Page 2 of The Orc's Bonded Bride (The Five Kingdoms #3)

CHAPTER 2

L yric pressed her hand against the side of the wooden hive, listening to the contented hum within. The vibration traveled through her fingertips, a language she’d come to understand over the years. Her bees were happy today.

“That’s it, little ones,” she murmured, sliding the frame back into place with practiced care. “Another good harvest coming.”

The morning sun warmed her shoulders as she worked, casting long shadows across her small plot of land. Three beehives stood in a neat row beside her vegetable garden, bordered by wildflowers she’d cultivated specifically to nourish her winged companions.

She paused to stretch her back and admire the rest of her modest holding—the small stone cottage with its thatched roof, the garden beds bursting with late summer crops, the cluster of fruit trees heavy with ripening fruit. A far cry from how it had looked when she arrived. The beds had been abandoned and overgrown, the cottage roof leaking, and the door almost falling off the hinges. It had taken her most of the first year to make it look more like the home she had always dreamed of, and she’d continued to improve it ever since.

Serena would have been pleased. The old woman had been one of the few bright spots in her past, but she’d taken Lyric under her wing when she joined a traveling merchant caravan. She’d insisted on sharing her wagon with Lyric, had warned off the caravan master when he’d tried to insist that her employment included serving his needs, and filled their evenings with stories about her cottage and garden.

Then one night Serena had handed her a document bequeathing her the small holding—her lined face gentle but sad.

“You don’t belong here, child.”

“But—”

“And once I’m gone, they’ll be no one to protect you from him.” She nodded towards the front of the caravan where the caravan master rode. “This is mine to give and it would have been lost if I hadn’t met you. Take it, child. Take it and build the life you deserve.”

A week later and Serena was gone, passing away peacefully in her sleep. Lyric had covered her face with a mourning veil and said the ritual prayers before slipping away in the night, the document carefully packed with her meager belongings. It had taken her two weeks to reach her destination and she’d walked through the village, tired and dusty but hopeful. As she’d set to work on the cottage and gardens, she kept expecting someone to challenge her, to tell her she didn’t belong and send her away.

Instead the villagers had been cautious, but not unfriendly. As she’d continued to work on the property, they’d start to drop by with offers of help, although she’d been reluctant to accept. In her experience, nothing was ever offered for free. Despite her reticence she’d found a place here.

Sometimes the reality of that still struck her as impossible.

She’d been sent away from Kel’Vara when she was eighteen, but the memory of its slums still clung to her like a shadow—the narrow, filthy streets where she’d spent her childhood dodging trouble and scrounging for survival. The stench of too many bodies pressed together in crumbling tenements. The constant vigilance required to avoid the Dusk Guard’s attention. But at least she hadn’t been alone then. She’d found a family of sorts with a gang of street kids until their leader, the recipient of her childish affections, had deserted them and she’d found herself working in the kitchens of a wealthy noble.

In many ways it had been a better life—enough to eat, a safe place to sleep, and even an education of sorts—but it hadn’t been enough to ease her sense of betrayal. Even now the thought of him made her chest ache, a bruise that never quite healed.

She shook off the memories and turned back to the hives. From slum rat to beekeeper. The journey between those two lives contained enough pain to last several lifetimes, but standing here now, she couldn’t bring herself to regret a single step. In Kel’Vara, she’d been nothing—less than nothing. Another hungry mouth in the lower quarter, easily forgotten, easily discarded. She had a new life now, a new purpose, and the past belonged where she’d left it—in the dust of that brooding city, far from the simple beauty of her home.

She closed up the last of the hives, careful not to disturb the diligent workers. A bee landed on her wrist, its tiny feet tickling her skin. She remained still, watching as it explored before taking flight again.

“Go on then,” she said with a small smile. “The lavender’s blooming by the eastern wall.”

