable Fate—a sign he’d die serving as a knight (“For the king, no doubt,” Kalden had added proudly, clapping Noble—barely thirteen at the time—on the back).

But Noble’s Fate differed each time the Mirrors visited Marona.

His death changed from battle scenes to old age and back again, never quite the same.

Meanwhile, his Fortune had shifted from the willow to the riverbank where he and Hattie picnicked to the curve of her freckled cheek.

He’d liked that last one. But that, too, had disappeared.

After he joined the Order of the Morta, his Mirror visions had gone entirely blank.

Empty .

When Noble had first run into Hattie in Waldron, he’d wondered if his Fortune had changed again.

He’d attended the Mirror Festival among Hattie’s friends and neighbors, justifying the risk of folks witnessing his strange Fate with his hope that he’d see something .

Yet it had remained blank—proof of his enduring wickedness.

And while few folks in Waldron seemed curious about the reclusive metalworker’s future—especially in the chaos of the celebration and then Anya’s shocking Fate—he’d been ashamed to learn that Hattie had still witnessed his vacant future.

He’d thought the blankness was because of his monstrousness.

After all, no cursed beings had a Fate—and, after fully turning, a monster’s presence could warp the Fates of other beings, too.

It’d been a comfort to hear the whispers in Waldron about Anya and Idris’s blank futures—proof that perhaps it wasn’t just curses that made the Fates uncertain about a person’s outcomes.

It’d given Noble hope that there was still time—before he turned thirty and his Fate became fixed—for him to find his way back to that sweet vision of Fortune.

Of Hattie.

Would Noble ever feel like that future wasn’t slipping through his fingers?

They were twenty the year the Mirror of Fortune had shown Hattie as Noble’s greatest Fortune.

It’d been three years since Hattie confessed her love for him on Fate’s Landing.

Three years of enduring the wretched temptation of her and fearing all the ways he might ruin her life if he gave into their desires.

But that year, he’d wondered. Hoped. Questioned if somehow the societal rules keeping them apart could be overcome.

Then, a different sort of Fateful day came .

Noble had been sparring with Brendan in the training yard at Castle Wynhaim—and losing, as usual.

Their session had ended prematurely when a shove of Brendan’s shield had dislocated Noble’s middle finger; he’d gone to the barracks to see if one of the off-duty, medically trained castle guards could reset it before it got too swollen.

With his finger swaddled in a makeshift splint, Noble had cut through the stables on his way back to his family’s small cottage in the eastern ward.

The castle grounds were abustle with newcomers that day, as the Lord of Lothgaim and his son, Archer, Heir of Lothgaim, were visiting.

Raina had been engaged to Archer since she was fourteen, their ceremony set for the day she turned thirty, as was custom among nobility (when it came to political marriages, no one wanted any surprises, so arranged marriages were not sealed until both parties’ Fates were fixed).

Raina claimed to have hated Archer since the moment she met him a couple years prior, which meant that Noble hated him, too, no explanation needed.

So, when Noble happened upon a pair of Lothgaimian footmen gossiping about their heir as they unloaded trunks from a carriage just outside the barn, Noble had stopped.

Ducked into the small storage room at the end of the long corridor of horse stalls.

Crouched behind a stack of grain bags. Listened as their voices carried just outside the double doors.

“—haps he’s such a prick because he grew up with an absent mother,” said the first footman flippantly—no doubt speaking of Archer. “Selfish of her to live in the country castle, away from her own son, just because of his father’s dalliances.”

The second man laughed, the sound gruff and raspy from years of pipe smoking. “Can’t say I blame the woman, when her husband probably has bastards in every territory.”

“You’re such a fucking romantic.”

“I believe in the sanctity of marriage, is all,” the older footman said .

A trunk landed on the ground with a heavy thud.

“Even a sexless, political one?” the younger man argued. “All nobility fuck outside their vows. Keeps things interesting when they get bored staring out across their estates and ordering folks like us around. You’d do it, too.”

“Not to my dear Mabel.”

“You would if you were married to the Lady of Lothgaim, though. She’s a cold bitch.”

A snort. “That she is.”

“Explains the Lord’s roaming, then,” the younger footman said. “Especially up this way. You ever seen portraits of the queen’s sister?”

“He didn’t .”

“Twenty-one years ago.”

“Said who ?”

“Mr. Pim,” the younger footman replied. “You don’t get a more trustworthy source than the Lord’s long-suffering butler.”

“He truly told you the Lord of Lothgaim bedded Queen Yvira’s sister ?”

“The late, lovely Lady Odella,” the younger footman said, adding a respectful, “ Fates bless her in rest .”

The wagon squeaked, and another trunk thumped on the ground.

“You know…she had an illegitimate daughter,” the older footman mused. “Grew up alongside Princess Raina. You don’t think…?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”

“Would surprise the royals, though.” A pause, a grunt, another thud. “The girl’s older than Archer. She would have lawful claim over Lothgaim.”

A harsh laugh. “Fuck, I didn’t think of that. What a mess that would be. Would ruin the whole marriage agreement.”

“Start a war, maybe,” the older footman added.

“You think? ”

“If Archer marries the princess, it’s an amicable union that maintains peace between Marona and one of its most valuable territories.

He, elder; she, higher-ranking. Balanced power.

” The older footman loosed a raspy chortle.

“But the daughter of Queen Yvira’s sister?

Older than Archer and with royal blood? She outranks both of them; she could usurp. ”

“Lothgaimians wouldn’t take kindly to a Maronan assuming power like that.”

“ No one would, but she’d have rightful claim. It would be against Arcane Law and tradition to deny her rule—or seat anyone else in her place.”

Noble’s pulse quickened, his injured finger throbbing painfully with each beat.

His father spoke often about court politics, but Noble never paid much attention—it all seemed so tedious.

But the idea of Hattie having rightful claim to an entire territory according to the Arcane Law—the law that magically bound the entire kingdom—with consequences of the magnitude these footmen discussed…

he didn’t know what to make of it, aside from a numb sort of shock.