44. Oaths Intact
Oaths Intact
Mariana
Our separation was for the best.
That’s what I kept telling myself as the miles between Faren and I grew.
As I traveled west with Heris and the others, days passing one by one.
In the barren foothills of the Bone Mountains, wind and rain pummeled us, with intermittent bouts of hail that pelted my cheeks, pinged off my armor, soaked my clothes.
Yet I barely noticed any of it with the heartache radiating through my chest, an emotion so sharp it stung.
It’s for the best.
I kept my stony exterior in place, snarling at anyone who swung their attention in my direction. The knights of the Valiant were accustomed to my taciturn nature, and it was more genuine now than ever—no longer just a defense, but a furious resentment that burned hot in my belly.
My only respite from the anger was the sorrow that swept in after dark.
Curled up in my bedroll—the scent of Faren’s skin still lingering in its fibers—all I could see behind my closed eyelids was the blood blooming an ominous crimson onto his trousers.
At such close range, the bolt had sunk deep; I had felt the injury as if it were my own, a brutal ripping sensation through my magic.
My heart had hammered with the refrain: My fault. My fault. My fault.
That had been the only thing keeping me from running my sword through every villain in that clearing.
Playing my role as a loyal member of the rebellion had been the only way to ensure Faren and Bard’s freedom.
I’d hated every moment of it, every vile lie that’d left my mouth.
I’d hated seeing my brother delirious with pain.
Hated the tremor in Faren’s voice as he bid me to leave. Fuck you.
I’d never known torment like the kind I’d felt as I’d walked away.
Had I been stronger, had I not let Faren in, Heris would’ve never questioned my motives, and Faren and Bard would’ve never been harmed.
Heris had learned the location of my family home early in my sentence, and I had never doubted his willingness to use that knowledge to his advantage; the constant threat had kept me compliant for twenty-four years.
It would keep me compliant now, too. I would not allow Faren or my family to get caught in Heris’s crosshairs.
Because if there was one thing I valued over my freedom, it was the safety of those I cared about.
It’s for the best.
We arrived at the ruins of Kelebraim-on-Gray after nightfall.
Due to its proximity to the geothermal pools, the temperature was warmer in the abandoned-city-turned-Valiant-hideout, with steam slithering through the streets.
Little lanterns and cook fires created orange pockets in the gloom.
Hushed voices noted Heris’s return, and unseen in the surrounding wood, knights shouted, and monsters snarled.
Without a word to my companions, I took Simon to the reconstructed stables in the center of town.
I didn’t like bringing him into monster territory but leaving him with my parents—as I usually did before venturing into the Western Wood—hadn’t been an option.
For tonight, I was glad for my horse’s companionship.
Once I’d removed his tack and set him up with a sack of grain, I sank to the moldy straw floor inside his stall.
Alone at last, with my back to the wall, I cradled my head in my hands.
A soft cry escaped me, and I bit down on my fist, stifling the sound.
Tears tracked down my face, hot against my cool skin.
My muscles ached from tension, and my magic—sticky as sap—clung to the discomfort, making it worse.
The ground was hard, the hay poky through my trousers.
I palpated the crusty wound on my forehead, wincing when I disturbed the dried blood; the gash was a gift from Heris, a backhand strike meant to remind me of who was in command.
Faren’s gentle hands felt like a faraway memory, a half-forgotten dream.
It’s for the best.
Though our plans had gone to shit, Faren and Bard were safe.
Flesh wounds only, I told myself. Faren was smart.
I trusted that he could take care of himself and get Bard home—by now, Bard probably was home.
Sheltered by our parents, tucked into bed with his wife and son, patched up and on the mend.
I imagined Faren there, too—healing, resting, and restoring himself before he returned to Fenrir City to warn Oderin of what was to come.
My only wish was that, once Faren made it back to Castle Might, he would not trouble himself with worrying about me.
Because who was I kidding? I could not double-cross Heris, not when my family was vulnerable.
I wasn’t a storybook hero, destined to save the realm.
I was an accomplice to the villain, desperately scrambling to protect what little I held dear; a no-name character destined to disappear off the page.
Perhaps it was time for me to accept the fact that my Fortune had always been about self-sacrifice. Whether the Valiant rebellion succeeded or failed—whether I achieved my freedom or not—at least my family would be safe from Heris’s retribution.
As for saving the realm, Faren was better off teaming up with his Major and any other Mighty Knights they managed to rally.
And if I saw him again in Fenrir—when I saw him again—it would be safest for both of us if I kept my distance.
Opening up to Faren had only put him in harm’s way, and I refused to make the same mistake I had with Grinnick.
I would not be the harbinger of Faren’s Fated Death.
Still, I almost resented him for giving me a taste of something better. For making me feel like better was possible for someone like me.
I dug the heels of my palms into my eyes until I saw spots, distracting myself from another stab of heartache. It’s for the—
A door banged open. “Mariana, you in ‘ere?”
I wiped the tears from my face and sprung to my feet. Algar—the man who’d shot Faren with a crossbow—was at the other end of the barn. It took all my strength not to wring his fucking neck.
