Page 1 of The Orc's Bonded Bride (The Five Kingdoms #3)

CHAPTER 1

“ G oing somewhere?”

Egon froze at the sound of his brother’s voice, gripping the worn leather straps of his travel pack. He’d deliberately waited until the moon was high, when the village had settled into darkness and silence. Apparently not silent enough.

“I told you I was planning on leaving for a while—to see what I could find out about Lasseran’s plans,” he muttered, shooting a glance at Wulf from the corner of his eye.

His brother leaned against the doorframe, but his expression was nowhere near as casual as his pose.

“That was almost two months ago, when Lothar first returned with Jana.”

Lothar’s mate Jana had needed time to adjust to the village and his cottage on the outskirts of the village had seemed like the perfect solution. His jaw tightened, his tusks pressing uncomfortably against his lower lip. He secured the final buckle with more force than necessary, the metal clasp snapping loudly in the quiet cottage.

“And I had every intention of leaving, but you kept finding tasks for me to do.”

“I needed you—I still do.” Wulf sighed, the weight of his position as clan leader clear on his face. “You’re the best trainer we have.”

He shrugged, uncomfortable both with the praise and the knowledge of how he’d acquired his skills. His years in the fight pit and then as a mercenary had left more than the physical scars which covered his body.

“I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Wulf’s face tightened, and he nodded. Their father had had a short passionate affair with Egon’s mother during his service in Lasseran’s army and had returned to Norhaven unaware that she was pregnant. Egon’s mother had managed to keep him out of Lasseran’s clutches but she’d died when he was young, and his life had been harsh and unpleasant until he’d finally found his way to Norhaven and discovered his brothers.

Neither of them liked to talk about that part of his past, but the knowledge of it lingered. Wulf and Lothar had welcomed him with open arms, but a part of him had always felt unworthy of their acceptance.

“The clan doesn’t need me here now,” he said finally, turning to face Wulf. “You have things well in hand.”

Wulf crossed his arms, his stance wide and unmovable. “Is that what you tell yourself to make running away easier?”

“I’m not running,” he growled, slinging his pack over his shoulder.

“No? What would you call it then?”

“Hunting. Investigating.”

“Alone? Without telling anyone?” Wulf gave him a steady look. “Without telling me?”

Something twisted in his chest. The bond between them, forged late in life but no less strong for it, pulled at him. Still, he looked away.

“I left a note.”

“A note.” Wulf’s laugh held no humor. “Like we’re strangers.”

“What do you want from me?” he growled again, his patience fraying. The night air sweeping in through the open door suddenly felt too close, too warm.

“The truth would be a start.”

He looked out at the distant tree line. The forest beckoned with its promise of solitude, of purpose uncomplicated by the tangled mess of belonging.

“You know we need more information about Lasseran’s plans. I should have tracked Khorrek while the trail was still fresh.” Khorrek was an orc loyal to High King Lasseran who had made his way into Norhaven, reaching Port Cael as part of a plot against Queen Jessamin. He’d almost abducted Jana before Lothar had found her.

Wulf stepped closer, close enough that he could see the concern etched in the lines around his brother’s eyes. “And that someone has to be you?”

“Yes.”

“This isn’t your responsibility, Egon.” Wulf’s hand landed on his shoulder, warm and heavy. “You don’t have to carry every burden alone.”

How could he explain that the burdens were all he knew? That they defined him in ways his brothers would never understand?

“If not me, then who?” He stepped away from Wulf’s hand. “I’m the best tracker we have. Even with a cold trail I should be able to find something.”

His throat tightened as his brother’s expression softened. He recognized that look—pity mixed with understanding—and it made his skin crawl. He’d rather face Lasseran’s entire army than this conversation.

“That’s not all of it, is it?” Wulf asked, his voice gentler now. “This isn’t just about Lasseran’s plans.”

He turned away, staring up at the mountains surrounding the village, the weight on his shoulder unrelated to his pack.

“I’m happy for you,” he finally said, the words rough. “For you and Kari. For Lothar and his mate too.”

“But?”

His jaw clenched. “No ‘but.’ You both deserve happiness.”

“And you don’t?”

The question hung in the air between them, and his fingers tightened around his pack strap until the leather creaked. He was genuinely happy for his brothers, but it only made his own situation that much harder to bear. Returning to his cottage after Lothar and Jana had moved into a new home had somehow made it that much worse. The cottage felt cold, empty, solitary. After a week of sleepless nights he’d decided he had to leave.

“It’s not about deserving a mate,” he muttered. “It’s about reality.”

Wulf waited, patient as always. Damn him for that.

“It’s too much right now,” he admitted, the words like stones in his mouth. “Watching you both with your mates. The way they look at you. The way you…” He trailed off, unable to find the right words.

“The way we what?”

“The way you fit together. Like missing pieces found.”

He turned back to face his brother, forcing himself to meet Wulf’s eyes. “There are so few females, Wulf. Even fewer who would look twice at—” He gestured at his scarred face, his huge body—he was built for war, not romance. “At this.”

The admission cost him, each word torn from somewhere deep and carefully guarded. He’d never spoken of this emptiness before, this hollow ache that grew sharper with each passing day, even though he was sure his brothers had guessed.

