Page 14 of The Orc's Bonded Bride (The Five Kingdoms #3)
CHAPTER 14
L yric woke to the smell of smoke. Her eyes flew open, heart hammering against her ribs before she fully understood why. The cottage—normally dark at this hour—glowed with an unnatural orange light filtering through the shutters.
“Egon,” she whispered, reaching across the bed for him but finding only empty space.
She scrambled from bed, bare feet slapping against the wooden floor. The crackling sound grew louder as she threw open the door.
The night sky blazed. Flames leapt from the roof of the village storehouse, hungry tongues licking upward into the darkness. Silhouettes moved against the inferno—villagers forming a desperate bucket line from the well.
“No,” she breathed, her voice lost beneath the roar of the fire.
A figure broke away from the chaos, running toward her cottage. Egon. His massive frame was outlined against the flames, face grim and streaked with soot.
“They’ve returned,” he said, voice rough. “The lord’s men. More this time.”
Her throat tightened. “The children?”
“Safe. Elder Harta took them into the woods.” His golden eyes reflected the distant flames. “This is a message. They’re burning the harvest stores first.”
The village’s winter supplies. Without them?—
“They mean to starve us into submission.” Her hands balled into fists. “Where are they now?”
“Watching from the ridge.” His jaw tightened. “They want us to know they can take everything.”
A distant scream cut through the night. Not pain—rage. She recognized the miller’s wife’s voice.
“They’re moving to the east fields,” he said. “The grain?—”
She didn’t wait for him to finish. She grabbed her boots, yanking them on with trembling hands. The peace they’d found, the tentative hope they’d built—all of it crumbling like ash. She reached for the knife she kept by the door.
“What are you doing?” Egon caught her arm.
“What does it look like? I’m fighting back.” She tried to pull away, but his grip held firm.
“Lyric, there are too many. They’re armed?—”
“This is my home.” Her voice broke. “Our home. I won’t let them burn it to the ground while I hide.”
The flames climbed higher, painting the night in hellish orange. All their work, all their plans—consumed in minutes. But as she stared into the inferno, something hardened inside her. This wasn’t just about survival anymore. This was about standing against the darkness.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she sprinted across the yard, Egon’s heavy footfalls close behind her. The smoke thickened with each step, acrid and choking. She pulled her sleeve over her mouth, eyes watering as she rounded the corner of her cottage.
The sight struck her like a physical blow.
Her apple trees—the ones she’d brought back to health—writhed in flames. Orange tongues licked up their trunks, consuming the branches that had been laden with ripe fruit. The fire danced from tree to tree, a cruel, living thing with purpose.
“No,” she whispered, the word catching in her throat.
Those trees had been her first act of permanence, her declaration that she belonged somewhere. That she was staying. She’d spent countless hours among them—pruning, watering, whispering encouragements when no one could hear.
A tall figure darted between the burning trees—one of the noble’s men, torch in hand, moving to set another ablaze.
“Stop!” she screamed, surging forward, but Egon caught her arm, his grip gentle but unyielding.
“Lyric, wait?—”
She wrenched free, blind rage propelling her forward. The man turned at her approach, his face illuminated by firelight—young, barely more than a boy, but his expression held a casual cruelty that chilled her even through her fury.
“The lady of the orchard,” he sneered, waving his torch. “Come to beg for your precious trees?”
She stopped ten paces from him, chest heaving. “This is my land. My home.”
“Not anymore.” He gestured toward the ridge where dark silhouettes of mounted men watched. “Lord Trevain sends his regards. And a message—pay the tribute or lose everything.”
The heat pressed against her face as another tree caught fire with a whoosh of igniting leaves. These trees had fed her. Would have fed the village children through winter.
“You’re burning food,” she said, voice shaking. “Children’s food.”
The young man shrugged. “Not my concern.”
The soldier’s callous indifference snapped the last thread of her control. In two strides, she closed the distance and slammed her knife into his thigh. He screamed, stumbling backward, the torch falling from his hand.
She didn’t hesitate. Years of fighting for survival took over. She drove her elbow into his nose, feeling it crunch beneath the blow. Blood spurted, and he staggered, clutching his face.
She dove for the fallen torch, rolling to her feet and swinging it at her attacker. He reeled back, avoiding the flaming weapon. She thrust again, forcing him farther from the burning trees. Her breath came in ragged gasps, but she kept advancing, eyes locked on her enemy.
“Stop!” The soldier held up his hands. “Please, I’m bleeding—” His words cut off as the torch connected with his shoulder, searing cloth and flesh.
As he cried out, she turned and flung the torch as far as she could, back into the burning orchard. It spiraled through the air before landing in a shower of sparks. She faced him again, fists raised, adrenaline pumping.
