Page 25 of The Orc's Bonded Bride

“This is nice,” she murmured.

The simple words struck him deeper than any battle wound. This—her warmth against him, her contentment in his presence—was more than he’d ever allowed himself to hope for.

His thumb traced lazy circles against her shoulder as the evening breeze drifted past carrying the scents of her garden—lavender, thyme, and the sweet perfume of late summer blossoms. For the first time in his life, he allowed himself to imagine a future beyond battle and duty. A future with her.

“I’ve been thinking about expanding the garden next spring,” she said, her voice soft against his side. “Maybe plant some fruit trees on the eastern side.”

“I could help clear the land,” he offered, already picturing himself working the soil, building something lasting instead of destroying.

She tilted her face up to his. “You’d still be here in spring?”

The question hung between them, fragile and hopeful. He opened his mouth to answer—to tell her he’d stay as long as she’d have him—when his enhanced hearing picked up a new sound.

Hoofbeats. Multiple riders approaching at speed.

He tensed instinctively, and she must have felt the change because she straightened, pulling back to study his face.

“What is it?”

“Riders coming,” he whispered, already scanning their surroundings. “At least four, maybe five.”

He gently disengaged from her and melted into the shadows beside the cottage. The movement was fluid, practiced—the product of years spent learning how to disappear despite his size. He pressed his back against the wall, automatically positioning himself where he could still protect her if needed.

“Egon—” she began, but he raised a finger to his lips, eyes fixed on the road, and the question died on her lips.

The riders appeared moments later—five armored men on horseback, their mounts lathered from hard riding. Even in the fading light, he could make out the emblem on their shields: Lasseran’s falcon insignia.

His jaw tightened. These weren’t simple messengers or travelers. These were soldiers—elite guards, judging by their equipment and bearing.

They passed her cottage without slowing, but he remained motionless in the shadows, counting their weapons, assessing their formation. Old habits. Necessary habits.

The peaceful bubble he’d allowed himself to inhabit these past few days burst. Reality crashed back with the thunder of hoofbeats and the glint of steel in the dying light. His muscles coiled with tension as she rose from the porch and gave him a sharp look.

“Stay here,” she whispered. “I need to know what they want.”

Before he could protest, she was heading down into the village, following the path the riders had taken. He growled low in his throat, his instincts screaming that those men brought nothing but danger. The emblem alone told him enough—High King Lasseran’s elite guard didn’t ride into backwater villages for pleasant conversation.

He gave her a ten-count head start, then followed her. Years of training had taught him how to move silently and invisibly despite his size. He kept to the deepest shadows, using buildings and trees as cover, tracking her while remaining invisible to casual observers. His heart hammered against his ribs—not from exertion but from fear for her safety.

The riders had stopped in the village square, their horses’ flanks still heaving from hard riding, and he positioned himself behind the tanner’s shed, close enough to hear but hidden from view. Lyric stood at the edge of the gathering crowd, her posture deliberately casual, but he could read the tension in her shoulders.

“By order of High King Lasseran,” the lead rider announced, his voice carrying across the square, “you are required to provide information on any strangers passing through these lands.”

The crowd murmured, and he saw several villagers glance up the hill towards Lyric’s cottage. His hand instinctively moved to where his weapon would normally hang but no one spoke up.

“Anyone failing to report such information,” the captain’s voice hardened, “will face High King Lasseran’s justice.”

He watched Lyric’s spine stiffen at the threat, and every protective instinct in his body roared to life. These men would cut her down without hesitation if they believed she stood between them and their quarry. The cold calculation in their eyes told him everything he needed to know about how little they valued human life.

He pressed his back against the tanner’s shed, nostrils flaring as he caught the distinct scent of expensive oil used to polish high-quality armor. These weren’t ordinary soldiers—they carried themselves with the arrogance of men accustomed to power. The kind of men who took what they wanted without consequence.

Elder Tomas stepped forward and bowed his head respectfully. “We’re preparing for our harvest festival, my lords. We have few travelers through our humble village.”

“I’m glad you mentioned that. Lord Trevain sends his… regards.” The pause made it clear these were anything but well-wishes. “He reminds you that festival taxes are to be collected in full this year.”

His jaw tightened. So these were the local noble’s men, not Lasseran’s direct forces as he’d first thought—though the falcon insignia confirmed the alliance. The crowd’s collective tension told him everything he needed to know about Lord Trevain’s reputation.

“But we’ve already paid our seasonal dues,” someone protested from the crowd.

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