Page 63 of Fate’s Sweetest Curse (Mirrors of Fate #2)

Monster

Noble

N oble sat with his back to a tree. His wrists were bound behind his back, eyes covered in a blindfold, scraps of wool cloth shoved in his ears.

With two of his senses limited, the world around him seemed soft, muted.

He breathed deeply, smelling leaves and soil.

In spite of his vulnerable position, he felt… peaceful.

Which was the intent.

He would’ve never allowed Mariana to tie him up like this if it weren’t for the proximity of a Morta.

They’d been riding in relative silence, staring out across the shadowy plains, when a monstrous, high-pitched scream had pierced the night.

The sound had taken Noble back to the dungeons of his Order, back to being chained to a wall with arcane magic searing his fingers, listening to the agonized cries of other knights in other cells and trying not to let his inner monster take over.

If the sight of his own blood made him want to turn, Noble was certain that the sight of a Morta—or even an animal afflicted with the disease of a Morta’s bite—would be enough to turn him, too.

It’d been his idea to have Mariana tie him up with their horses.

She had been all too happy to oblige.

Was it dangerous for him to sit here, exposed, with a Morta lurking nearby? Yes. But it was more dangerous to risk turning into a Morta, himself.

Noble breathed deeply, trying not to think too hard about the risk of monsters in his vicinity.

He and Mariana were close on Hattie’s trail now—he’d seen it in the fresh tracks of hoof-trampled earth, trails cutting through the tall grass with folded stalks that had not yet sprung back up.

It had taken immeasurable strength not to go with Mariana, but he couldn’t.

If Hattie was in those woods, facing that monster, Noble had to stay away.

He hated that his absence always seemed to be the safest thing for her—but he was more than happy to hate himself for the sake of her well-being.

So, he sat there, breathing, trying to think of happier memories with Hattie.

The way the snow had glittered in her golden hair the first time he saw her, spying on him from the upstairs window of the keep.

The way her freckles deepened from chestnut brown to a chocolaty umber in the summertime.

The way she braided daisies into her hair on parade days.

Her mischievous smile.

Her laugh.

Her earnestness, her attitude, her romanticism—

The ground tremored with footsteps, announcing Mariana’s return.

Something in Noble’s chest released, like a fist unclenching. He was eager to hear what Mariana had seen—if she’d spotted Hattie. If she’d faced the monster and rescued Hattie amid the chaos.

“It’s about time,” he called out, his teasing greeting distant to his own ears through the wool. “I’m assuming you were successful?”

“Successful, indeed,” a male voice intoned.

The wool was tugged out of Noble’s ears, the blindfold yanked off his head, and Noble looked up to see—

—the very last person he wanted to encounter.

Brendan Fucking Harrow stood in front of Noble with his fists on his hips, flanked by four subordinates carrying torches.

While the soldiers were dressed plainly, Brendan’s chest was fitted with the signature gold breastplate of a Knight of the Order of the Mighty.

The tooling along the edges and the star in the middle was distinctly Maronan—and high-ranking.

Captain .

Noble’s stomach twisted in the same way it had on the day he’d been rejected by the Mighty Oath. Just the sight of the breastplate Noble had failed to earn, on the man whom his father had once referred to as a second son , opened a deep well of shame in his gut.

So Noble tried not to look at Brendan’s Mighty armor too closely.

Aside from the uniform, Brendan looked basically the same as nearly a decade before: dirty blond hair, cruel eyes, and a straight nose above permanently pursed lips.

Though Noble stood six inches taller, Brendan had always been bulkier, and the advantage of Noble’s height was useless when he was seated on the ground, bound, with Brendan looming over him.

“Surprised?” Brendan asked.

“I’m always surprised to see you standing on your own two feet instead of crawling to kiss my father’s boots,” Noble replied.

Brendan lowered himself into a crouch, scowling. “You’ve always been a jealous bastard.”

“Of the two of us, I’m not the bastard. Or wait—you’re an orphan, not a bastard. My mistake.”

Brandan’s eyes narrowed. “Do you really want to taunt your rescuer?”

Resisting the urge to spit on Brendan’s face, Noble smirked. “Fancy me your damsel?”

“In my experience, damsels are more…grateful.”

“Gratitude is irrelevant,” Noble said, “as I am not in peril.”

“Your bindings beg to differ.”

Noble glanced at the soldiers who accompanied Brendan. In his disdain, he’d forgotten how illogical it was that Brendan was here. “What are you even doing in Fenrir? ”

“Do you truly not know?” Brendan asked. “Why else would you be so close to my camp?”

“Your…” Noble frowned.

Brendan was not a mere adventurer, camping in the wilds for the sake of exploration—he was a Mighty Knight of Marona, camped on Fenrir territory.

Which could only mean one thing.

This was bad .

“Oh, you actually are surprised.” Brendan clapped amusedly, then placed his palms on his bent knees and rose to his full (inferior) height.

“You know, I always wondered if the rumors were true. The son of General Kalden Asheren, leaving Marona in shame to join an unknown Order under Fenrir’s banner?

I never quite believed you’d betray your father like that, but”—he jerked his chin, gesturing at Noble’s Oath tattoo—“it seems you have.”

“Fuck off, Brendan.”

“I’d say the same to you, but you can’t. Why is that, hmm ? Who tied you up?”

An eerie whine echoed from far within the forest, followed by a large crash.

Mariana’s killing blow.

The sound of the Morta’s death call rippled through Noble like a stone tossed into a lake, disturbing his calm inner waters; something terrible began to rise from the deep, sliding through the depthless black of his being.

Noble breathed through his nose, hoping that if he remained still, the monstrousness inside him would slip under the surface and return to the depths.

