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

by J. Bree

It's a stupid question to ask, one of my morality, and though you’ve treated me like a criminal, I have no real reason to wish you dead.

She's nothing like the witches I've met before, and not just because her face is free of any markings. There's no fanatical ideation spewing from her lips, no manic look to her eyes as she stares at me. She's far too calm, given the circumstances and her treatment here.

I pointedly never think of the witch in my bed and what a betrayal of my kingdom it will be when the fires of my anger for her twist into something different.

If the Fates would allow, I’d find someone else to pour that rage into and maybe finally get some sleep, but the thought of touching another female also curdles my gut.

They both treat me like I’m a cornered wraith and they’re being forced to serve their worst nightmare.

Between the iron chains at my wrists and my naked state, someone has decided that I’m incapable of harming any of them in this state. Idiots.

“Are all high-fae females dense and shallow? I'm surprised your husband isn't walking around bleeding at all hours from that tongue of yours.”

“I don't suppose any of you know anything about me or my kind, and I'm not going to waste my breath telling you about such things. It would go in one of your pretty little pointed ears and straight out the other one, coming up against nothing but air.” The maids all gasp and murmur amongst themselves at my gall, but the smile on the princess’s lips stays put.

The oils the maids rub over me have no real fragrance, and they leave behind a residue that makes me want to peel off my skin. It’s not painful, but the oil is poorly made and achieves nothing, a waste of time and resources.

Even the maid's clothing is too fussy for my tastes. Airlie notices my expression. “Some true emotion from you, finally. I'll have to tell Soren you don’t approve of our fashions. Perhaps that’s how he’ll torture information out of you—forcing you into a dress or two.

Her cruelty towards me stems from a twisted mess of misdirected emotion, loyalty to her cousin, and the curse that haunts her every move.

I'm so uncomfortable that I want to scream, and yet I'm careful not to let the princess know how close to snapping I truly am.

“A wound like that should’ve killed her. Whatever she did to deserve that must have been terrible.”

The princess raises an eyebrow at me. “Parading around the castle covered in filth means nothing to you, and yet a few words about your ugly scars has you twitching? My, my, what an interesting nerve you’ve exposed to us.” Ugly. As though I could possibly care what my scars look like.

As though it’s their opinion of them and not the source of them that has me feeling this way. Typical arrogant and shallow high fae, caring only for how they look in their stupid dresses and Fates-fucking-cursed shoes.

It will come off as petty, but I ignore her question, exhausted from dealing with this female and the stupid games of the high fae. I almost regret sending my prayers to the Fates for her husband's safe return, and I hope they all expire somewhere very far away from me for clothing me in the Fates-cursed dress and boots.

If you prove yourself, we’ll be cousins soon too. I never thought I’d call a witch a friend.” I look down to find her hand extended, an offering of peace. Bemused, I glance at the Savage Prince before I clasp it, the chains rattling as she gently squeezes my fingers with her own.

Sari ignores her, but I saw their earlier interaction. The princess is ignoring her with every fiber of her being in the way that only someone desperately protecting a loved one can.

Why is the Savage Prince friendly with the regent’s daughter, why was she so kind to me, and how in the Fates good name have none of them noticed she’s so scared?

as the negotiations for my marriage begin, the only opinion not being taken into account is my own.

There are no healers left in the Southern Lands—none but the witch in my dungeon with cold silver eyes and a fate to match mine.

There, at the edge of the orchard where I was walking with Sari only hours ago, are new shoots of grass. Grass hasn’t grown here in almost a decade.

Yet here is something new, a rebirth that has no rhyme or reason. Tauron stops at my side, and his gaze slowly follows my own until it pauses on the grass. “What the hell is that?” I shake my head. “Call for Tyton. Send a soldier for him, and quickly.”

Tyton has barely come to a halt at my side, a harried look on his face, as I say in the old language, “Can you feel any magic? It must be a trick, some illusion of false hope.”

“Home,” he says in that voice that shakes with power. “They've come home.”

“A Favored Child has returned. A Favored Child has returned to us. It fixes, it gives to us, it bleeds for us.”

He speaks with the same possessed voice that he always does near the forest, sounding so urgent and desperate, racked with grief, and yet…this time there’s an undercurrent of joy, of relief. Of hope.

I take both of Tyton’s arms to keep his attention. “Who is the Favored Child? Tell me.” He cocks his head slowly, and the sinking feeling in my gut only gets worse. “We want more. We need more. They must all return to us.” I don't like the sound of that.

My eyes narrow at him, but he holds my gaze unflinchingly, one eyebrow slowly rising. “It makes sense, doesn't it? The Fates have given her to you for a reason.” Sightless silver eyes flash through my mind, and every inch of my body rejects that notion.

Something has happened between her and the witch, and now she finds herself in a mood to argue the point.

“I hate the female. I wish nothing but a violent and painful death for her.”

I want to know exactly what they did, how far they had to go to cause such a reaction in her, how far they pushed before she snapped.

these guards feel any hesitancy about touching me, they don’t show it.

The tenor of the glances the maids and servants are stealing in my direction has changed. It’s no longer simple fear and morbid curiosity—there's loathing in their eyes now. The high fae have always looked at me like that—but not the servants.

How anyone can live their life so obsessed with their own reflection while the world around them withers is baffling to me.

The Fates have clearly chosen the wrong male for me, because I feel no jealousy or sorrow at their fawning over him, nothing but derision and the itch of frustration—and poorly woven cloth—across my shoulders.

Then I remember what the Fates have in store for me, the future I ran from, and being whipped doesn't seem so harsh anymore.

Why the Fates believe a union between us will work is beyond me, but it doesn’t really matter what I think. Nothing about today is going to change that.

deceptively gentle in the presence of the Savage Prince and his household.

“Have you finally learned some patience?”

Airlie and Tyton both flinch and look away from the spectacle we both make.

Silence takes over the room, not a rustle of fabric or the clearing of a throat to be heard as the court watches their prince and his Fates-cursed mate. The smell of the toxic witch blood clings to him, bile creeping up my throat at the stench of it and my nausea made worse by the feel of his skin against mine.

“I have learned enough patience to wait this fate out. The moment I’ve fulfilled it, I’ll feel the warmth of your blood run down my arms as your life leaves your body. I’ll sacrifice everything for my people and my land, but the ending will always be the same—your blood spilled and your life forfeit. Nothing will fill me with greater joy.”

Healing like that glows brightly, and the high fae have already proved to be terrified of any power I might wield.

It’s clear this household is of the opinion that the only fate worse than a slow death by starvation is the prospect of a witch queen.

I might not be ashamed of my witch blood, of my family name or the coven I hail from, but only a blind person wouldn't be able to see the damage my kind have done. Not just to the high fae but to those they rule as well.

maybe, I consider doing something about Kharl and this war he’s waging. This Fates-cursed mate of mine might not deserve any of my help after all of the terrible treatment he’s dealt me but the people of this kingdom are blameless and it’s clear he’s done what he can to help them.

It’s hard to sneer when your throat has been slit open.

never to be exposed to anything that might upset her or endanger her. Coddling to the point of stupidity.

Despite her welcome here in the Savage Prince’s household, she's siding with her father.