“Leave,” she spat. “And tell your lord he’ll never have my land or my loyalty.”
The soldier scrambled backwards, clutching his injured thigh. He opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was lost as a dark blur tackled him to the ground. The soldier screamed and thrashed under Egon’s weight.
“You dare?” Egon’s voice was a low growl. “You dare attack her land, her trees?” Each question was punctuated by the solid thud of fists against flesh. She watched, chest heaving, as the soldier’s resistance weakened and his cries quieted.
Egon dropped him, his hands flexing as his claws emerged. Beyond him, she could see other men approaching, drawn by their companion’s shout of alarm. They wouldn’t stand a chance against Egon if he transformed fully—he would tear through them like parchment.
But the aftermath… she could already see it. The stories would spread. A monster at Lyric’s farm. The Beast that slaughtered the lord’s men. They would hunt him, fear him.
Fear them both.
She stepped between Egon and his prey, her back to the terrified soldier.
“Egon,” she said, keeping her voice steady despite her racing heart. “Look at me.”
His eyes had turned black again, but they focused on her, his big body trembling with barely restrained violence. The soldier behind her whimpered, and she felt his fear like a tangible thing in the smoke-thick air.
“Egon,” she repeated, keeping her voice steady. “It’s me. It’s Lyric.”
His gaze remained fixed over her shoulder, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. She wasn’t sure he even recognized her anymore. The Beast had taken over, driven by rage and the need to protect. If he attacked now, there would be no going back for either of them.
“Please,” she whispered, taking a tentative step toward him. “This isn’t the way.”
The sound of approaching hoofbeats cut through the crackling flames. She glanced back to see a group of riders galloping toward them, torchlight glinting off drawn swords. Her stomach dropped. More soldiers meant more danger—for everyone.
“Stand down!” A commanding voice rang out across the burning orchard as an older man on horseback broke away from the group, riding hard towards them. Unlike the others, his bearing spoke of years of discipline and authority. Silver streaked his beard, and a weathered scar ran across one cheek. Lord Trevain’s original captain, before Lasseran’s soldiers had arrived
He reined his horse sharply, taking in the scene with narrowed eyes—the cowering soldier, her protective stance, and Egon’s rage. To his credit, the captain showed no fear at the sight of the enraged orc, only a grim understanding.
“Enough!” He dismounted with surprising agility for his age. “Douse those torches. Now!”
The younger soldiers hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances.
“I said now!” the captain barked. “This ends tonight.”
To her astonishment, the men obeyed, stamping out their torches against the dirt. The captain approached slowly, his hands visible and empty of weapons.
“Forgive me, mistress,” he said to her, his voice rough but sincere. “These men acted without orders.” He cast a disgusted look at the young soldier who had torched her trees. “Lord Trevain demanded tribute, yes, but this—” he gestured to the burning orchard, “—this was never sanctioned.”
She stared at him, disbelief warring with desperate hope. Behind her, she could sense Egon still poised to attack, still on the verge of transforming.
“My men have dishonored themselves,” the captain continued. “And me.”
She struggled to process the captain’s words through the haze of smoke and fear. Behind her, Egon’s ragged breathing continued, each exhale a rumbling growl that vibrated through the air between them.
“Your men burned our winter stores,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “They destroyed my orchard.”
The captain’s weathered face tightened with what might have been genuine regret. “And they will answer for it. But—” His gaze shifted to Egon’s massive body, menacing in the firelight. “We both know what happens next if I don’t return with some form of resolution.”
Lord Trevain would send more men, better armed, with orders to hunt the Beast that had threatened his soldiers.
“There must be consequences,” the captain continued, his voice dropping lower. “But I can offer you a choice.”
Something cold settled in her stomach. “What choice?”
“The orc leaves.” The captain’s eyes held hers, unflinching. “Tonight. He disappears back into the wilderness where he belongs, and in return, I give you my word that the village will remain unharmed.”
Her eyes closed in silent despair. One sacrifice to save everything else.
“And if he doesn’t?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Then I cannot control what happens next.” The captain glanced at his men, who stood watching with hands on sword hilts. “Lord Trevain fears nothing more than losing face. A Beast attacking his men? He’ll burn this entire village to the ground rather than appear weak.”
She turned to look at Egon. The rage in his eyes had dimmed somewhat, awareness seeping back into his gaze. He was hearing this. Understanding it.
“I need your answer,” the captain pressed.
The choice was clear. Painfully, brutally clear. Everything she had built here—her home, her place among these people, the fragile peace she had carved out for herself—weighed against Egon’s presence. Against the tenuous, newborn thing growing between them.
“He’ll go,” she said, the words like ash in her mouth.