Page 193 of The Orc's Captive Bride
The curse is broken. We are free.
The crowd in the plaza seemed impossibly vast—hundreds of people, maybe thousands, packed into the space. Human and orc alike. Wealthy merchants in fine clothing standing shoulder to shoulder with laborers still dirty from the day’s work. Even a handful of the People of the Plains, their golden skin and white hair marking them as foreign.
Vorlag led them to the raised dais at the plaza’s far end—another place Khorrek knew well. He’d stood on that platform countless times, a silent enforcer while Lasseran held court.
The ancient priest ascended the steps with surprising vigor, the staff held high so that all could see its burden.
Thea followed, still moving with that unnatural grace, the golden glow around her brightening as she climbed.
He went with her, unwilling to let her face this crowd alone. The other Veilborn fanned out behind them, creating a semi-circle of white-robed figures. His orc brothers positioned themselves at the edges, a wall of muscle and tusks.
Silence fell over the plaza. Thousands of eyes fixed on the dais. On Vorlag. On the staff he held.
On Lasseran’s severed head.
The ancient priest’s voice rang out, clear and strong despite his age, carrying easily across the hushed crowd.
“People of Kel’Vara! People of the Five Kingdoms! Witness!”
He raised the staff higher, turning slowly so all could see.
“High King Lasseran is dead!”
The silence that followed was absolute. No one moved. No one even seemed to breathe.
His hand moved closer to his sword, his newly calm Beast nonetheless alert for danger. This could go either way—celebration or riot.
Then someone in the back of the crowd let out a whoop of pure joy.
The sound broke the spell. A cheer erupted, starting small but building rapidly, spreading through the plaza like wildfire. People screamed, cried, embraced each other. Some fell to their knees in apparent prayer. Others simply stood with tears streaming down their faces.
The noise was deafening. Overwhelming. Jubilant.
He stared out at the sea of celebrating faces, trying to process what he was seeing. He’d known Lasseran was hated—had seen the fear in people’s eyes, the careful way they moved around the High King and his enforcers.
But this… this was something else entirely. This was years, decades, maybe centuries of oppression suddenly lifted. This was hope given form.
We did this, he realized, looking at Thea.She did this.
Vorlag let the celebration continue for several minutes before raising his free hand. Slowly, reluctantly, the noise died down to a buzz of excited whispers.
“Lasseran is dead,” Vorlag repeated, his voice solemn. “The tyrant has fallen. The curse he and his ancestors perverted has been cleansed. The balance has been restored.”
More cheers threatened to erupt, but Vorlag continued speaking, his tone commanding attention.
“But this was not accomplished by mortal hands alone!” He turned toward Thea, gesturing to her with the hand not holding the staff. “The Old Gods themselves have chosen a vessel. A champion. A queen!”
Thea stepped forward, and the golden glow around her suddenly brightened—not just a faint shimmer anymore but a blazingaura that lit up the dais like a second sun, and he had to resist the urge to shield his eyes. Instead, he watched in awe as she was transformed before him.
Her wild auburn hair seemed to catch fire with golden light. Her grey eyes blazed as if they were lit from within. Even her simple clothing appeared to shimmer, as though woven from sunlight itself.
She looked like a queen. Like a goddess. Like something out of legend.
And she was his mate.
The thought sent a fierce surge of possessiveness and pride through him. His Beast rumbled its agreement, utterly content despite the massive crowd, despite the chaos of the moment.
Mine. And I am hers.
