Page 5 of The Orc's Bonded Bride

Sighing, she turned back to her garden. The cauliflower wouldn’t plant itself.

As she bent over, a flurry of movement caught her eye—a small figure racing up the hill, all flailing limbs and determination—and she couldn’t help smiling. Samha was barely eight years old with perpetually scraped knees and a gap-toothed smile that could melt the coldest heart.

“Miss Lyric! Miss Lyric!” he called, waving frantically as he bounded toward her cottage.

“Slow down,” she called as he almost tripped over a rock to one side of the path.

The boy skidded to a halt before her, chest heaving, face smudged with dirt. His dark hair stood up in wild tufts, and a fresh scratch marked his left cheek. Despite this, his eyes sparkled with the unbridled enthusiasm only children seemed capable of maintaining.

“How are the bees today?” he asked between gulps of air.

The corner of her mouth twitched upwards. “They’re just fine.”

“Can I see them? Please?” He bounced on his toes, barely containing his excitement.

“Not today. They’re busy making honey.” She studied his disappointed face, feeling a familiar warmth spread through her chest. “But I might have something else for a brave explorer.”

She reached into the pocket of her apron, retrieving a small wrapped candy—honey mixed with herbs from her garden, hardened into a golden treat. She’d started making them last winter, partly out of boredom during the long, cold nights.

His eyes widened. “Is that…?”

“A honey drop.” She placed it in his palm. “For the bravest adventurer on the mountain.”

The boy clutched it like treasure, his smile radiant. “Thank you, Miss Lyric!”

Without another word, he spun around and took off down the path, arms spread wide like wings, making a buzzing sound as he went.

A smile lingered on her lips as she watched him go, his childish buzzing fading into the distance. Children were easier than adults—they asked simpler questions, expected straightforward answers. They didn’t probe into her past or wonder why she lived alone on the edge of their village.

The smile slipped from her face as she turned back to her garden, picking up her trowel again. Her fingers worked automatically, digging neat furrows in the dark soil for the cauliflower seeds. The steady rhythm usually brought her peace. Today, it couldn’t quiet the hollow feeling spreading through her chest.

Samha’s joy was so pure, so uncomplicated. Even with his patched clothes and perpetually dirty face, he radiated a sense of belonging that she’d never known. He and his sister were orphans—barely scraping by on Lina’s meager earnings from the village tavern—but they had something far more valuable than gold.

She pressed a tiny seed into the earth, remembering how Lina always mended his clothes with colorful patches, turning necessity into art. How the miller hoisted him onto broad shoulders during village gatherings. How the tavern keeper’s wife braided flowers into his hair when she thought no one was watching.

She’d never known such simple tenderness.

In Kel’Vara’s lower quarter, children were burdens or assets, rarely treasured for themselves. Her own mother had died at birth. The woman who raised her afterward—a midwife with her own brood of hungry mouths—had done so with grim efficiency rather than affection.

“Stop daydreaming,” she muttered to herself, moving along the row. “Seeds won’t plant themselves.”

But the ache persisted. She’d built this life with her own hands—this garden, these hives, this small sanctuary. She’d learned to survive, to provide for herself, to find beauty in solitude. Yet watching Samha race home to waiting arms made her aware of all she’d never had. All she might never have.

The rest of the day proceeded as it usually did—quiet, busy, the work hard but satisfying—and yet the memories continued to haunt her. As she struck flint against steel to coax a small flame to life in her hearth that evening, her restlessness remained. The familiar ritual of bringing warmth to the cottage usually brought comfort, but tonight her movements felt mechanical, disconnected from the peace she typically found in her evening routines.

She added kindling, watching the flames grow and catch. Outside, crickets began their nightly chorus while the lastbirdsong faded into darkness. The cottage walls glowed amber in the firelight—the same walls she’d repaired with her own hands, the same roof that sheltered her from rain and snow.

Yet tonight, the security of these four walls pressed against her like a cage.

Stop it, she scolded herself as she moved to her small wooden table, where she’d laid out a simple dinner—bread from Marla, goat cheese, and vegetables from her garden. She cut a slice of bread, spread goat cheese across its surface, and took a bite without tasting it.

The hollow feeling from earlier had expanded, becoming an ache beneath her ribs that food couldn’t satisfy. She pushed her plate away half-eaten.

“This is foolishness,” she muttered to the empty room. “I have everything I need.”

She did have everything she needed—shelter, food, safety. The life she’d built here was more than she’d ever dared hope for in Kel’Vara. Her cottage might be small, but it was clean and sturdy. Her garden flourished. Her bees produced sweet honey. No Dusk Guards patrolled her path. No nobles looked through her as if she were invisible—or worse, as if she were prey.

She moved to her window, pushing open the shutters to gaze at the valley below. Pinpricks of light dotted the darkness—lanterns in village windows, families gathering for evening meals, children being tucked into bed with stories and kisses.

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