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“First of all, Lasseran is seeking the direct allegiance of Old Kingdom nobles.”

Ulric’s jaw tightened. “I warned Aldran, but he chose to ignore me. Come, walk with me.”

They moved along the wall, where workers hauled massive stones to repair a section of damaged fortification.

“The Fanged Gate must hold,” Ulric said, gesturing to the reinforcements. “I’ve ordered every available resource diverted to strengthen our defenses. If Lasseran’s Beasts breach this pass…”

“They’ll pour into Norhaven like a flood,” he finished grimly.

“Precisely.” Ulric stopped, turning to face the mountains they’d just crossed. “Tell me everything you’ve seen.”

Egon felt the weight of every word as he relayed what they’d discovered. Ulric’s face darkened with each detail, his weathered features hardening into stone.

“The Beast warrior attack left nothing but ruins,” he said, his voice low to prevent the nearby guards from overhearing. “The lord’s estate was completely destroyed—buildings burned to the ground, bodies torn apart. No survivors.”

Ulric cursed under his breath. “And you’re certain these were Lasseran’s creations?”

“Without question.” His jaw tightened as the memories flooded back. “I’ve seen combat wounds of every kind, my king. These weren’t made by weapons or natural Beasts. The claw marks were too precise, too… calculated.”

The king turned away, staring at the distant mountains. “And Khorrek? You’re sure it was him?”

“I fought him myself.” His hand instinctively moved to the healing wound on his side. “He recognized me from the fight pits. Something changed in him during our confrontation—I saw doubt in his eyes.”

“Doubt won’t stop him from following orders,” Ulric muttered.

“No, but he revealed more than he intended—or perhaps it was a deliberate slip. The first generation, orcs like Khorrek, were trained to be warriors, to believe in everything Lasseran wished them to believe, but they could still think for themselves.” He lowered his voice further. “This new generation is different. They are little more than mindless rage, but he controls them completely—a weapon to be pointed at any target he chooses.”

Ulric’s eyes narrowed. “How many?”

“Khorrek didn’t give numbers, but from what I saw at the training grounds, at least a dozen, possibly more.” He hesitated before adding, “And he implied Lasseran had found ‘the key to the old magic.’”

The king’s massive fist clenched. “And he has the winter to prepare.”

“There’s one more thing,” he said. “The village was left untouched. The hybrids specifically targeted the lord’s estate—someone who had sworn allegiance to Lasseran—although the lord and his immediate followers were spared.”

“A message,” Ulric concluded grimly. “Betrayal will not be tolerated, even from his own supporters.”

He watched the king’s face, trying to gauge his reaction. The mention of the Beast warriors had darkened Ulric’s expression, but there was something else weighing on him—something he couldn’t quite place.

“My king,” he hesitated, then tugged Lyric forward. “There’s more you should hear. My mate has been touched by the goddess Freja.”

Ulric’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he said nothing, waiting for her to speak.

“I wouldn’t presume to bring you a message from the gods if it weren’t urgent,” she said quietly. “Freja has warned that you must return to Queen Jessamin immediately.”

The change in Ulric was instant and dramatic. The stern, controlled expression cracked, revealing raw concern beneath. His big body tensed, every muscle coiled as if preparing to spring into action.

“What did you say?” Ulric’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “What about my queen?”

He instinctively shifted closer to Lyric, though he knew Ulric would never harm an innocent messenger. The king’s reaction confirmed what Egon had suspected—beneath the political alliance with Jessamin, there were genuine feelings.

“The goddess showed me flames surrounding her,” Lyric explained. “Danger closes in while she waits alone. That’s all I know, but the message was clear—you must go to her now.”

He watched the conflict play across Ulric’s face—the wariness of a king who couldn’t afford to be swayed by superstition battling with the concern of a man who might be putting his queen at risk. The king’s eyes narrowed as he studied Lyric more carefully.

“Many claim to speak for the gods,” Ulric said, his voice deliberately measured. “Especially in times of war. How do I know your vision isn’t born of fear rather than divine guidance?”

He stepped forward, his protective instincts flaring. “My king, I’ve known Lyric since we were children. She’s never spoken falsely, and she has nothing to gain by inventing such a warning.”