2. Duty
Duty
Faren
The strike vibrated through Faren’s breastplate into his sternum, sending him stumbling backward. Dust swirled around his legs as he regained his breath.
Warner chuckled heartily and swung his practice sword with a cocky flourish. “Distracted, are we?”
Faren flashed him a winning grin. “Only because fighting you is rather unexciting.”
The training yard at Castle Might was filled with the clamor of sparring knights.
Metallic clatter, raucous laughter, grumbles, cheers, and the scuff of boots.
On the opposite end of the yard, archers were practicing trick shots with a thwack, whoosh, thud as their arrows sunk into straw-stuffed targets.
The mood was boastful, but good natured.
From the sidelines, Shae snorted. “You two fight like children,” she said, biting into an apple.
Faren and Warner both glared at her, then reset their stances and crossed swords. In unison, they chanted the traditional, “Fate, Fortune, Death,” then began again.
Faren took the offensive this round, advancing on Warner with confident strides, practicing his reverse grip.
Warner met his efforts with precise, unhurried blocks.
As sparring partners, they were well matched: similar in height and stocky build, both proficient with shortswords, and where Warner was perhaps quicker on his feet, Faren possessed more finesse.
As they fought, sweat beaded on Faren’s temples and along his spine.
He enjoyed the rhythmic give and take, his muscles flexing and stretching with a symphony of endorphins.
Unlike when he first took his Oath as a young buck eager to prove his mettle, Faren had, over time, cultivated a sense of ease in his skill. He relished the assuredness of his own mastery.
“Booooring!” Shae heckled.
“Fuck off,” Warner called back, swinging his sword at Faren’s head.
With a grunt, Faren deflected the ballsy attack, advancing with the detached, practiced exactitude of a seasoned fighter.
Faren had been a proud Mighty Knight for ten years, working diligently to earn his place in this esteemed Order.
As the second son of a noble family, his position in the pedigree was rather unimportant; Faren wanted nothing more than to set himself apart, and what better way to achieve greatness than to serve the realm?
The problem was, as of late, he’d found his usual guard shifts, the repetitive training sessions, and the general pomp and ceremony…
tedious. He had more than demonstrated his obedience and talent over the years—but a life of meaning wasn’t made simply by wearing golden armor and making rounds. He wanted to lead.
That was the true reason for his distractedness; it wasn’t overconfidence that made his mind wander, but ambition.
He’d recently caught wind of brewing trouble in the west, and the need for a trustworthy Mighty Knight to embark on a clandestine mission outside the city.
Faren knew it was the perfect way to advance within the ranks—to reach that next step on his path to glory: Captain—and he had submitted his name for consideration.
Just thinking of the opportunity had him preoccupied all over again, allowing Warner to land another embarrassing blow, this time on the cap of Faren’s shoulder.
The pain was blunt, halfhearted, but it still rang through his touch magic like a bell.
Shae threw the core of her apple at him, booing.
“Hard to feel smug when victory comes so easily,” Warner remarked, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Faren shook out his arm. “Are you…complaining about winning?”
“Is it a win if it’s handed to me on a gold platter?”
The two of them swiveled as Shae sauntered into the ring. “You’re useless today, Faren,” she said, “even more than usual.” She flipped one of her daggers in the air, caught it by the blade, and used the sharp tip to scrape a bit of apple skin from between her teeth. “My turn.”
“We’re two and two,” Faren said, gesturing at Warner. “Give us one more round.”
“Not my say,” Shae said, jerking her chin in the direction of an orange-clad castle squire on the sidelines. “Seems it’s time for you to find out about that mission.”
Faren’s chest hummed as if he’d been struck in the breastplate all over again, a mix of anxiousness and excitement vibrating through him.
Fast clouds swept overhead, revealing and concealing the sun, their shadows making strange patterns in the dirt.
He handed Shae his practice sword and strode out of the circle of dust that marked the sparring area.
“Good luuuuuck,” she sang.
“Don’t need it,” he called back. He felt good about his prospects. Self-assuredness was a shield, and Faren utilized it whenever possible, relishing the strength it lent him.
He approached the squire. “You’ve need of me?”
Rather than speaking, the young man bobbed his head, then turned, silently leading Faren along the circumference of the training yard.
Knights called out to Faren with friendly hellos and teasing jokes; he responded with laughter and jest, keeping his tone light. His friend Lee aimed a pair of arrows at one of the archery targets and fired in quick succession, sinking two bullseyes before offering Faren an optimistic grin.
Like any family, there was plenty of squabbling and conflict among the Mighty Knights of Fenrir, but Faren cherished the camaraderie.
He went out of his way to help new recruits with training, to trade shifts so that his friends could take time off, to always lend a hand when someone in his regiment needed assistance.
He enjoyed fostering those bonds, demonstrating his value, serving his Order with care and integrity.
He would be proud to carry out those tasks as a captain someday—and he hoped that today he’d be given the chance to prove his worthiness.
A crisp autumn breeze ruffled Faren’s hair as he was led through a narrow walkway and into the fortress’s inner bailey.
