Page 15 of The Orc's Bonded Bride (The Five Kingdoms #3)

CHAPTER 15

E gon watched the captain’s retreating back with a mixture of rage and resignation. The man’s offer was clear—leave, or the village would pay the price. Lyric’s orchard still smoldered, the charred remains of fruit trees a stark reminder of what could happen to the rest of her home.

“I have to go,” he said roughly. “There’s no other choice.”

She looked up at him, her face illuminated by the dying embers. “You don’t have to decide tonight.”

“Every moment I stay puts you in danger.” He clenched his fists, his Beast straining against his control. “I won’t be responsible for burning down everything you’ve built.”

She reached for his hand, her fingers sliding between his. “We should still seek out the wise woman.”

“We?” The word caught him off guard.

“Yes, we,” she said firmly. “I can’t stay here knowing what I know now about Lasseran, about what he’s planning, not if I can help.”

He shook his head. “Your home?—”

“Is just a place.” She gestured toward the damaged orchard. “They’ve already shown what they think of my claim to it.”

“You’d leave everything behind?” He studied her face, searching for doubt. “Your bees, your garden?—”

“The bees will survive without me. The gardens will grow wild again.”

He turned away, unable to bear the thought of her sacrificing everything for him. “I won’t ask that of you.”

“You didn’t ask.” She stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at her. “I’m choosing. Just as I chose to take you in when you appeared at my door.”

“This is different.”

“Is it?” Her eyes flashed. “I’ve spent years hiding here, pretending I could build something permanent. But nothing is permanent, Egon. Not for people like us.”

He couldn’t deny the truth of her words. They were both outsiders. They always would be.

“When do we leave?” she asked, already turning back to the cottage.

He followed her, watching in disbelief as she packed a small cloth bag with essentials—herbs, dried meat, a change of clothes. Her movements were swift and efficient, as though she’d been preparing for this departure her entire life.

“You’re certain?” he asked for the third time.

She paused, hands resting on a jar of honey she’d carefully wrapped in cloth. “If you ask me that one more time, I might change my mind out of spite.”

A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “I just want you to be sure.”

“I am.” She tucked the honey into her bag. “Besides, the village needs to protect itself. They can’t do that if Lord Trepan’s men are watching me.”

Outside, the soft murmur of voices grew louder, and he tensed, his hand instinctively moving to the knife at his belt.

“It’s just the Elders,” she said, touching his arm. “I asked them to come.”

The three village Elders entered without knocking. Their faces were solemn but not hostile as they regarded him.

“We’ve discussed matters,” said the oldest, a white-haired female he hadn’t encountered before. “The village agrees your departure is… necessary.”

He nodded stiffly. “I understand.”

“Not just yours,” Elder Harta added. “Lyric’s too. For her safety.”

Elder Tomas stepped forward, holding out a small pouch. “Seeds from our best crops. For wherever you settle next.”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she accepted the gift. “Thank you.”

“Samha asked us to give you this.” The white-haired woman handed him a crudely carved wooden figure—an attempt at an orc warrior. “He says it will protect you both.”

His throat tightened as he took the small carving. “Tell him…” He struggled to find words.

“We will tell him you were grateful,” the Elder said gently.

As they left the cottage, villagers lined the path, their expressions a mixture of gratitude and concern. Some nodded respectfully to him. A few reached out to touch Lyric’s arm or press small tokens into her hands.

“They’re thanking you,” she whispered. “For protecting Samha and his sister.”

He kept his eyes forward, uncomfortable with their attention. “I only did what was necessary.”

At the edge of the village, where the path wound upward into the mountains, Samha suddenly jumped out of the bushes and ran towards them.

“You’re really leaving?” The boy’s eyes were wide and red-rimmed.

Lyric bent down and hugged him. “We have to. But we won’t forget you.”

Samha returned her hug, then turned to him, small chin trembling but determined. “Will you come back someday?”

He stared down at the boy, feeling a strange tightness in his chest. Samha’s question hung in the air between them, weighted with hope that he wasn’t sure he could bear. The small wooden carving pressed against his palm, surprisingly heavy for such a simple thing.

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. Lies came easily to warriors in the field, but not to this child who looked at him without fear. “The world is… complicated.”

Samha’s face fell, but he squared his small shoulders. “Then I’ll come find you when I’m bigger.”

The declaration startled a laugh from his throat—rough and unpracticed. “You’re a brave one.”

“You taught me.” Samha’s eyes suddenly looked far older than his years. “When you saved my sister. You didn’t run away even though you were scared.”

He knelt, bringing himself to the boy’s level. “I wasn’t—” He stopped himself from denying it. “How did you know I was afraid?”

“Your hands were shaking after. Like mine do.” Samha demonstrated, holding out his small fingers and making them tremble. “But you still did the right thing.”

He swallowed hard, unable to find words. This child had seen through him in ways that warriors and kings never had.

“Keep looking after your sister,” he finally managed, resting a hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder. “And the others. They’ll need your courage.”

Samha nodded solemnly. “I will.” Then, without warning, he threw his arms around Egon’s neck in a fierce hug.

He froze, then awkwardly returned the embrace, careful of his strength. Over the boy’s shoulder, he caught Lyric watching them, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

When Samha pulled away, he pressed something else into Egon’s hand—a small, smooth river stone. “This is for luck,” the boy whispered. “My father gave it to me before he died.”

“I can’t take this?—”

“You have to.” Samha closed his fingers around the stone. “It’s the rules. For heroes.”

He felt something crack inside him, some wall he’d built long ago. He tucked the stone carefully into his pocket, next to the wooden carving.

