Page 63 of The Orc's Bonded Bride

“You carry the key, daughter of earth.” The goddess’s eyes fixed on Lyric’s abdomen. “Life calls to life. Protect what grows within. Together, you will find the answers.”

Flames danced across her palm again, forming the image of a pair of jagged mountain peaks. “The Fanged Gate.”

The goddess vanished, leaving nothing but moonlight in her wake.

She jolted awake, her heart hammering against her ribs. It had been a dream after all. Dawn light filtered through the cottage windows, painting the familiar walls in soft gold. She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to grasp the fragments of the vision before they slipped away entirely.

Freja. The goddess had come to her in the night.

Beside her, Egon still slept, his massive form curled protectively around her even in slumber.

The images remained vivid—Beast warriors, the man at the altar, blood on stone. And something about life. But clearest of all was the warning about their path.

“The Fanged Gate,” she whispered, the words feeling right on her tongue.

She’d heard of it in travelers’ tales—an ancient passage that led through the heart of the mountains into Norhaven, marked by two massive stone pillars carved to resemble tusks—but Lasseran had blocked it as part of his attempt to control Norhaven.

Egon stirred beside her, his eyes opening slowly.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was rough with sleep, but his gaze sharpened immediately, reading the tension in her body.

“We need to go to the Fanged Gate,” she said, as she sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders against the morning chill.

He frowned, pushing himself upright and wrapping an arm around her. “The Fanged Gate? That’s dangerous territory, Lyric. Why would we?—”

“Freja came to me last night,” she interrupted, watching his expression shift from confusion to surprise. “She showed me things… about Lasseran, about the curse. I’m not sure I understand what they meant, but that part was clear. We have to go to the Fanged Gate.”

He gave her a confused look. She understood his reaction—the Old Gods rarely revealed themselves so directly, even to those who served them. That Freja had come to her, a simple beekeeper with no special lineage or powers, felt both terrifying and strangely right.

“You’re certain it wasn’t just a dream?” he asked, his voice low and careful. He didn’t dismiss her outright, which warmed her heart.

“I’m sure it was real.” She reached for his hand, needing his warmth, his solidity to anchor her as the memory of the vision washed over her again. His fingers enveloped hers, huge and gentle. “I don’t know why we need to go to the Fanged Gate, but I’m certain that we do.”

He frowned, the scar along his temple whitening. “That route is treacherous even in good weather. If we get an early winter storm…”

“Freja wouldn’t have shown me if there was another way.”

She squeezed his hand and slipped from the bed, wrapping the blanket around herself as she moved to the window. Outside, the village was coming to life—smoke rising from chimneys, children carrying water from the well. Her garden waited, patient and familiar, for the new hands that would tend it.

Egon joined her, putting his arms around her and pulling her back against his chest. She leaned into him, drawing strength from his presence.

“If the goddess has marked our path,” he said against her hair, “then I suppose we must follow it.”

CHAPTER 25

Egon squinted at the narrow mountain path ahead, a jagged scar against the steep face of granite. The air grew thinner with each step, but he pressed on, occasionally glancing back at Lyric. Her face was set with determination, cheeks flushed from exertion and the biting wind that whipped around them.

“You’re certain about this route?” he asked, not for the first time. “The southern pass would be easier.”

“And crawling with Lasseran’s men.” Lyric’s voice was firm. “Freja showed me flames there—death waiting. This way is clear.”

He nodded, though unease twisted in his gut. He trusted her, trusted the vision that had come to her, but the protective instinct within him balked at leading her into such treacherous terrain.

They rounded a bend, and he halted abruptly. Below them, in the valley they’d avoided, dark shapes moved between trees—the unmistakable glint of armor catching the late afternoon sun.

“Look.” He pointed. “Soldiers. Dozens of them.”

She stepped up beside him, her shoulder brushing his arm. “The goddess was right.”

---