There, the larger-than-life statue of Noble the Mighty, first Order Knight of Fenrir, stood resolute in the bright sunshine.
Faren saluted the statue as he passed. His Major’s office was located in the barracks, but to Faren’s surprise, the squire continued in the direction of the keep—which could only mean one thing: Faren had been summoned by Lord Haron himself.
It was a good sign, but: “I’m rather disheveled from sparring,” Faren said to the squire. “If I am to have an audience with the Lord, may I—”
“There will be no delay,” the squire said, clipped.
Very well. Faren raked his fingers through the ends of his hair and buffed a smudge out of his golden breastplate; that would have to be enough.
Inside Castle Might, the squire led Faren down the long corridor toward the guarded double doors of the throne room.
Faren drew a steadying breath, focusing on the sensation of his lungs expanding and the hug of his breastplate against his chest. He kept his strides languid but purposeful as the guards opened the doors and welcomed him seamlessly into the grand space beyond.
Though the ceiling inside was vaulted, the temperature of the room was a few degrees hotter than the corridor, thanks to the stained-glass windows that splashed colored sunlight onto the tile.
Sweat prickled along Faren’s spine and underneath the straps that held his armor in place, the fabric of his tunic chafing his clammy skin.
He resisted the urge to tug at his collar, and instead used his touch magic to numb the discomfort, maintaining his air of calm.
Lord Haron sat on his raised throne at the other end of the chamber, one leg hooked over the armrest, a pointed shoe dangling off his white-socked toe. Flanking him like a pillar of gold was Faren’s superior, Major Oderin Farkept, along with eight royal guards.
Having grown up among the upper classes of Lothgaim, Faren was no stranger to opulent spaces and individuals of importance, but this room in particular roused in him a slight uneasiness. After all, according to the Mirror of Death, the Fates predicted he’d meet his end upon these marble tiles.
He put that out of his mind as the squire broke off, allowing Faren to approach the throne platform on his own. When Faren was a respectable distance away, he dropped to a knee on the hard floor, bowing before his Major and Lord.
“Seems we have interrupted his training,” Lord Haron said to Major Farkept in a nasal tone.
Faren resisted the urge to apologize for his appearance and kept his chin tucked.
“Faren Hayward is a dedicated knight,” Oderin said, his tone resonant and authoritative. “Hence my recommendation.”
Faren bit his cheek to stop himself from smiling.
“I require someone supremely loyal,” Lord Haron said, and because Faren had yet to be given ease, he could not look up to see whether the Lord spoke to him or his Major. “Someone with bravery and discretion.”
There was a long pause in which no one spoke.
“Faren Hayward, do you claim to be these qualities?”
Faren recognized the passing seconds as a test. He kept his head down, waiting for explicit permission to speak.
Finally, Lord Haron gave a satisfied humph, and said, “At ease.”
Faren dipped his head lower, then rose to his full height. He kept his shoulders back and his chin up as he addressed his Lord. “I don’t presume to claim any one quality, but instead let my actions speak of my character.”
Lord Haron tipped his head, appearing less than amused. “And what actions might prove your worth for my mission?”
“I recounted Faren’s most notable deeds in my report,” Oderin cut in. His blue gaze flicked to a sheet of paper resting at the foot of the throne, where it must’ve been discarded.
The Lord lowered his leg from the armrest, resettling into a more upright seat. “I tire of reports. I want to hear him recount his own deeds.”
Faren spoke clearly, happy to name his victories.
“I am reigning champion of swordplay at the last three years of Mighty Games—proof of my skill. I have not once missed a shift or engagement—proof of my reliability. And, as I vowed when I took my Oath, there is nothing I hold in higher esteem than the realm I serve—proof of my loyalty.”
The Lord waved a hand, unimpressed. “What of your secret keeping?”
“In all my time serving as a Knight of the Order of the Mighty, I have never once felt the warning of my Oath,” Faren stated, not without a note of pride in his tone. “You can check the Ledger.”
The Lord narrowed his eyes. “What do you know of this mission?”
“Not much for certain,” Faren said. “I do not deny hearing gossip about the quest, but I only know what Major Farkept relayed to me.”
“Which is?”
Faren heard footsteps approaching from the double doors, but his attention did not waver from the Lord. “You wish to send a Mighty Knight to investigate the fall of Yar-on-Gray,” he said. “Due to the nature of the incident, you seek someone honorable and discreet.”
“That is true,” the Lord said, sounding pleased. “Are you prepared for your talents and loyalty to be tested by the demands of this mission?”
“I welcome the honor of your trust in this delicate matter.”
“I seek a knight with unwavering courage, determination, and confidence.”
Faren couldn’t help but lift his chin. Smile. “I am your man.”
From behind him came a snort. “Suck his cock already, would you?” a female voice taunted.
Shocked by the crude insubordination, Faren swiveled—
—and his breath lodged in his throat.
Because sauntering into the throne room, dressed in all black, was the only person on the continent truly capable of shaking Faren’s confidence.