Page 26 of The Orc's Bonded Bride (The Five Kingdoms #3)

CHAPTER 26

L yric folded the borrowed blanket, her movements mechanical while her mind raced elsewhere. Dawn painted the camp in shades of gray and pink, but the beauty failed to touch her. That gnawing sensation had returned—stronger now, like fingers of ice trailing down her spine.

“You’ve hardly spoken,” Egon said, his voice low as he approached. “What troubles you?”

She looked up at him, at the face that had become her anchor in a storm of uncertainty. The scars that mapped his history no longer seemed foreign—they were simply part of him, as familiar to her now as her own reflection.

“Something’s wrong.” She pressed a hand to her stomach, where the dread had settled like a stone. “I can’t explain it, but since we arrived, it’s gotten worse.”

He crouched beside her, golden eyes searching her face. “Freja again?”

“Perhaps.” She shook her head. “But this is different. Not a vision, just… a feeling. Like when you know a storm is coming before the clouds appear.”

Around them, Ulric’s men broke camp with practiced efficiency. The king himself stood at the edge of the clearing, deep in conversation with his captain. They’d be moving soon but the knowledge didn’t appease her growing sense of urgency.

“Perhaps it’s just the weight of everything,” he suggested, though his tone lacked conviction.

She watched a raven circle overhead, its black wings stark against the pale sky. “No. It’s something else.”

Sighing, she carried the folded blanket over to where their horses waited. As she reached for her mount’s bridle, a wave of wrongness crashed over her so powerfully that she staggered.

“Lyric?” He was at her side instantly, strong hands steadying her.

“We need to go. Now,” she whispered urgently, clutching his arm. “The certainty of it rang through her like a bell. “This place—it’s not safe.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Go to the front of the column with Ulric. I’ll make sure everyone is moving.”

“But…”

She was too late—he’d already disappeared into the still assembling crowd of horses and orcs. As much as she wanted to go after him, this was his world, not hers. The best thing she could do was follow his instructions. With a last worried glance at the column of warriors, she urged her horse towards Ulric’s banner, weaving through the column of warriors. The strange feeling intensified with each passing moment, a pressure building behind her ribs that made it hard to breathe. She caught sight of Ulric’s massive form at the front, his shoulders squared as he surveyed the path ahead.

“Your Majesty,” she called, pulling her mount alongside his. “We need to move faster.”

Ulric turned, his eyes narrowing. After one look at her face, he ordered his warriors to greater speed before turning back to her.

“The girl with the visions.” His voice carried no mockery, only caution. “What do you sense now?”

“I don’t know exactly.” She glanced back at the camp they were leaving, anxiety clawing at her throat. “But something’s coming. Something?—”

The ground beneath them trembled. Subtle at first, then unmistakable. Her horse nickered nervously, shifting beneath her.

“What in the—” Ulric began.

The rumble grew, a deep bass note that seemed to rise from the earth itself. Her eyes shot to the mountainside looming above their former campsite. A sickening realization dawned as tiny pebbles began to bounce and skip down the slope.

“Run!” she screamed, her voice lost in the sudden roar that filled the valley.

The mountain shuddered. Then, with terrifying speed, the entire face seemed to collapse. Massive boulders, trees, and earth broke free, gathering momentum as they thundered down toward the exact spot that they had left mere minutes ago.

She watched in horror as the avalanche crashed through their abandoned camp, pulverizing everything in its path. Tents disappeared in an instant. The clearing where Egon had held her last night vanished beneath tons of rock and debris. A cloud of dust billowed upward, blotting out the sunrise.

Her heart seized. “Egon,” she whispered, scanning frantically for any sign of him among those who’d made it to the front of the column. Had he escaped? Or had he been caught at the rear, making sure others got out safely?

The thunderous roar gradually subsided, leaving an eerie silence punctuated only by the settling of rocks and the panicked whinnying of horses. Dust hung in the air like fog, choking and thick.

