Page 123 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
Because the Mirrors of Fate belonged to Fenrir—relics of the merging of Fenrir Territory with the Kingdom of Marona some seven centuries ago—the Mirrors only toured beyond the limits of their home territory once every seven years. However, they were brought to the king and queen anytime, upon request, which gave those in the royals’ inner circle the chance to look upon their Fates with more frequency than the rest of the Seven Territories.
The first time Noble had looked into the Mirrors of Fortune and Death, he’d seen the willow tree in the courtyard at Castle Wynhaim as his Fortune and the steel of a sword entering his chest as his Death. His father called it an honorable Fate—a sign he’d die serving as a knight (“For the king, no doubt,” Kalden had added proudly, clapping Noble—barely thirteen at the time—on the back).
But Noble’s Fate differed each time the Mirrors visited Marona. His death changed from battle scenes to old age and back again, never quite the same. Meanwhile, his Fortune had shifted from the willow to the riverbank where he and Hattie picnicked to the curve of her freckled cheek. He’d liked that last one. But that, too, had disappeared. Afterhe joined the Order of the Morta, his Mirror visions had gone entirely blank.
Empty.
When Noble had first run into Hattie in Waldron, he’d wondered if his Fortune had changed again. He’d attended the Mirror Festival among Hattie’s friends and neighbors, justifying the risk of folks witnessing his strange Fate with his hope that he’d seesomething. Yet it had remained blank—proof of his enduring wickedness. And while few folks in Waldron seemed curious about the reclusive metalworker’s future—especially in the chaos of the celebration and then Anya’s shocking Fate—he’d been ashamed to learn thatHattiehad still witnessed his vacant future.
He’d thought the blankness wasbecauseof his monstrousness. After all, no cursed beings had a Fate—and, after fully turning, a monster’s presence could warp the Fates of other beings, too. It’d been a comfort to hear the whispers in Waldron about Anya and Idris’s blank futures—proof that perhaps it wasn’t just curses that made the Fates uncertain about a person’s outcomes. It’d given Noble hope that there was still time—before he turned thirty and his Fate became fixed—for him to find his way back to that sweet vision of Fortune.
Of Hattie.
Would Nobleeverfeel like that future wasn’t slipping through his fingers?
They were twenty the year the Mirror of Fortune had shown Hattie as Noble’s greatest Fortune. It’d been three years since Hattie confessed her love for him on Fate’s Landing. Three years of enduring the wretched temptation of her and fearing all the ways he might ruin her life if he gave into their desires. But that year, he’d wondered. Hoped. Questioned if somehow the societal rules keeping them apart could be overcome.
Then, a different sort of Fateful day came.
Noble had been sparring with Brendan in the training yard at Castle Wynhaim—and losing, as usual. Their session had ended prematurely when a shove of Brendan’s shield had dislocated Noble’s middle finger; he’d gone to the barracks to see if one of the off-duty, medically trained castle guards could reset it before it got too swollen. With his finger swaddled in a makeshift splint, Noble had cut through the stables on his way back to his family’s small cottage in the eastern ward.
The castle grounds were abustle with newcomers that day, as the Lord of Lothgaim and his son, Archer, Heir of Lothgaim, were visiting. Raina had been engaged to Archer since she was fourteen, their ceremony set for the day she turned thirty, as was custom among nobility (when it came to political marriages, no one wanted any surprises, so arranged marriages were not sealed until both parties’ Fates were fixed). Raina claimed to have hated Archer since the moment she met him a couple years prior, which meant that Noble hated him, too, no explanation needed.
So, when Noble happened upon a pair of Lothgaimian footmen gossiping about their heir as they unloaded trunks from a carriage just outside the barn, Noble had stopped. Ducked into the small storage room at the end of the long corridor of horse stalls. Crouched behind a stack of grain bags. Listened as their voices carried just outside the double doors.
“—haps he’s such a prick because he grew up with an absent mother,” said the first footman flippantly—no doubt speaking of Archer. “Selfish of her to live in the country castle, away from her own son, just because of his father’s dalliances.”
The second man laughed, the sound gruff and raspy from years of pipe smoking. “Can’t say I blame the woman, when her husband probably has bastards in every territory.”
“You’re such a fucking romantic.”
“I believe in the sanctity of marriage, is all,” the older footman said.
A trunk landed on the ground with a heavy thud.
“Even a sexless, political one?” the younger man argued. “All nobility fuck outside their vows. Keeps things interesting when they get bored staring out across their estates and ordering folks like us around. You’d do it, too.”
“Not to my dear Mabel.”
“You would if you were married to the Lady of Lothgaim, though. She’s a cold bitch.”
A snort. “That she is.”
“Explains the Lord’s roaming, then,” the younger footman said. “Especially up this way. You ever seen portraits of the queen’s sister?”
“Hedidn’t.”
“Twenty-one years ago.”
“Saidwho?”
“Mr. Pim,” the younger footman replied. “You don’t get a more trustworthy source than the Lord’s long-suffering butler.”
“He truly told you the Lord of Lothgaim bedded Queen Yvira’ssister?”
“The late, lovely Lady Odella,” the younger footman said, adding a respectful, “Fates bless her in rest.”
The wagon squeaked, and another trunk thumped on the ground.
