Page 22 of Fate's Wicked Oath

I was still debating whether or not to taunt Faren with the truth—and wondering whether my Oath would even allow me to—when he piped up again.

“That smells good,” he said.

“You don’t have to make nice,” I said, setting the spoon aside. The beans weren’t quite done yet. “We aren’t friends.”

“And here I’d hoped we’d stay up all night telling each other our deepest darkest secrets.”

I snorted. He chuckled. For some strange reason, the tension dissipated.

The rest of the night, we spent in silence.

9

Swordplay

Faren

Faren woke at dawn, his muscles stiff with cold.

As he stirred, is touch magic catalogued every stone beneath his bedroll. Though he’d undergone survival training as a new recruit, he was unaccustomed to sleeping on the ground. His collarbones ached; his hand prickled from a lack of blood flow, having been propped under his head all night; and his neck felt as if it were one abrupt swivel away from seizing.

While most touch magicians could increase their sensitivity at will—a common practice in the bedroom, but also a useful skill when detecting shifts in temperature or wind ahead of inclement weather—a rare few, including Faren, could alsodulltheir senses. It didn’t mean he could heal at will, but he could certainly fight through pain a lot better than the average knight and tolerate quite a bit of discomfort for the sake of his duty. Last night had come with considerable discomfort, and now that he was awake, he used his magic to ease the worst of his soreness.

It’d been a while since Faren ventured outside the city, and in spite of the lack of proper bedding, the countryside awakened something in him. He had grown up on a rural estate in Lothgaim, with frequent trips to the territory’s capital. He was just as comfortable in ballrooms and cities as he was in the open pastureland and thin forests surrounding his childhood manor. It’d been too long since he rode through wide-open spaces and slept under the stars just for fun, and as his muscles eased, he found that he was eager for the days ahead. The adventure laid out before him.

Faren sat up, rolled his neck, stretched his arms wide—relishing the pull in his pectorals—and glanced around.

They’d made camp beside a modest grove, where the crest of a hillock overlooked a shallow glen. Pale sunlight spilled over the opposite hillside, igniting the red and yellow leaves of the trees at Faren’s back. Fog clung to the slumped grasses, pooling in the shallow valley below.

Mariana stood in its basin, waist deep in a lake of fog, facing the rising sun. She wore her customary black, a shadow in a field of golden mist. Her sword, held aloft, cut slow arcs through the haze, fog swirling in its steely wake. Her breaths were measured, curling up into the clear sky. Choreographing her own deadly solo dance, her movements were as elegant as a lady in a ballgown. For a while, Faren simply watched.

Yesterday’s attempts to needle Mariana with cheer had not gone according to plan. The contempt with which she’d spoken about his Order had angered him—not because he was so easily riled, but because her conviction had been stronger than he’d expected; it was clear that she’d formed her opinions not from stereotypes but firsthand incidences. Faren had drawn on the example of his Major—Oderin’s willingness to see nuance, even in members of the Valiant—and it was from that perspectivethat Faren had risen above his disdain to acknowledge her experience.

She’d taken the apology with all the suspicion of the Lord’s royal wine tester, but her company had become a bit more companionable after that. Faren had fallen asleep unconcerned about waking up to more threats, instead mentally revisiting their barbed conversations, vaguely amused by her brutal wit.

Now, as he watched her move from pose to pose, alone in the breaking dawn, he found himself intrigued. Vexed, but intrigued.

Faren reached for the pair of scabbards beside his bedroll, removed his swords—Honor and Mercy—and made his way down the hill. Their horses were grazing contentedly, their meandering footsteps and general rustling obfuscating Faren’s approach. Mariana remained with her back to him, but she’d picked up speed, flowing through various postures with practiced precision. Little moths fluttered out of the grass, disturbed by her steps as she advanced on an invisible foe.

Faren crept closer, holding his blades aloft, one in each hand. His breath shallowed as he waited for the perfect moment to lunge forward and surprise her. Closer, closer, he raised the weapon in his right hand and—

Mariana spun, meeting it crosswise, blocking his strike with a song of steel.

A laugh gusted out of him, and then they were fully engaged, fighting with a surge of fast swipes and blocks. Faren brandished his twin shortswords, spinning them in a punishing rhythm that forced Mariana to retreat—but she was not deterred. The moment Faren’s left hand wavered on Honor’s hilt, she struck, catching her blade on his cross guard and wrenching the sword from his grip. It landed in the grass with a thud, and she spared no moment to advance, grinning and panting as she came at him, relentlessly striking his one remaining sword until finally,he lost his footing on the uneven ground and fell backward onto his ass.

Mariana leveled her sword at him, its tip a few lenient inches from his chin. “Good morning to you, too,” she said, eyes alight with mirth.

“Best two out of three?” Faren offered.

She removed her blade from its threatening position, nicking his chin playfully as she stepped back. “You’re on.”

Faren retrieved the sword he’d dropped and held both blades aloft. “Would you prefer I fight with one instead of two? To make it fair?”

Mariana smiled, mischief and challenge in her big dark eyes. Backlit by the sun, her black hair blazed red. “If you feel that you need two swords to fight me, then by all means.”

“Double the threat,” he taunted.

“Double the ego, more like,” she retorted.