Page 82 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
He turned, and the look of absolute humiliation on his face—it crushed me.
I stopped beside the statue. “Let’s talk,” I offered. “Please?”
He hesitated only a moment, then turned his back on me, disappearing through the barbican gate, back out into the hubbub of Fenrir City.
I didn’t go after him this time. I sagged, placing a palm on the smooth base of the statue. My fingertips found writing, and with my mind still reeling, I glanced down, reading the inscription.
Noble the Mighty, the First Order Knight of Fenrir.
It was a statue of Noble’s namesake.
A mirthless laugh quaked my chest. Noble’s parents really set him up for failure, naming him after a legend and not a real person. It made me irrationally angry,heartbroken, that he should grow up with that kind of pressure. To feel constantly like he was falling short.
In spite of what I’d just seen—the implications still not fully permeating my consciousness just yet—an overwhelming sense of protectiveness swept over me. I didn’t care about rules, or duty, or assassins, or even black monster blood.Cursedblood.
I cared only for the boy I’d met when I was just eleven years old, a boy already sagging under the weight of expectation. That sense of protectiveness roused me—set me on a path not after Noble, but after answers.
My Noble, that protective part of me said.Mine.
29
Shame
Noble
The air was humid on the day Noble sought to take the Oath of the Order of the Mighty.
In the parade grounds of Castle Wynhaim, he stood among a hundred other prospective Oath-takers, all lined up in neat rows in the searing late-summer sun. A grand stone dais overlooked the field, backdropped by the western wing of the fortress; a magnificent white tent had been erected to shade the numerous witnesses—individuals Noble knew from growing up within the castle walls.
At the back were members of court—siblings and cousins of the royal family, mostly, along with Noble’s mother and other prominent wives—lounging on silk chaises, sipping chilled wine, and snacking on cured meats. Attendants swung massive paper fans back and forth, back and forth, cooling those privileged enough to sit in the shade, while twelve royal guards encircled the tent, on patrol.
In front of the more relaxed congregation were the raised royal thrones. There, King Cassius Braven and Queen Yvira Wynhaim sat, wearing delicate golden circlets atop their heads. To the left of the thrones was the podium that held the Ledger of the Mighty: the magical tome that recorded knights’ names and tethered their Oaths. A ledgermaster—an esteemed Adept of the Order of the Arcane, tasked with overseeing the ledger’s magic—stood behind the podium wearing the customary dusky brown and gold robes, the cowl hood obscuring their face.
And finally, stationed directly to the king’s right, was Noble’s father: Kalden Asheren, General of the Order of the Mighty, leader of the king’s personal guard and Marona’s Mighty legion. His golden armor was splendid, finely tooled around the edges and polished to a high shine; the ornate sword that hung at his hip was as much a part of Kalden as his own right hand. He nodded at each prospective Oath-taker who climbed the stairs of the dais—his acknowledgement an honor in and of itself.
As the most esteemed Order in the Seven Territories, few were admitted into the Mighty—especially the branch that served Marona. Those who’d made it to the parade grounds were of the small percentage that had passed the rigorous physical trials and mental tests. But the Ledger’s magic did not accept just anyone; the Oath itself was the final obstacle.
One by one, the Oath-takers approached the podium and attempted their Oath before Kalden, the ledgermaster, and the rulers. Noble moved with the crowd, sweating profusely in the damp heat. Up ahead, he heard snippets of men and women reciting the Oath that Noble had known by heart since he was a boy.
—I pledge my life to the protection of the realm—
—I will not falter from the Mighty path—
—I vow to hold nothing in higher regard than the sacred honor of my Oath and Order—
That last statement was where most hopefuls failed. If one did not believe deep in their heart that they could adhere to the extreme loyalty the Oath required, the ledger would reject them.
Indeed, Noble heard more rejections than acceptances; pained grunts and sorrowful cries far outweighed the shouts of triumph. He winced at each spurned would-be knight, fearing the possibility of his own dismissal. And he was almost to the front of the line, now—only two hopefuls ahead of him.
He watched as both failed their Oaths.
Then it was Noble’s turn.
He ascended the stairs slowly, keeping his head held high. He reached the king and queen first and sank to a knee, bowing deeply at the couple whose table he’d supped at countless times, whose daughter he loved like a little sister. King Braven offered Noble the smallest of nods, along with a minute tightening of his bearded cheek—the closest he’d get to familiarity in such a formal setting. The queen, on the other hand, was more forthright in her encouragement; her blue eyes seemed to glimmer as she offered him a warm smile.
Their kindness only made Noble more nervous.
As Noble rose from his bow, he saw his mother watching him from her chaise. The pair of women she’d been conversing with were still talking, gesturing with their wine chalices, but Helena didn’t seem to hear them as she stared at her son with irises the same shade of green as his own. The tawny skin around her eyes was tight with tension and seeing her anxiousness…it only worsened his own.