The sun climbed higher, promising a warm day ahead. Perfect weather for the beans she needed to stake and the new row of cauliflower waiting to be sown. She’d just finished storing her beekeeping tools when she spotted a familiar figure making her way up the narrow dirt path from the village to the cottage. Marla Tanner, plump and perpetually cheerful, waved enthusiastically as she approached, a basket swinging from the crook of her arm.

“Morning, Lyric! Glorious day, isn’t it?” Marla called out, slightly breathless from the uphill walk.

She wiped her hands on her apron and offered a small smile. “Morning, Marla. What brings you by so early?”

“Early? Sun’s been up for hours, dear!” Marla chuckled, setting her basket down on the wooden table outside the cottage. “Brought some fresh bread and that cheese you liked last time. Thought we might trade for some of your honey, if you’ve got any to spare. And maybe those lovely snap peas I see climbing your trellis?”

“I can spare a small jar. Let me fetch it for you.”

Inside, she selected a jar of amber honey from her shelf and gathered a basket of the ripest peas. Marla’s trades were always fair, and the woman had been kind to her ever since she’d settled here. Still, she kept their interactions brief, preferring to remain cordial but distant.

When she returned, Marla was admiring the beehives with obvious appreciation.

“Such clever little creatures,” Marla remarked. “Much like their keeper.”

She smiled as she handed over the honey and vegetables. “The bread smells wonderful.”

“My mother’s recipe.” Marla beamed, then her expression brightened further. “Oh! Nearly forgot why I really came. The harvest festival starts next week in the village. Three days of music and dancing and more food than anyone can eat. You should come this year.”

Turning away, she busied herself arranging Marla’s offerings in her own basket. “I appreciate the invitation, but?—”

“But nothing! You missed it last year, and the year before.” Marla’s eyes twinkled. “Besides, Harlin the cooper has been asking about you specifically.”

Harlin was a nice man, simple and honest—and far too innocent for someone with her past. Even if she had been interested in him, she wouldn’t have encouraged him.

“I’m not much for crowds,” she said softly. “Or dancing.”

“Nonsense. Everyone enjoys a good festival.”

Not everyone , she thought. Not those who’d seen how quickly celebration could turn to violence in Kel’Vara’s crowded quarters. Not those who’d learned that drawing attention meant drawing danger.

“I’ll think about it,” she offered, knowing she wouldn’t.

Marla sighed. “That’s what you said last year, dear. Whatever happened before you came here—it doesn’t matter to us.”

If only that were true.

She watched Marla disappear down the path, the woman’s invitation still hanging in the air between them. The harvest festival. Another opportunity to pretend she belonged here, among these simple, honest people who had never witnessed the darkness of Kel’Vara.

Sighing, she turned back to her garden. The cauliflower wouldn’t plant itself.

As she bent over, a flurry of movement caught her eye—a small figure racing up the hill, all flailing limbs and determination—and she couldn’t help smiling. Samha was barely eight years old with perpetually scraped knees and a gap-toothed smile that could melt the coldest heart.

“Miss Lyric! Miss Lyric!” he called, waving frantically as he bounded toward her cottage.

“Slow down,” she called as he almost tripped over a rock to one side of the path.

The boy skidded to a halt before her, chest heaving, face smudged with dirt. His dark hair stood up in wild tufts, and a fresh scratch marked his left cheek. Despite this, his eyes sparkled with the unbridled enthusiasm only children seemed capable of maintaining.

“How are the bees today?” he asked between gulps of air.

The corner of her mouth twitched upwards. “They’re just fine.”

“Can I see them? Please?” He bounced on his toes, barely containing his excitement.

“Not today. They’re busy making honey.” She studied his disappointed face, feeling a familiar warmth spread through her chest. “But I might have something else for a brave explorer.”

She reached into the pocket of her apron, retrieving a small wrapped candy—honey mixed with herbs from her garden, hardened into a golden treat. She’d started making them last winter, partly out of boredom during the long, cold nights.

