Page 47 of The Orc's Bonded Bride

The forest had grown denser, the trees more ancient, as they climbed, their branches weaving together to form a canopy that filtered the afternoon sunlight into dappled patterns on the forest floor.

He suddenly came to a halt, his head tilting. “Do you smell that?”

She took a deep breath and nodded. A faint sweetness hung in the air—herbs and smoke and something else she couldn’t name. “Yes.”

They rounded a bend in the path and the trees opened to reveal a small clearing. At its center stood a stone cottage, its walls covered in climbing vines dotted with tiny blue flowers. Smoke curled from a chimney of stacked river stones.

Before they could approach, the wooden door swung open. An elderly woman emerged, her silver hair braided with colorful threads and small bells that chimed softly as she moved. Despite her age, she stood straight, her eyes clear and piercing.

“The orc and the beekeeper,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She gave the woman a startled look. “You knew we were coming?”

“The Old Gods whisper many things to those who listen.”

As she came to join them, Lyric recognized the pendant hung round her neck—a spiral carved from bone.

“You’re a Sister of Freja,” she whispered.

The woman inclined her head. “Yes, although few remember us now. I am Amara, keeper of the old ways.”

Egon stepped forward, placing himself slightly in front of her. “We were told you might help us.”

“With the Beast curse,” Amara nodded. “Come inside. The forest has too many ears.” She turned, her long skirts sweeping the ground as she retreated into the cottage.

She glanced over at Egon. His face was carefully neutral, but his eyes betrayed his wariness. She reached for his hand, squeezing it gently.

“Together,” she murmured.

His fingers tightened around hers. “Together.”

They crossed the threshold into a room filled with hanging bundles of dried herbs and shelves lined with clay jars. A fireburned in a stone hearth, casting warm light over a table already set with three wooden cups.

“Sit,” Amara commanded, gesturing to the bench. “We have much to discuss.”

She perched on the edge of the wooden bench, acutely aware of Egon’s warmth beside her. The cottage felt both welcoming and unsettling—the familiar scents of herbs and honey mingled with stranger, earthier odors she couldn’t identify.

Amara poured a steaming amber liquid into their cups. “Drink,” she said. “It will clear your minds.”

Lyric sniffed the brew cautiously. It smelled of chamomile and something she couldn’t identify. She took a small sip, surprised by its pleasant taste—sweet with a hint of spice that warmed her throat.

“The Beast Curse,” Amara said, settling across from them with her own cup. “An ancient magic twisted to serve greed.” Her weathered fingers traced the spiral pendant at her throat. “Lasseran thinks he’s discovered something new, but he merely corrupted what was sacred.”

“You know about Lasseran?” she asked.

“Of course. His shadow grows longer each day. Villages that once honored the Old Gods now bow to his false promises.” Amara’s eyes narrowed. “He offers power through pain, strength through separation from one’s humanity.”

Egon’s hand tightened around his cup. “Is there a way to break it?”

The old woman studied him, her gaze penetrating. “I don’t believe that is the question you should be asking.”

“What is the question?” he demanded.

“Is it the Curse itself you wish to break, or simply the ability to produce children?”

She could feel the tension in his body as he frowned at Amara.

“Aren’t they related?”

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