Page 75 of The Orc's Captive Bride
“Is there a problem?”
Yes. You’re a monster. You’re asking me to participate in murder.
“No, High King.”
“Excellent. I knew I could count on you.” Lasseran returned to his desk and waved a dismissive hand. “Report back to me in three days with your selections. Include detailed reasoning for each choice. I want to ensure we’re using the most… appropriate candidates.”
“As you command.”
“Oh, and Khorrek? This conversation doesn’t leave this room. If I hear whispers among the orc soldiers about the ritual, I’ll know who to blame.”
“I won’t speak of it.”
“Good. Because I’d hate to add you to the sacrifice list. You’re far too useful alive.” Lasseran waved his hand again. “Dismissed.”
He turned and walked to the door. He opened it automatically, but inside, something was breaking—the chains that had bound him for so long. The loyalty beaten into him through pain and fear and endless repetition.
What I made you.
Not a person. A thing.
A weapon to be used.
Choose which of my brothers to die.
He walked. He didn’t know where he was going and he didn’t care. His vision had narrowed to a tunnel, his breathing harsh and ragged.
His Beast clawed at his control, demanding release. It wanted to return to Lasseran’s chambers and paint the walls red.Rip him apart, his Beast snarled.Make him pay for every cruelty. Every betrayal.
But the conditioning held.
I can’t kill him. He’s the High King. My master. My creator.
But he’s going to murder my brothers.
Throkar. Grazzik. Durn. Vorgath. All of the orcs of his age who’d survived the training halls. Who’d earned their scars alongside him. They weren’t friends. Lasseran had made sure of that. He pitted them against each other, rewarding brutality and punishing compassion.
But they were his. The only others who understood.
And Lasseran was going to use them as sacrifices. It wouldn’t even be an honorable death in battle. They would just fuel his dark magic.
His hands shook, and his vision blurred. His Beast surged forward and he let it. For just a moment, he let the rage consume him. Let the Curse take hold.
His tusks ached. His muscles burned. Power flooded through him—ancient and terrible and free—but then he crushed it back down. Not here. Not now. He couldn’t lose control where someone might see.
He found himself in an empty courtyard with stone walls on all sides and no witnesses, and he drove his fist into the wall. The stone cracked, but his skin split and blood welled on his knuckles.
He hit the wall again.
And again.
And again.
He hit the wall until his knuckles were ruined and pain screamed through his hand, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough to purge his rage and grief.
Because that’s what it was.
Grief for the illusion he’d clung to. The desperate, pathetic hope that Lasseran cared. That the orcs he’d raised were somehow different. Special. Not tools he would discard without a thought despite his assurances about how they are different from the orcs of Norhaven.
