Page 3 of The Orc's Bonded Bride

“And you do?” The words came out harsher than he intended and he sighed, trying to soften his tone. “I’m happy that they intervened—for you and for Lothar. But it’s different for me.”

“Just give it time. Be patient.”

Patience. As if that was the problem. As if waiting long enough would somehow erase the decades of violence etched into his soul. He almost laughed at the absurdity.

“I’ve been patient for years,” he said instead. “But I know what I am. What I’m meant for.”

“And what is that?”

“This,” he said, gesturing to his weapons, his armor. “Fighting. Protecting. Not… loving.”

The word felt foreign on his tongue, awkward and ill-fitting, and his brother frowned at him.

“The gods work in ways we cannot always see. They brought Kari to me when I thought?—”

“You are not me.” He cut Wulf off, his voice low but firm. “You never were. Even before…” He trailed off, unwilling to revisit the years of their separation. “You were always meant for leadership. For family.”

He looked up at the stars, cold and distant above them. “Some of us are meant to stand guard at the edges. That’s my place, and I’ve accepted it.”

The certainty in Wulf’s eyes didn’t waver. “I don’t believe that. And neither should you.”

He shook his head, a bone-deep weariness settling over him. His brother’s faith had always been a mystery to him—beautiful but incomprehensible, like a language he’d never learned to speak.

“The Old Gods don’t hear warriors like me,” he said quietly. “And even if they did, some things can’t be fixed with divine intervention.”

He adjusted the weight of his pack one final time, his decision unchanged.

“Three months,” he conceded, the words hanging between them like a fragile bridge. “I’ll see if I can pick up Khorrek’s trail. If not, I’ll travel into the Old Kingdom and see what I can discover. I’ll be back in three months.”

Wulf sighed, then nodded, acknowledging the finality in his words.

“Three months,” he repeated, a hint of warning in his voice. “Or we’ll come looking for you.”

He nodded once, grateful for his brother’s concern. No more needed to be said between them. With practiced efficiency, he checked his weapons—knife at his belt, axe strapped to his back, short sword at his hip. The familiar weight of steel against his body centered him, reminded him of who he was.

He clasped Wulf’s hand, his brother’s grip strong and reassuring, then turned and strode toward the tree line, moving with practiced silence. The forest welcomed him with its familiar symphony—the whisper of night wind through pine needles, the distant call of a hunting owl, the soft rustle of small creatures in the underbrush. Here, at least, he knew his place.

Khorrek had been heading south towards the Old Kingdom when Lothar had tracked him down. It was as good a place as any to start. The path would take him through the Sentinel Mountains—a treacherous route, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He set a steady pace, his eyes automatically adjusting to the darkness beneath the trees, forcing himself to focus on the trail instead of the raw conversation with his brother.

As the village lights faded behind him, he felt the familiar tension in his shoulders begin to ease. The forest asked nothing of him but vigilance. It didn’t expect him to be anything other than what he was—a warrior, a hunter, a solitary figure moving through the shadows.

The mountain path rose before him, silver-touched in the moonlight. His stride lengthened, his breathing steady as he began the ascent. Three months. He’d given his word, and despite everything, his word was one thing he’d never broken.

CHAPTER 2

Lyric pressed her hand against the side of the wooden hive, listening to the contented hum within. The vibration traveled through her fingertips, a language she’d come to understand over the years. Her bees were happy today.

“That’s it, little ones,” she murmured, sliding the frame back into place with practiced care. “Another good harvest coming.”

The morning sun warmed her shoulders as she worked, casting long shadows across her small plot of land. Three beehives stood in a neat row beside her vegetable garden, bordered by wildflowers she’d cultivated specifically to nourish her winged companions.

She paused to stretch her back and admire the rest of her modest holding—the small stone cottage with its thatched roof, the garden beds bursting with late summer crops, the cluster of fruit trees heavy with ripening fruit. A far cry from how it had looked when she arrived. The beds had been abandoned and overgrown, the cottage roof leaking, and the door almost falling off the hinges. It had taken her most of the first year to make itlook more like the home she had always dreamed of, and she’d continued to improve it ever since.

Serena would have been pleased. The old woman had been one of the few bright spots in her past, but she’d taken Lyric under her wing when she joined a traveling merchant caravan. She’d insisted on sharing her wagon with Lyric, had warned off the caravan master when he’d tried to insist that her employment included serving his needs, and filled their evenings with stories about her cottage and garden.

Then one night Serena had handed her a document bequeathing her the small holding—her lined face gentle but sad.

“You don’t belong here, child.”

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