Page 190 of The Orc's Captive Bride
“They cannot win this,” Vorlag said softly. “Not through combat alone. You must continue.”
Her hands moved again, reaching for a small ivory box Vorlag placed before her. Inside lay a fragment of bone—ancient, yellowed with age.
“Second step,” Vorlag intoned. “Bone.”
Her fingers placed the fragment at the center of the blood rune. Another flare of light, stronger this time.
Thea felt something shift in the air around them. A vibration, like the plucking of an enormous string that ran through the very fabric of reality.
From behind her came Lasseran’s voice, suddenly uncertain: “What… what is happening?”
“The third step,” Vorlag said, his ancient face solemn. “Breath.”
Thea felt her lungs expand, drawing in air that tasted of salt and magic and moonlight. When she exhaled, the breath emerged visible—a golden mist that settled over the bone fragment.
The light from the altar surged, a pillar of gold that shot upward to touch the Blood Moon.
And in that moment, the golden haze around her mind thinned, just enough for her to see and hear clearly what was happening behind her.
Khorrek fought Lasseran in a blur of movement almost too fast to follow. But it wasn’t just Khorrek anymore—his form had shifted, grown larger, more bestial. Massive tusks jutted from an elongated jaw. Muscles bulged beneath fur-covered skin. Claws extended from fingers that had grown thicker, stronger.
Yet despite this transformation, Lasseran held his own, his movements supernaturally fast, his strength far beyond what any human should possess.
The stolen power, she realized. Centuries of it, gathered by his ancestors and passed down to him.
“Rise,” Vorlag whispered. “Stand upon the altar. Complete what has begun.”
Her body obeyed, climbing onto the altar’s surface, standing tall as the golden light coalesced around her.
“Blood,” she heard herself intone, her voice ringing with power. “Bone. Breath.”
With each word, the pillar of light connecting her to the moon pulsed brighter.
And with each pulse, Lasseran seemed to falter.
His movements slowed. His perfect face contorted with sudden pain. The unnatural vitality that had sustained him began to drain away before her eyes.
“No,” he gasped, clutching at his chest. The sword fell from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering to the stone. “What… what are you doing to me?”
“Taking back what was stolen,” she heard herself say, the goddess’s voice dominant now. “Restoring what was corrupted. Freeing what was bound.”
Lasseran’s perfect features sagged. His pale skin wrinkled. His silver hair dulled, thinning before her eyes.
It’s working, she thought, wonder pushing through her fear.We’re doing it.
“No,” Lasseran whispered, reaching toward her with a hand that had suddenly become thin and frail. “You can’t. That power is mine. Mine by right. By blood.”
“By theft,” the goddess replied through her lips. “By corruption. By perversion of what was meant to be sacred.”
She felt her arms raise higher, and the golden light around her intensified, becoming almost blinding.
“Return what was stolen,” she commanded. “Restore what was broken. Release what was bound.”
Lasseran screamed—a sound of pure, primal denial. Of rage. Of terror.
With the last of his strength, he staggered toward her, reaching not for her but for the bowl at her feet.
“Mine,” he rasped. “Mine!”
