Page 173 of The Orc's Captive Bride
Then she spoke.
“Eth’thera nor cor’valis. Ma’shara ven su’mora. Ae’theralis cor’ethana nor ma’veris.”
I accept the burden. I offer my sacrifice. Let balance be restored through my willing choice.
The world exploded in light, golden and all-consuming.
And Thea Monroe ceased to exist.
Not dead. Not gone. But transformed. Transcendent. Becoming something more and less than human. Her last thought before her consciousness scattered like starlight was of Khorrek.
I love you. Wait for me. I’ll find my way back to you. Somehow. I promise.
Then there was only light. And power. And the slow, painful, beautiful work of restoration.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Wrong. Something was wrong.
Khorrek’s eyes snapped open but the world refused to focus. Shapes blurred. Colors bled together. His head felt like someone had split it with an axe. What happened? Where?—
The tent spun around him. Or he spun. Impossible to tell which. He reached out, searching for her, but the bedroll beside him was cold.
Thea.
Panic cut through the disorientation like a blade. He lurched upright too fast and the world tilted sideways.
Breathe. Focus. Find her.
But his limbs felt sluggish, as if he’d been drugged. No, not drugged. Enchanted.
The realization hit like a fist to the gut. She did this. She made sure I couldn’t follow. Couldn’t stop her. Fury and terror warred within him. His Beast roared. Demanding action. Demanding her.
He forced himself to his feet, stumbled, caught himself against the tent pole.
Move. Find her. Protect her.
The simple commands focused him and cleared the fog enough to function. He staggered out of the tent and nearly fell again. The camp was too quiet, too still. It wasn’t the peaceful quiet of warriors resting. This was different. Unnatural.
Everyone’s asleep. Everyone except?—
Two figures sat by the fire. Lyric. Jaella. Both watching him with expressions he couldn’t read. Pity? Concern? Guilt?
“Where is she?” His voice came out rough. Dangerous.
Lyric stood slowly, her hands raised in a placating gesture.
“Khorrek—”
“Where. Is. She.”
“The Stone Circle. She’s performing the ritual.”
He should have expected the words, but something in Lyric’s tone—the careful gentleness—sent ice through his veins.
“She went alone.” Not a question.
“Yes.”