The soldiers shifted uncomfortably, but Brendan didn’t flinch at the Morta’s cry.

He noticed Noble’s discomfort, though, his face brightening with cruel amusement.

He crouched again, appearing utterly delighted to explain the situation to Noble.

“Fenrir Territory has a long history of reckless magic and sordid research, but Lord Haron has been particularly naughty with his Arcane Adepts.” Brendan glanced in the direction of the Morta’s dying wail.

“He has insulted the Fates by endeavoring to alter nature . The results have been rather nasty, although”—he lifted a finger—“seeing as you clearly recognized that sound just now, I don’t believe any of this is news to you.

” Brendan smiled, haughty and cruel. “Your father tasked me with investigating Lord Haron’s operation. ”

“The assassins,” Noble said.

“ Knights ,” Brendan clarified. “A new Order under my stead, tasked with keeping Maronan interests secure from any and all Fenriran threats.”

“I should’ve known it was you who sent such bumbling, incapable morons to the Collegium.”

“My scouts informed me that those morons are returning to my camp with a prisoner as we speak.”

Noble failed to stifle his flinch.

Brendan brightened. “You know the weasel? I haven’t had the pleasure yet—but I will soon.”

Brendan didn’t know his morons took Hattie ? He was even more inept than Noble would’ve guessed. It took an incredible amount of focus for Noble not give in to the monster’s desire for flesh and fury. It would feel so good to sink his sharp teeth into Brendan’s neck.

Noble’s chuckle was mocking. “You’re in over your head.”

Brendan didn’t hesitate. The prick threw a punch, striking Noble squarely in the mouth, splitting Noble’s lip.

Noble spit out the blood.

It was black.

Three seconds passed in which they stared at it, a dark splotch in the grass between them .

When Brendan looked at Noble again, his eyes were wide with shock and wild with anger. “ That’s the Order you joined?” Brendan snarled. “You fucking traitor.”

Noble’s curse was waking up, snarling and angry. “You’re dead unless you get the vial from my pack,” he said through gritted teeth.

Noble’s rucksack and saddle were heaped at the base of a neighboring tree, his horse tied to its trunk.

He had one Hylder tincture remaining, which he’d foolishly left out of reach, opting to have Mariana tie him up instead.

He hadn’t anticipated this , however. With Brendan taunting him and Hattie in danger, Noble found it hard not to welcome the power, the wrath, the wickedness.

A hiss emanated from his chest as his temples began to throb.

The soldiers flanking Brendan shifted uneasily. “Captain?” one of them prompted.

Brendan glared at Noble a moment longer, then—with a huff—hasted to Noble’s pack, procured the vial, and returned, holding the tincture in front of Noble’s face.

“What happens if you don’t take this?” he asked.

“You die,” Noble snarled, straining against his binds.

“I don’t believe you,” Brendan said.

An involuntary growl burst out of Noble, vicious and low. “You should.”

“I want to see what happens.”

“Have you ever seen a M—” Noble’s Oath cut him off.

“Captain?” one of the soldiers repeated, their voice going high.

Noble thrashed, the ropes around his wrists biting into his skin.

He barely felt the pain as he opened his mouth, snapping his teeth.

His temples throbbed as the grotesque horns of his curse pushed against his skin, stretching it.

Red tinged his vision around the edges. He hissed again, and the sound—it wasn’t human .

His resolve was slipping. The monster was winning. A raw, corrupted sense of power was beginning to course through him like lightning, and Noble couldn’t bring himself to care when he felt like this, the power and glory the adepts had promised him, so strong and fierce and furious and—

A rough hand gripped his face, forcing his mouth open.

He bit the air, trying to sink his teeth into the nearest flesh.

A cold, cloying liquid was poured into his mouth, his jaw held shut with too many hands to fight against, forcing him to swallow, and then…

then the monster was dissipating, his normal vision returning, the pain his head and hands easing.

Then he was just Noble again.

Disgraced son. Failed knight. Traitor.

With the monster again submerged in the lake of Hylder, Noble hung his head. His skin was clammy, muscles weak. The anger remained, but it was smothered by a sense of defeat. He knew the feeling well.

Brendan gripped Noble’s jaw and forced him to meet his eyes. “You’re a Knight of the Order of the Morta.”

He curled his upper lip. “Now who’s surprised?”

Brendan raised a hand as if he’d strike Noble again—then thought better of it.

Noble loosed a harsh, singular laugh.

“Bold of you to laugh in a moment like this.” Brendan stood tall, unsheathed his sword, and rested it against the hollow of Noble’s neck.

Noble lifted his chin. “We both know you won’t do it.”

A flicker of doubt flashed in Brendan’s eyes, confirming Noble’s statement, even as he said, “Oh? And why not?”

Brendan—a hearing magician—tended to forget how easily Noble saw through him.

“You could’ve killed me a minute ago, but you fed me the tincture instead.

” Noble did not mention the fact that the tincture had been his last. He prayed to the Fates he wouldn’t need more Hylder in the coming hours.

“Which means,” Noble continued, slipping into a familiar feigned confidence, “I’m an asset to your cause. ”

Brendan stared at him, mouth twisted into an angry little pout. Because Noble was right. If his father had sent Brendan to Fenrir for information about the curse, they couldn’t afford to kill Noble—at least, not yet.

The moment stretched, and Noble could see Brendan fighting the truth, an inner war evidenced by the tension in his forehead, the narrowing of his beady eyes. Brendan couldn’t get around this—and he despised Noble for it.

Good .

Brendan lowered his sword and gestured to his soldiers. “Unbind him from the tree, but keep his hands tied. He’s coming with us.”