Page 65 of Fate’s Sweetest Curse (Mirrors of Fate #2)

“It’s uncommon for captains to reveal sensitive information to prisoners,” Brendan replied blandly.

“So, I am your prisoner, then.”

“Only if you don’t comply.”

I smirked, unamused. “My guess is that you’re here because the Lord of Fenrir is plotting against Marona,” I said, thoroughly enjoying the way his eyes widened. Another thing about Brendan: he always underestimated my wit. “Am I wrong?”

He bit down on another grape. When he swallowed, his Oath tattoo shifted up, then down. “Fenrir has had a long line of egotistical Lords.”

“Must be in the water,” I quipped .

Brendan stiffened. Huh .

I traced my fingers along the etched edge of the glass bowl of truffles. “So, Fenrir has been experimenting. Trying to amass power to overthrow Marona’s hold,” I said. “But Lord Haron made a mistake, altered nature—”

“ Hattie ,” Brendan warned, clearly surprised by what I knew.

I wiggled the fingers of my injured arm, reminding him of what I’d encountered. There was no doubt in my mind that Henren had just reported to Brendan the full extent of tonight’s happenings.

“My theory is that you’re camped here because of an impending conflict,” I said.

“Perhaps also to keep the curse from spreading into Marona. And in the meantime, this is a convenient place to conduct missions into Fenrir’s capital.

” I paused, thoroughly enjoying the dumbstruck look on his face. “How am I doing?”

“You don’t know what you’re meddling with, Hattie.”

“Yet I’m close, aren’t I?” I taunted. “Folks love telling me not to meddle. Love to underestimate me, too. But I’ve always been a curious person.” I gave Brendan my most thoughtful frown. “Here’s what I don’t understand: why kill the alchemists who are trying to clean up Lord Haron’s mess?”

Brendan paused with a grape halfway between the platter and his mouth. “Clean up?”

I waved my good hand dismissively. “Contain. Cure. Whatever you’d like to call it.”

Brendan dropped the grape and braced both hands on the table; one of the nearby oil lamps illuminated the underside of his chin, cheeks, and eyes, giving his face a menacing appearance. “ Solve ,” he said. “That’s what I would call it.”

As in: solve the mission of Noble’s former Order.

But how could that be? Phina might’ve kept us in the dark about the origins of the study, but it’d been clear from the beginning that her research was meant to undo the curse, not solve the problem and succeed in the Lord’s designs.

Right?

She had never explicitly told me the study’s purpose, though, had she? I’d just assumed.

Brendan stood tall again, folding his big arms across his golden breastplate.

“Interesting,” he said, easily reading my surprise.

“They’ve kept you in the dark, then. Can’t say I’m not relieved to learn that you weren’t willfully a part of a program to create…

well…” He pointed at my arm, which was apparently our code for that which he could not speak.

“Nonetheless,” Brendan went on, circling around the side of the table, “you are complicit in the crimes of Fenrir. Sending assassins to a school isn’t ideal, but we’re on the verge of war, Hattie, and drastic measures must be taken to secure the future of our kingdom.”

“You’re lying,” I said.

“I am not,” he assured me, and—

—and I couldn’t bring myself to doubt him.

The truth of the matter was, I had been looking for a cure, but who’s to say that the moment I found one, it wouldn’t have been used to further Lord Haron’s twisted research?

After all, containing the curse was likely just a step away from controlling it.

And the moment he and his Arcane Adepts succeeded in creating a curse they could control…

the Fate of the Seven Territories would be at risk.

Had Phina been lying to us? Or was she in the dark, too?

“You’re in shock.” Brendan was standing close, now. He reached up to caress my injured elbow, thumb stroking the bare skin there, and I cringed—but not out of pain. “Why don’t you rest?” he murmured.

“Why kill the alchemists, though?” I asked. “Why not question them?”

“Your research isn’t valuable, it’s corrupt. Besides,” he added dismissively, “we already know plenty. ”

I stepped back, and Brendan released my arm. “Are you going to kill me , then?” My tone betrayed my genuine concern.

Brendan frowned down at me, his expression deceivingly doting. He was shorter than Noble, but he was still taller than I was, with a menacing bulk that he knew how to use.

“There has been a new development,” Brendan said after a pause. “One I hope you can help me with.” He lifted a palm, gesturing toward the front of the tent.

My feet moved of their own volition, carrying me forward with hesitant curiosity. Instinctively, I lifted my satchel off the chair and slung it over my good shoulder. When we reached the entryway, Brendan swept one of the tent flaps to the side, allowing me to pass through.

Outside, the air was cool. The night lingered, its darkness freckled with firelight and the pale, ghostlike figures of the surrounding tents.

A crowd of knights and soldiers stood in a half circle, ringing the clearing just outside Brendan’s pavilion.

In the middle of the open space, five guards held onto chains that led to a single prisoner.

My footsteps faltered. Brendan caught me, his fingers digging into the narrowest part of my waist. Everywhere his body touched mine, I recoiled—but I couldn’t stand on my own. Not at the sight of Noble in the center of the crowd.

He’d been stripped down to his trousers, his feet bare. He wore shackles around his ankles and wrists, an iron collar around his throat. A chain extended from each metal cuff to one of the guards. His head hung, black wavy hair obscuring his face in a posture of defeat.

A small sound escaped me—a strangled gasp. Noble looked up, seeing all in a matter of moments:

The dried blood on my sternum.

The sling around my broken arm.

Brendan’s fingers clutching my hip.

The filth on my dress .

Then my eyes.

He held me with his gaze for three seconds, four, and that stare was filled with novels worth of apologies and explanations and love and pain and promises—so many words that an entire library wouldn’t be able to contain all he said to me with that look. Volumes of longing and tenderness and regret.

But it was the warning in his expression that worried me. And the way he was panting, his bare chest shining with sweat, rising and falling with rage…

He’d come for me. With Mariana , I was sure of it. And— Fates —what of the Morta? How had Noble contained himself? How had he not turned?

How had Brendan found him?

There was a black streak of blood on Noble’s swollen lip. Evidence of an altercation. Which meant Brendan knew what Noble was—he had to.

I looked up at Brendan, still pressed against me, too close for comfort.

I was afraid. Petrified.

But I was also uncontrollably, incandescently furious. How dare he chain up Noble like a war prize? How dare he think I’d want to help him when the love of my life was in shackles?

“Help with what?” I asked, my words guttural and slow—barely contained.

Before Brendan could answer, chaos erupted.