Page 68 of The Orc's Bonded Bride

She wrenched away from him, pushing deeper into the devastation. Her foot caught on something—a broken spear, half-buried in rubble. She stumbled, fell to her knees, and for one terrible moment couldn’t find the strength to rise again.

What if he was gone? What if after everything—after finding each other across years and distance—she’d lost him to a mountainside?

“No,” she whispered, forcing herself back to her feet. “No.”

She climbed over a fallen tree, its branches reaching skyward like desperate fingers. Beyond it lay what remained of the supply wagons, crushed beneath stone and earth. Two warriors dug frantically at a pile of debris, pulling a third man free. Not Egon.

Her throat constricted. She couldn’t breathe through the dust and panic.

“Egon!” she screamed again, her voice raw, breaking. “Where are you?”

The dust began to settle in patches, revealing the full scope of destruction. Where tents had stood now lay nothing but rock and splintered wood. The clearing where they’d held each other through the night had vanished completely.

“Please,” she whispered, a prayer to whatever gods might listen. “Please be alive.”

She stumbled forwards, her legs threatening to give way with each step. The devastation stretched before her like a nightmare landscape—broken supplies, crushed wagons, warriors calling out names that weren’t answered. Her lungs burned from the dust, but she couldn’t stop searching.

“Egon!” Her voice had grown hoarse, barely carrying over the sounds of shifting rock and wounded men.

Something moved at the edge of her vision—a shadow among shadows, emerging from behind a massive boulder. Lyric froze, afraid to hope, afraid to breathe.

Then the dust cleared for just a moment, and she saw him.

Egon stood there, covered head to toe in gray dust and dirt, his massive frame unmistakable even through the haze. Blood trickled from a cut above his eye, and he limped slightly, but he was upright. He was alive.

Relief crashed through her like a wave, so powerful it nearly brought her to her knees. “Egon!” she cried, her voice breaking as she ran toward him, stumbling over debris and uneven ground.

He looked up at her voice, golden eyes finding hers through the settling dust. His face transformed with relief that mirrored her own.

She threw herself into his arms, not caring about the dirt or blood. He caught her against his chest, his embrace fierce enough to lift her feet from the ground. She pressed her faceinto his neck, breathing in the scent of him beneath the dust and sweat.

“I thought—” she couldn’t finish, her throat closing around the words.

“I’m here,” he murmured against her hair, his voice rough. “I’m here.”

She pulled back just enough to see his face, her hands moving frantically over his shoulders and chest, checking for injuries. “You’re hurt?—”

“It’s nothing.” His thumbs brushed tears from her cheeks, leaving smudges of dirt in their wake.

Heavy footsteps approached, and Lyric turned to see Ulric making his way toward them. The king’s face was grim beneath the layer of dust that covered them all.

“Two males,” he said without preamble, his voice heavy with the weight of command. “We lost two in the rear guard.” He looked at Lyric, something like grudging respect in his eyes. “There would have been more—many more—without your warning. And you,” he nodded to Egon, “getting the stragglers moving. I owe you both a debt of gratitude.”

She clung to Egon, unwilling to let go even as Ulric spoke. Her fingers traced the contours of his face, memorizing every feature as if she might lose him again at any moment. The dust settled around them in a fine gray mist, but she barely noticed it coating her skin and clothes.

“This was no accident,” Egon said, his voice rumbling against her where she pressed against his chest.

Ulric’s expression darkened. “You believe someone triggered the avalanche?”

“Look at the pattern,” Egon gestured toward the mountainside. “Too precise. Too… targeted.”

She followed his gaze, studying the ruined landscape with new understanding. The devastation had struck exactly where their camp had been, with almost surgical precision. Her warning had come just in time—not from Freja this time, but from some deeper instinct she couldn’t explain.

“Lasseran,” she whispered. The name tasted like poison on her tongue.

Ulric nodded grimly. “He’s grown bolder than I anticipated. We need to move—now. I… I must return to my queen as soon as possible.”

That hint of vulnerability crossed his face again before he turned to organize what remained of their party. He cares about Jessamin, she realized. Despite that he issued his commands with the same stern control, only the slightest harshness betraying his urgency.

---