Page 192 of The Orc's Captive Bride
He watched, his jaw clenching, as the ancient priest impaled Lasseran’s severed head on the spike.
A trophy, he realized. Proof for those who need to see it with their own eyes.
The sight should have disturbed him—his former master’s pale, empty eyes staring sightlessly at the Blood Moon, silver hair matted with blood, that cruel mouth finally silenced.
But all he felt was grim satisfaction.
You made us into weapons, he thought, meeting those dead eyes. So we used what you taught us to destroy you.
Thea moved then, stepping down from the altar with the same eerie grace she’d shown since the goddess took hold of her. No stumbling, no hesitation, just fluid movement that seemed to flow rather than step.
Vorlag turned to her, inclining his head in deep respect.
“The people must witness,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of ritual. “They must see that the tyrant has fallen and a new era has begun.”
Thea’s head tilted slightly—an acknowledgment that seemed more divine than human.
Where are you?he wanted to demand.Are you still in there?
But he kept silent, moving to her side instead. Whatever happened next, wherever this strange procession led, he wouldn’t let her face it alone.
She turned her head toward him, and for just a moment, something warm flickered in those glowing eyes. Recognition. Affection. Her.
Then the mask of serene composure settled back into place, and she turned to follow Vorlag.
The ancient priest led them from the balcony, through the corridors of the Obsidian Keep, the staff with its grisly burden held high. He stayed close to Thea, one hand hovering near the small of her back—ready to catch her if the goddess’s hold faltered and she collapsed.
Behind them, a procession formed. The Veilborn priests fell into step, their white robes whispering against stone. The orc warriors who’d stood against Lasseran joined them, massive forms creating a protective barrier. Egon and Lyric appeared from somewhere, flanking the group.
Baralt and his fighters materialized as well, the golden-skinned warrior catching Khorrek’s eye and giving him a subtle nod of respect.
More people joined them with each corridor they passed. Servants who’d been cowering in alcoves. Guards who’d thrown down Lasseran’s colors. Citizens who’d somehow heard that something momentous had happened and come to see for themselves.
By the time they emerged into the cool night air, the procession had swelled to dozens.
Vorlag led them through the palace gates and into the streets of Kel’Vara itself. Word had spread faster than seemed possible—crowds lined the streets, silent and wide-eyed, watching as the strange parade passed.
He scanned faces, looking for threats. But what he saw instead was a mixture of confusion, hope, and barely contained excitement.
They knew. Somehow, they already knew Lasseran was dead.
The city itself seemed different. The oppressive weight that had hung over Kel’Vara for as long as he could remember—that constant sense of being watched, judged, found wanting—had lifted. The very air felt lighter.
Or maybe that was just his own freedom talking.
The crowd grew thicker as they approached the Plaza of Kings—the massive open square at the heart of Kel’Vara. He had been here countless times, standing silent and menacing behind Lasseran while the High King delivered pronouncements and judgments.
Now he walked through it as something else entirely.
Free, his Beast whispered, the word carrying wonder.We are free.
More Veilborn waited at the plaza’s edge, forming an honor guard that opened a path through the assembled masses. Khorrek’s orc brothers emerged from the crowd as well—Declar among them, his scarred face split in a fierce grin.
“Brother,” Declar said simply as Khorrek passed, falling into step beside him.
“Brother,” he replied, the word carrying a weight it never had before.
More joined them. Grask. Vorath. Krenna, one of the few female warriors in Lasseran’s service. All of them moving with the same barely contained energy, the same wondering realization.
