The Crown of Oaths and Curses (The Mortal Fates #1)

by J. Bree

Firna’s explanation of the witches' betrayal had caught her temper and set it alight. Working tirelessly to burn off that energy, she’s a fury of limbs and brute force.

Watching her pour her magic into the earth was difficult, my hand hovering by the hilt of my sword the entire time as I waited for those silver eyes of hers to flick up to me and hurl that power in my direction.

She broke a curse a few nights ago, kept two high-fae soldiers unconscious for hours, broke out of her cell, held Roan's life in her hands as she dug poisoned arrows out of his chest, and still, her magic hasn't waned. If anything, it's grown.

“What in the Fates has she done?” he rasps, his voice ringing with wonder before he has a chance to hide it. “She walked out there, gave a blood offering to the earth, and in return it gave her…life.”

no matter our misgivings, there's no denying it. The fate of our lands, which I was so certain was to be destroyed by the witches, may yet find salvation.

Airlie scoops her son into her arms with practiced ease, no longer holding him as though he's nothing but a dream. She’s come to terms with his safe arrival, enough to be sure he's not going to disappear the moment she closes her eyes, and pride shines in her every action.

“I trust that witch with my husband's life, just as I trusted her with my son. Roan said all along that the Fates have led you to her for a reason.

She's not just your mate, Soren, she’s the future queen of the Unseelie high fae and the Southern Lands. My loyalty is to y...

You and Tauron are suspicious enough for the rest of us. I’ll spend my time tendi...

I scowl, but Airlie waves it at me with a smile. “Rooke said to all of us that the high fae have forgotten. Maybe we should work on remembering some things, Cousin.”

I scoff at her and the ridiculous idea from my Fates-cursed mate. A war is raging that doesn’t care how many innocent lives are taken, and yet the witch wants us to spend our days reading and telling stories of a time long gone, a past filled with greatness that we can never hope to get back to?

She’s here to undermine us, to drive a wedge between me and my closest confidants, and I can see it h...

“No, Soren. I'm going to read our history and try to remember the purpose of the high fae—the one that led the First Fae to rule our kingdom in the first place. It might be too late for us all, I don’t know, but maybe I can teach my son a different way.”

When the silence falls over the room once more, Airlie clears her throat and hands the witch the baby without hesitation. As she leans over Roan's sleeping form, her cheek pressed against his, she murmurs quietly into her husband's ear, low enough that the witch wouldn’t be able to hear it, but I can.

The witch’s healing work has put some color back into Roan’s cheeks, thank the Fates, and I'm glad Airlie didn’t see him when I first got him back here. I have no doubt she would still be sobbing.

Until the witch proves my suspicions, it’s better to sit back and watch her, to let her comfort Airlie and let her guard down.

“Your task is your son, and mine is Roan. If we work together now, we’ll see them both through this season and safely into each other’s arms. We’ve already broken a curse between us—this injury is nothing to that.”

but her eyes are trained on me, and I wonder how long she’s been watching me put the soldiers through their paces. Whether she'll admit it or not, she looks impressed, a keen assessment of many long centuries of hard work.

The soldiers don’t comment about the witch anymore, something akin to respect in their eyes as they watch her pass. Saving Roan's life and caring for him through his healing might have been enough for her to creep beneath their defenses and go in for the kill.

Aura would have more luck getting blood out of a stone than sympathy from Firna.

The calm and fierce mare Northern Star has been saddled for me once more, and the prince holds her reins out to me. I murmur a quiet thank you as I take them, because my manners are still intact. Theirs are all strangely missing.

will be worth it. Loath as I am to admit it, Roan’s life is too.

Tyton begins to fidget in his seat, growing more uncomfortable the closer we get, and I know the trees are taking hold of his mind. I envy that he can hear them from this far away.

I can mourn my home on the return ride.

“They know we've brought her. They want the Favored Child. They want her to stay.” Soren glares at me before turning back to spur his horse on faster. “Tell the trees she's only stopping by. They’ll have to find a different child to keep.”

Tyton shakes his head, his horse still calm under a sure rider. “They don't like that. You shouldn't fight with them, Soren. They're older than we are.”

A smile flirts at the edge of my mouth and, misreading it, Reed cringes at my side. “We're going to trust the witch with our lives and sanity? Your Highness, please reconsider. This is a terrible idea.”

Prince Soren obviously has a lot of faith in his cousin, because I’m not sure Tyton will make it out of here still sound of mind.

The trees were terrified we wouldn’t come home.

but it doesn't bother me. None of it does, because I'm finally home.

The trees didn’t try to stop him from entering or ask for a sacrifice from him, an endorsement all their own.

I’m tired of teaching them things their kind should never have forgotten in the first place.

The forest has left the clearing untouched, an act of mourning and repentance for the single, detrimental misstep that cost the forest the Ravenswyrd witches it loved so dearly.

If I shut my eyes, I can still see my coven where they once lay in death.

“They're all gone,” he whispers, his voice cracking as he kneels to press his hands amongst the blooms.

Peony hadn't settled into her place within the coven yet. She was brash and bold but gentle in the way all Ravenswyrd witches were. Fiery red hair to match her wit, she was an only child, and so she spent most of her time with my siblings and I, never truly lonely in the coven bursting with witchlings. She was one of my closest friends, full of raucous humor, and she had a crush on my younger brother, Willow.

When we built the funeral pyre and moved the bodies of our dead to it, Pemba told me he thought Willow must’ve run to her when the massacre began, thinking of her safety before his own.