Page 145 of The Orc's Captive Bride
“While we slip into Kel’Vara unnoticed,” Khorrek finished.
“Exactly.”
“It’s a good plan,” one of Ulric’s advisors said, a grizzled orc with grey threaded through his dark hair. “Risky. But good.”
“All the best plans are risky,” Ulric said dryly.
They bent over the map to strategize and she found herself making suggestions—pointing out weak points in Lasseran’s defenses and identifying routes that would avoid patrols.
And the knowledge kept coming, kept bubbling up from that strange deep place. She knew when the guards changed shifts and which gates were least defended.
How do I know this?
But the certainty was absolute—and terrifying. It must have shown on her face because suddenly Lyric came over and took her arm, drawing her aside.
“Walk with me?”
She nodded, grateful for the escape. They slipped out of the command tent into the cool evening air. The camp was already quiet. Warriors were settling in for the night and fires were burning low.
Lyric led her away from the tents towards the edge of camp where the mountains rose dark against the stars.
For a while they walked in companionable silence.
“It’s frightening. Isn’t it? The knowing,” Lyric said quietly.
She swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“I felt the same way when it started happening to me.” Lyric stopped and looked up at the stars. “I’d wake from dreams with knowledge I shouldn’t have. I would know where to go and what to do.”
“How did you cope?”
“I didn’t. Not at first.” Lyric gave a wry smile. “I fought it and tried to rationalize it. Told myself it was just intuition. Pattern recognition. Logical deduction.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“No. It was something more. Something…” Lyric paused. Searching for words. “Divine. I know that sounds ridiculous. But there’s no other explanation.”
She wanted to argue, wanted to find a rational explanation, but she’d been doing the same thing. Making excuses. Rationalizing the inexplicable.
“The Old Gods,” she said slowly. “You really believe they’re working through us?”
“I do,” Lyric said firmly. “The prophecies speak of it. Champions chosen. Vessels prepared. Magic flowing through mortal hands to restore balance.”
“But why us? We’re not… I’m just a linguist. You’re a beekeeper.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why. We’re not warriors. Not nobles. Not trained in magic or politics or power.” Lyric looked at her, her green eyes serious. “We’re ordinary. Which makes us perfect conduits. No agenda. No corruption. Just… service.”
She absorbed that, turning it over in her mind.
Service. Purpose. A role I was chosen to fill.
It could have felt like a violation, like her free will was being stolen, but it didn’t. Because the knowledge that came to her was helpful. Exactly what they needed to succeed. And the certainty that accompanied it was… comforting. Like she wasn’t alone. Like something vast and ancient was supporting her. Guiding her.
The Old Gods.
She’d never been religious. Had always dismissed faith as superstition. But this was different. This was direct and undeniable.
“Does it get easier?” she asked. “The knowing?”
