Page 42 of The Orc's Princess Bride
Returning to the main chamber, she pressed her ear to the door, listening to the rhythm of the guards’ footsteps and counting silently. Two men, alternating patrols, passing her door every seven minutes.
She examined the massive fireplace, running her fingers along the ornate stonework. Near the back, her fingers caught on aslight irregularity. A loose stone, its mortar crumbling with age. Working carefully, she wiggled it free.
Behind it was a small, hollow space. Something metal glinted in the darkness. Her heart leapt as her fingers closed around it—a dagger, small and rusty, its blade dulled by time. It had likely been hidden by some previous prisoner, perhaps another “guest” who had not survived Lasseran’s hospitality.
The blade was no longer sharp enough to kill, but it might serve as a tool. It was something. A sliver of hope in a hopeless place.
She tucked the small blade in the hidden pocket of her skirt, then moved to the window, looking out over Kel’Vara. The city was built on the steep cliffs of a rocky promontory extending out into the Southern Sea with a massive city wall separating it from the mainland. Grand palazzos and arched bridges glittered in the sunlight, more beautiful than she had imagined, but even from here she could see hints of the darkness beneath. Between the elegant buildings, the dark towers of the Dusk Guards seemed to absorb the sunlight, and shadowy figures crept through the narrow alleys leading away from the main avenues.
In the distance she could see the black dome of the Veilborn Temple, the silver symbols etched into its surface catching the sunlight. Legend had it that the Veilborn were descendants of the wizard priests originally responsible for the Beast Curse. She’d asked her father about them once, and he’d given her a troubled look.
“They worship the Old Gods. They claim they seek balance but their magic is dark. Even the gods do not trust them.”
“But why do the gods allow them to continue?” she’d asked.
“Their magic is strong. Perhaps the gods are… wary.”
Was Lasseran planning to harness the power of the Veilborn in his ritual? She sighed and moved away from the window. In the end, the source of his power didn’t really matter. She couldn’t let him succeed.
Ulric would come for her. She knew this with bone-deep certainty. But she would not wait passively for rescue like some storybook princess. She was a queen—his queen—and she would fight with every weapon at her disposal.
The rusty dagger pressed against her thigh, its weight a promise. She was not helpless. And Lasseran had made a grave mistake in bringing her here.
He thought her merely a vessel for his ambitions, a passive ingredient in his twisted ritual. But she was so much more. She was Jessamin, Queen of Norhaven. And she would show him exactly what that meant.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ulric pushed forward relentlessly, ignoring the bite of wind and the treacherous footing as they traveled down the ridge of mountains that separated Velmora from the Old Kingdom. The direct route through Velmora would have been faster, but it would have left them exposed. He’d reluctantly decided to opt for concealment but he was determined to make up as much time as possible.
Behind him, Wulf and Egon followed in grim silence. As Wulf had predicted, Egon had immediately volunteered to join them, even though he meant leaving his new mate. She had paled, but she hadn’t objected, tilting her head as if listening to something they couldn’t hear.
“I know it’s necessary,” she told Egon. “But hurry back to me.”
None of them spoke of the danger—of the madness of three warriors against an empire. There was no need.
Every step south carried him closer to Jessamin, and every hour that passed was an hour she spent in Lasseran’s clutches. Thethought drove him like a lash. He had failed her once; he would not fail her again.
“We need to rest,” Wulf said as the third night fell, his voice pitched low.
He bared his teeth. “No.”
“The horses are spent. We’re spent.” Wulf’s tone remained steady. “And if we arrive too exhausted to fight, we’re no good to her.”
Logic warred with desperation in his mind. He glanced at their mounts, seeing the steam rising from their heaving flanks. Wulf was right, but the concession felt like betrayal.
“Two hours,” he growled. “Then we move.”
They made a cold camp in the shelter of a rocky outcropping. He couldn’t eat. His mind filled with images of Jessamin—her face as she’d tended his wounds, the trust in her eyes in the sacred springs, the hurt and rage when he’d accused her. The memory of that betrayal cut deeper than any blade.
“We’re close,” Egon said, breaking the silence. The big orc sat cross-legged, sharpening his axe with methodical precision. “Another twenty-four hours of hard riding will bring us to the outskirts of Kel’Vara.”
“And then what?” Wulf asked, looking at Ulric. “The city will be crawling with Lasseran’s guards.”
“We’ll go through the tunnels, smugglers’ paths, the sewers if we have to. They’re how the desperate survive in Lasseran’s paradise.” Egon’s massive shoulders hunched slightly. “I still remember them.”
They were obviously not pleasant memories and he put his hand on the scarred orc’s shoulder as he rose.
“Thank you for doing this.”