“Thank you,” he said, the words inadequate but all he had to offer.

He watched as the boy darted away again, disappearing back into the bushes, then took Lyric’s hand as they started up the narrow mountain path. He matched his pace to hers as the village had disappeared behind the trees, leaving only wilderness ahead. The weight of the stone in his pocket and the carved figure tucked safely in his pack grounded him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“You handled that well,” she said, breaking the silence. “With Samha.”

He grunted. “Children are… difficult.”

“Not for you, apparently.” A smile played on her lips. “He adores you.”

“He shouldn’t.”

“Reminds me of another boy who used to follow you around.” Her voice softened. “Do you remember Taro? The baker’s son?”

The name unlocked a door in his mind he’d kept firmly shut. “The one who kept stealing bread for us?”

“And blamed it on the mice.” She laughed, the sound bright against the forest quiet. “He was so determined to impress you.”

“I remember.” The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “He brought you those sticky buns on your name day.”

“He brought them for you,” she corrected. “But you told him I needed them more.”

He hadn’t thought of that day in years. The memory came back with surprising clarity—Lyric’s delighted face as she’d bitten into the sweet pastry, the way she’d closed her eyes in pleasure. He’d gone hungry that night, but it had been worth it.

“They were the best I’d ever tasted,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.

“Better than the ones we stole from the festival cart?”

“Gods, I’d forgotten about that!” Her eyes widened. “You distracted the vendor while I?—”

“—slipped six buns into your skirt pockets,” he finished. “We ate like royalty that night.”

“Until we both got sick from eating too many.”

They shared a look, and suddenly they were laughing—his deep rumble mixing with her lighter tones. The sound of their shared mirth echoed through the trees, startling birds into flight.

It struck him then, how easily they’d fallen back into this rhythm. As if the years between had been nothing more than a brief separation. The realization both comforted and terrified him. He’d spent so long convincing himself he was better off alone, that bonds were weaknesses to be avoided.

Yet here she was beside him, matching him step for step, sharing memories he’d buried deep. And despite everything—the danger behind them, the uncertainty ahead—he felt strangely whole.

Since they no longer had to make the trip in a single day, he didn’t try to hurry their journey. Instead he watched her obvious pleasure in their surroundings. She gave an excited murmur when she discovered a cluster of wild berries growing along the path. She sorted through them quickly and efficiently, adding the ripe ones to the small pouch at her waist. The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy above, casting dappled light across her face. She looked different here than she had in the village—more alert, less guarded.

“It’s strange,” she said, straightening up. “I should be terrified, but I’m not.”

“The wilderness isn’t as dangerous as people think,” he agreed, although he remained alert to their surroundings. “Not if you know how to read it.”

She brushed her hands on her skirt and fell back into step beside him. “It’s not just that. I thought leaving would feel like…” She searched for the word. “Like losing everything again.”

He glanced down at her, surprised by her candor. “And it doesn’t?”

“Parts of it do.” She gestured back toward the way they’d come, though the village was long out of sight. “I’ll miss my garden, my bees. The rhythm of the seasons there.” A small smile played on her lips. “But there’s something freeing about this too. I haven’t traveled since I found that place.”

They climbed over a fallen log, Egon automatically extending his hand to help her. She took it without hesitation, her grip firm and sure.

“I never thought I’d say this,” she continued, not letting go of his hand even after they’d passed the obstacle, “but I’m glad you’re here. With me.”

“Even after everything?”

“Especially after everything.” She squeezed his hand once before releasing it. “You’re not the boy I knew in Kel’Vara anymore, Egon. You’re… more.”

“More?”

“Stronger. Steadier.” Her gaze was direct, unflinching. “The boy I knew was kind to me but angry at the world. Quick to fight, quick to run. You’re neither of those things now.”

He looked away, uncomfortable with her assessment. “I still fight.”

“Yes, but not because you’re angry. Because you’re protecting something.” She touched his arm lightly. “There’s a difference.”

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps the time he’d spent with his brothers had healed him more than he’d realized.

He watched her from the corner of his eye as she moved along the trail ahead of him. He caught himself studying the curve of her neck, the way her hair fell across her shoulders when she bent to examine plants along the path. Each time their hands brushed during meal preparations, a jolt passed through him that had nothing to do with danger or survival.

“We should reach the foothills by nightfall,” he said, clearing his throat. “The old woman’s cottage is supposed to be near the waterfall beyond. We’ll reach it tomorrow.”

She nodded, falling back into step beside him. “Do you think she’ll help us?”

“I don’t know.” He stepped over a fallen branch, automatically reaching back to steady her as she followed. His hand lingered on her waist longer than necessary. “The old magics are… unpredictable.”

“Like you,” she said softly, not pulling away from his touch.

His breath caught. Her scent—honey and flowers and something uniquely Lyric—filled his senses. His Beast stirred, not with rage but with a different kind of hunger.

“I’m not—” he began, but she turned to face him, so close he could see the flecks of gold in her green eyes.

“You are,” she insisted. “Unpredictable. Fierce. Gentle when I least expect it.”

Her hand came up to touch his face, fingers tracing the scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. He should step back. He should maintain distance. He should remember all the reasons why this was impossible.

Instead, he leaned into her touch, his eyes closing briefly as her thumb brushed across his cheekbone.

“Lyric,” he whispered, her name a warning and a prayer.

“I know,” she answered, understanding everything he couldn’t say. “I know what you think you are. What you believe you don’t deserve.”

She stepped closer, eliminating the space between them. “But I see you, Egon. I’ve always seen you.”