“Why would any female choose me when there are others? Others who aren’t…” He couldn’t finish. Broken. Damaged. Haunted.

“You don’t know that,” Wulf started, but he shook his head.

“I do know. I’ve always known.” He adjusted his pack, needing to move, to act, to escape this moment of raw vulnerability. “And that’s fine. I have other skills—like tracking—and I intend to use them for the good of Norhaven. Turmol will keep up the training while I’m gone.”

The night wind carried the scent of pine and frost, stirring memories he usually kept buried. Before Norhaven. Before Wulf and Lothar. Before he’d found anything resembling family.

He automatically traced the jagged scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw. The first of many. He’d been seven when his mother died. Too small to fight, too slow to escape. The blade that marked him had been meant to kill, not scar, and for no other reason than his orc heritage. He survived only because they thought he was already dead.

The years that followed taught him what true scars were—the ones no one could see. Surviving alone in the slums of Tel-Vara until he joined a gang of street kids. The fight pits. The mercenaries. Learning to kill before he’d learned to trust.

By the time fate reunited him with his brothers, the damage had been done. He was a weapon, not a man. Useful for war, not for love.

“You don’t understand,” he added, his voice low. “It’s not just about finding a mate. It’s about…” He struggled, words failing him as they always did when it mattered. “Some things break and can’t be fixed. I know what I am,” he continued, the words bitter on his tongue. “What I’ve done. The blood on my hands. No female deserves to be bound to that.”

The memory of screams—some from his victims, some from his nightmares—echoed in his mind. The mercenary years had hollowed him out, leaving something rough and jagged where his heart should be.

His brother’s face shifted, the familiar look of stubborn hope replacing concern.

“The Old Gods are not done with us yet,” Wulf said firmly. “You’ve seen what happened with Kari, with Jana. They were brought here for a reason.”

He turned away, unable to bear the certainty in his brother’s eyes. The Old Gods. As if ancient, slumbering deities concerned themselves with the happiness of one scarred orc warrior.

“The gods have better things to do than find me a mate,” he muttered.

“You don’t know their plans.”

“And you do?” The words came out harsher than he intended and he sighed, trying to soften his tone. “I’m happy that they intervened—for you and for Lothar. But it’s different for me.”

“Just give it time. Be patient.”

Patience. As if that was the problem. As if waiting long enough would somehow erase the decades of violence etched into his soul. He almost laughed at the absurdity.

“I’ve been patient for years,” he said instead. “But I know what I am. What I’m meant for.”

“And what is that?”

“This,” he said, gesturing to his weapons, his armor. “Fighting. Protecting. Not… loving.”

The word felt foreign on his tongue, awkward and ill-fitting, and his brother frowned at him.

“The gods work in ways we cannot always see. They brought Kari to me when I thought?—”

“You are not me.” He cut Wulf off, his voice low but firm. “You never were. Even before…” He trailed off, unwilling to revisit the years of their separation. “You were always meant for leadership. For family.”

He looked up at the stars, cold and distant above them. “Some of us are meant to stand guard at the edges. That’s my place, and I’ve accepted it.”

The certainty in Wulf’s eyes didn’t waver. “I don’t believe that. And neither should you.”

He shook his head, a bone-deep weariness settling over him. His brother’s faith had always been a mystery to him—beautiful but incomprehensible, like a language he’d never learned to speak.

“The Old Gods don’t hear warriors like me,” he said quietly. “And even if they did, some things can’t be fixed with divine intervention.”

He adjusted the weight of his pack one final time, his decision unchanged.

“Three months,” he conceded, the words hanging between them like a fragile bridge. “I’ll see if I can pick up Khorrek’s trail. If not, I’ll travel into the Old Kingdom and see what I can discover. I’ll be back in three months.”

Wulf sighed, then nodded, acknowledging the finality in his words.

“Three months,” he repeated, a hint of warning in his voice. “Or we’ll come looking for you.”

He nodded once, grateful for his brother’s concern. No more needed to be said between them. With practiced efficiency, he checked his weapons—knife at his belt, axe strapped to his back, short sword at his hip. The familiar weight of steel against his body centered him, reminded him of who he was.

He clasped Wulf’s hand, his brother’s grip strong and reassuring, then turned and strode toward the tree line, moving with practiced silence. The forest welcomed him with its familiar symphony—the whisper of night wind through pine needles, the distant call of a hunting owl, the soft rustle of small creatures in the underbrush. Here, at least, he knew his place.

Khorrek had been heading south towards the Old Kingdom when Lothar had tracked him down. It was as good a place as any to start. The path would take him through the Sentinel Mountains—a treacherous route, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He set a steady pace, his eyes automatically adjusting to the darkness beneath the trees, forcing himself to focus on the trail instead of the raw conversation with his brother.

As the village lights faded behind him, he felt the familiar tension in his shoulders begin to ease. The forest asked nothing of him but vigilance. It didn’t expect him to be anything other than what he was—a warrior, a hunter, a solitary figure moving through the shadows.

The mountain path rose before him, silver-touched in the moonlight. His stride lengthened, his breathing steady as he began the ascent. Three months. He’d given his word, and despite everything, his word was one thing he’d never broken.