His eyes widened. “Is that…?”

“A honey drop.” She placed it in his palm. “For the bravest adventurer on the mountain.”

The boy clutched it like treasure, his smile radiant. “Thank you, Miss Lyric!”

Without another word, he spun around and took off down the path, arms spread wide like wings, making a buzzing sound as he went.

A smile lingered on her lips as she watched him go, his childish buzzing fading into the distance. Children were easier than adults—they asked simpler questions, expected straightforward answers. They didn’t probe into her past or wonder why she lived alone on the edge of their village.

The smile slipped from her face as she turned back to her garden, picking up her trowel again. Her fingers worked automatically, digging neat furrows in the dark soil for the cauliflower seeds. The steady rhythm usually brought her peace. Today, it couldn’t quiet the hollow feeling spreading through her chest.

Samha’s joy was so pure, so uncomplicated. Even with his patched clothes and perpetually dirty face, he radiated a sense of belonging that she’d never known. He and his sister were orphans—barely scraping by on Lina’s meager earnings from the village tavern—but they had something far more valuable than gold.

She pressed a tiny seed into the earth, remembering how Lina always mended his clothes with colorful patches, turning necessity into art. How the miller hoisted him onto broad shoulders during village gatherings. How the tavern keeper’s wife braided flowers into his hair when she thought no one was watching.

She’d never known such simple tenderness.

In Kel’Vara’s lower quarter, children were burdens or assets, rarely treasured for themselves. Her own mother had died at birth. The woman who raised her afterward—a midwife with her own brood of hungry mouths—had done so with grim efficiency rather than affection.

“Stop daydreaming,” she muttered to herself, moving along the row. “Seeds won’t plant themselves.”

But the ache persisted. She’d built this life with her own hands—this garden, these hives, this small sanctuary. She’d learned to survive, to provide for herself, to find beauty in solitude. Yet watching Samha race home to waiting arms made her aware of all she’d never had. All she might never have.

The rest of the day proceeded as it usually did—quiet, busy, the work hard but satisfying—and yet the memories continued to haunt her. As she struck flint against steel to coax a small flame to life in her hearth that evening, her restlessness remained. The familiar ritual of bringing warmth to the cottage usually brought comfort, but tonight her movements felt mechanical, disconnected from the peace she typically found in her evening routines.

She added kindling, watching the flames grow and catch. Outside, crickets began their nightly chorus while the last birdsong faded into darkness. The cottage walls glowed amber in the firelight—the same walls she’d repaired with her own hands, the same roof that sheltered her from rain and snow.

Yet tonight, the security of these four walls pressed against her like a cage.

Stop it, she scolded herself as she moved to her small wooden table, where she’d laid out a simple dinner—bread from Marla, goat cheese, and vegetables from her garden. She cut a slice of bread, spread goat cheese across its surface, and took a bite without tasting it.

The hollow feeling from earlier had expanded, becoming an ache beneath her ribs that food couldn’t satisfy. She pushed her plate away half-eaten.

“This is foolishness,” she muttered to the empty room. “I have everything I need.”

She did have everything she needed—shelter, food, safety. The life she’d built here was more than she’d ever dared hope for in Kel’Vara. Her cottage might be small, but it was clean and sturdy. Her garden flourished. Her bees produced sweet honey. No Dusk Guards patrolled her path. No nobles looked through her as if she were invisible—or worse, as if she were prey.

She moved to her window, pushing open the shutters to gaze at the valley below. Pinpricks of light dotted the darkness—lanterns in village windows, families gathering for evening meals, children being tucked into bed with stories and kisses.

The ache intensified. She pressed a hand against her chest as if to contain it.

“Stop this,” she whispered to herself. “Be grateful for what you have.”

But gratitude couldn’t fill the emptiness that seemed to expand with the night. Here in her peaceful little cottage, there was nothing to distract her from the truth—she was alone. And she wasn’t sure how much longer she could bear it.