Page 129 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
When I reached the pinnacle of the knoll, Igasped.
Approximately sixty white tents dotted the valley below. Campfires cast orange orbs of light, sparks zipping toward the sky. Men and women sat around warming their hands, drinking from mugs. Other soldiers crisscrossed the open field carrying supplies or leading horses, their armor glinting. Flags had been planted outside a few of the tents, and though it was still dark, I had no trouble recognizing the richness of the hue, nor the seven-pointed star stitched into the center.
A Maronan camp.
Two riders were approaching from the valley below. One held the horn I must’ve heard earlier, while the other carried a large and menacing spear. Henren met them halfway down the hill, bringing our party to a halt.
Corla’s leg brushed mine as she sidled up to me, boxing me in between herself and Breen.
“Where are we?” I whispered. “What is this?”
“Keep your mouth shut,” Corla said.
“You were tasked withkillingalchemists, Henren, not bringing them here,” the soldier with the spear said.
“I require an audience with the captain,” Henren said.
“The captain is busy.”
“Not for this.”
I leaned out of my saddle toward Breen, whispering, “Who is your—”
Corla reached over and squeezed my broken arm, causing me to cry out.
The guards’ attention flicked to me—then back to Henren.
“Who is your captive?” Spear Soldier asked.
“Hattie Wynhaim,” I said, prompting another terrible squeeze from Corla that had me panting through my teeth.
Horn Soldier chuckled. “Not possible.”
But Spear Soldier urged his horse closer, eyes narrowing on me as he studied me in the dark. The way he catalogued my features—I recognized that level of careful observation. He must’ve been a sight magician.
“That’s quite the claim,” he said finally.
Among Maronan soldiers, my identity had the potential to be positiveorperilous. But I was done hiding. “Yes,” I replied, “it is.”
He stared at me a moment longer, and whatever he saw…it must’ve been enough. “Very well,” he said, pivoting his horse toward camp. “This way.”
Corla grabbed my horse’s reins, assuming control of my mount.
“What is this?” I asked again, looking around at the camp. The weapons. The Maronan flags planted in Fenrir’s soil. “Who is your captain?”
Corla snarled at me, no doubt seconds away from squeezing my broken arm a third time—but Spear Soldier turned around in his saddle, answering my question without hesitation.
“This is a war camp, sweetheart,” he called back, “under orders from Mighty General Kalden Asheren, overseen by Captain Brendan Harrow.”
45
Monster
Noble
Noble sat with his back to a tree. His wrists were bound behind his back, eyes covered in a blindfold, scraps of wool cloth shoved in his ears. With two of his senses limited, the world around him seemed soft, muted. He breathed deeply, smelling leaves and soil. In spite of his vulnerable position, he felt…peaceful.
Which was the intent.
