Page 19 of The Princess and the Orc

Rest? No. Rest was the last thing she needed. She had been running, but she was running in the wrong direction.

Drogath had lied. That was a fact. But in the most important thing, he had told the truth.

He cared for her.

Perhaps even loved her.

And she loved him.

If she left now, if she abandoned him, she would regret it for the rest of her life.

“No,” she said, her voice strong, steady. “I need to go back.” She straightened in the saddle, her resolve firm. “But you need to continue on. Go to my father. Tell him to bring the army. Muster anyone you can on the way to the castle. We must help them.”

Captain Crispin’s expression darkened. He opened his mouth to argue, but the only sound that came out was a strangled gurgle.

A wet, sickening noise.

Amalia’s stomach lurched as blood bubbled from his lips. He toppled from his horse, an arrow buried deep in his neck. His horse reared and bolted, a flash of white against the dark.

The second guard barely had time to react before another arrow pierced his chest, the impact so violent it knocked him from the saddle. He landed with a heavy thud, his body twitching once, twice, before going still.

Amalia’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her fingers trembled against the reins. She turned slowly—too slowly.

A figure emerged from the trees, stepping into the moonlight.

Prince Frederich.

He smiled, his teeth gleaming like a wolf scenting blood.

“Princess Amalia,” he purred, his voice smooth, mocking. “How fortunate to find you here. All alone.” His eyes flicked to the fallen men, then back to her. His smile widened.

“Shall we talk?”

* * *

Drogath stood on a low rise behind his warriors, his gaze sweeping over the hidden figures nestled among the trees and rocky outcroppings that lined the narrow pass. The orcs lay in wait, their breath measured, their weapons gripped tight, ready to unleash fury. The terrain was their shield, the winding, treacherous path their last advantage against an enemy that outnumbered them.

Beyond the pass, the human army stirred. The glint of metal caught the dying light, the distant rumble of marching feet vibrating through the earth. They were making their final preparations, a tide of bodies about to crash against the orc defenses. But it wasn’t just the force before them that posed a threat. Another contingent had splintered off, intending to swing around and strike from behind, trapping the orcs in a brutal pincer maneuver.

Korroth had led his warriors to intercept, but splitting their forces was a risk. One they couldn’t afford.

But what choice did they have?

Drogath’s fists clenched at his sides, his claws biting into his palms. They had to hold the pass. They had to endure. And maybe one of their scattered allies would rally in time to aid them.

He didn’t count on it.

He had learned long ago not to expect rescue. Hope was a fool’s burden, one he had cast off years ago. He trusted in his people, in their strength, in their will to survive. But in outsiders? No.

At least Amalia was safe.

She might hate him, might never forgive his deception, but she would live. If the orcs fell today, if the valley was overrun, her father would ensure her safety. She would grieve, perhaps, but in time, she would move on. She would marry again. She would forget him.

A sharp pang twisted in his chest, unexpected and unwelcome.

He had wanted more time. He had wanted to see her with his young, her belly full with the proof of their bond. He had wanted?—

No.

---