“What now?” I snapped.
“A new Morta’s just been cured and brought in. Heris summoned everyone to see.”
“Why?”
“Just get out ‘ere.”
After giving Simon a soothing pat on the neck, I strode heavy-footed down the corridor and out into the inky night.
Algar’s shape was already retreating into the fog, leading me in the direction of a large plaza where Heris liked to make his demonstrations.
Other knights were gathering, too, collecting around the circumference of the square—not just Bad Blues, but members of other factions as well; I even spotted Ivan, the messenger, among the crowd.
Across the way, I spotted Heris standing on the marble steps of a grand but crumbling building, lording over his Valiant subjects.
I shouldered my way through the crowd of black-clad criminals and blazing torches toward the front—stopping short when I broke through the throng.
A lone man lay in a naked heap in the center of the square.
His skin was a dusky, mottled gray, marred with blue-black veins and scars.
Bruises bloomed across his elbows, knee joints, and torso, marking all the places his human body had been unnaturally stretched in his Morta form.
The gnarled antlers of the monster he’d been remained, as did the long black claws that protruded from his fingertips.
Though he had yet to move, iron cuffs and chains bound his limp wrists. Four Valiant Knights stood over him, their clothing speckled with black blood and the shimmery splatter of the potions I’d brought. They were still panting, their faces stricken.
I had only witnessed a couple transformations and had never stuck around long enough to see what happened when the poor soul woke up.
Now, as the man in the square began to stir, I recalled Heris’s cryptic words a few weeks earlier.
The cure you gave us? It has a…peculiar effect.
Let’s just say that it works in our favor.
Murmurs broke out among the audience as the former Morta lifted his head.
His movements were jerky, inhuman. Ember-like eyes—still glowing faintly with the remnant of his monster form—took in the crowd.
With effort, he pushed up from the ground, getting his bearings.
As he raised his chin, I noticed a thin black ring around his neck, just like mine.
A pair of Valiant Knights approached the former Morta from the sidelines, carrying a piece of timber. The log was at least five inches in diameter and about six feet long. When they presented it to him, he looked at the offering with the same confusion I felt.
“Break it,” Heris ordered.
The man jerked, swinging his attention toward the Valiant leader.
“Break the wood,” Heris repeated, his voice bouncing off the surrounding stone buildings.
The man opened his mouth as if to speak—and hissed.
One of the Valiant Knights standing guard drew his sword. Blue flame ignited, illuminating the man’s brutalized body. “Do as he says,” the knight threatened.
The man glanced between the knight and Heris, blinking bemusedly.
How long had he been in his abominable form?
What did he remember about his life before?
How much of his soul had been corrupted and lost?
If he could no longer speak, could he still understand language? Was there any humanity left inside him?
Hattie had framed the cure as a kindness; the Knights of the Order of the Morta had been men, once, and they deserved a second chance at life—just like Noble.
But Noble had only been a Morta for mere minutes, and no trace of the monster had remained; this man, on the other hand, had probably lived in his abominable form for years.
Maybe even decades. And seeing the state of him now…
I wondered if death was the only merciful Fate left.
“Break the wood,” Heris ordered again.
Did Heris truly expect the cursed creature to snap the timber with his hands? The man didn’t seem to understand; he simply stared at the log.
Heris snapped his fingers, and the knight standing watch lowered his sword against the man’s flank, searing him with the magical flame.
The man screeched—a terrible, otherworldly sound—and swiped defensively at the knight.
He was no more than an animal, frightened and tormented.
The chains rattled, seeming to startle him.
“The wood,” the knight said, waving his sword at the log.
The former Morta eyed the wood. Then, after a considerable pause, he crept toward it on claw-tipped hands and bruised knees.
With a searching glance at the knight still looming over him, the man hefted the log into his lap.
He began to squeeze, angling his elbows out, attempting to snap the wood as if it were a thin sapling instead of a hefty beam.
My breath caught in my throat as I waited, not believing that Heris’s demand could be possible.
Then, with a great splintering crack, the former Morta broke the log in half.
I, along with the rest of the watching knights, gasped.
Not only had Hattie discovered a cure, she’d succeeded in the Lord’s aim to create a soldier more powerful than the average knight.
And unlike Noble—whose Oath had, for some mysterious reason, dissolved when he’d turned back into himself—this man’s Oath tattoo remained. Which meant his leash was still intact.
My attention lifted to Heris atop the steps. He stood with his feet wide, shoulders back, chin up—the posture of a ruler. Firelight flickered in his black breastplate. He was already looking at me, a cruel smile thinning his lips.
Suddenly I understood why Heris had gone to so much trouble to separate me from Faren and get me back to Kelebraim.
It wasn’t my Morta-killing abilities he valued now.
It was my talent for stealing Ledgers. Because whoever controlled the Ledger of the Order of the Morta controlled a power unlike the realm had ever seen before—and it was essential for the Valiant rebellion to remove that power from Lord Haron’s hands before he learned the truth and wielded it for himself.