“Egon!” she shouted, her voice breaking as fear clawed its way up her throat.

She slid from her horse before it had fully stopped, her feet hitting the ground hard enough to send pain shooting up her legs. She ignored it, stumbling forward into the billowing dust that hung like a shroud over what had been their camp.

“Egon!” Her voice cracked as she screamed his name, the sound swallowed by the settling mountain. All around her, warriors coughed and called out to one another, dark shapes moving through the haze like ghosts.

Her eyes burned, tears cutting tracks through the dust coating her face. She couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead, but she pressed on, heart hammering against her ribs. A massive boulder blocked her path—it hadn’t been there minutes ago. She scrambled around it, lungs burning with each desperate breath.

“Egon! Answer me!”

Someone grabbed her arm. She whirled, hope flaring, but it was one of Ulric’s men, his face grim beneath a layer of gray powder.

“The rear guard—” he started.

She wrenched away from him, pushing deeper into the devastation. Her foot caught on something—a broken spear, half-buried in rubble. She stumbled, fell to her knees, and for one terrible moment couldn’t find the strength to rise again.

What if he was gone? What if after everything—after finding each other across years and distance—she’d lost him to a mountainside?

“No,” she whispered, forcing herself back to her feet. “No.”

She climbed over a fallen tree, its branches reaching skyward like desperate fingers. Beyond it lay what remained of the supply wagons, crushed beneath stone and earth. Two warriors dug frantically at a pile of debris, pulling a third man free. Not Egon.

Her throat constricted. She couldn’t breathe through the dust and panic.

“Egon!” she screamed again, her voice raw, breaking. “Where are you?”

The dust began to settle in patches, revealing the full scope of destruction. Where tents had stood now lay nothing but rock and splintered wood. The clearing where they’d held each other through the night had vanished completely.

“Please,” she whispered, a prayer to whatever gods might listen. “Please be alive.”

She stumbled forwards, her legs threatening to give way with each step. The devastation stretched before her like a nightmare landscape—broken supplies, crushed wagons, warriors calling out names that weren’t answered. Her lungs burned from the dust, but she couldn’t stop searching.

“Egon!” Her voice had grown hoarse, barely carrying over the sounds of shifting rock and wounded men.

Something moved at the edge of her vision—a shadow among shadows, emerging from behind a massive boulder. Lyric froze, afraid to hope, afraid to breathe.

Then the dust cleared for just a moment, and she saw him.

Egon stood there, covered head to toe in gray dust and dirt, his massive frame unmistakable even through the haze. Blood trickled from a cut above his eye, and he limped slightly, but he was upright. He was alive.

Relief crashed through her like a wave, so powerful it nearly brought her to her knees. “Egon!” she cried, her voice breaking as she ran toward him, stumbling over debris and uneven ground.

He looked up at her voice, golden eyes finding hers through the settling dust. His face transformed with relief that mirrored her own.

She threw herself into his arms, not caring about the dirt or blood. He caught her against his chest, his embrace fierce enough to lift her feet from the ground. She pressed her face into his neck, breathing in the scent of him beneath the dust and sweat.

“I thought—” she couldn’t finish, her throat closing around the words.

“I’m here,” he murmured against her hair, his voice rough. “I’m here.”

She pulled back just enough to see his face, her hands moving frantically over his shoulders and chest, checking for injuries. “You’re hurt?—”

“It’s nothing.” His thumbs brushed tears from her cheeks, leaving smudges of dirt in their wake.

Heavy footsteps approached, and Lyric turned to see Ulric making his way toward them. The king’s face was grim beneath the layer of dust that covered them all.

“Two males,” he said without preamble, his voice heavy with the weight of command. “We lost two in the rear guard.” He looked at Lyric, something like grudging respect in his eyes. “There would have been more—many more—without your warning. And you,” he nodded to Egon, “getting the stragglers moving. I owe you both a debt of gratitude.”

She clung to Egon, unwilling to let go even as Ulric spoke. Her fingers traced the contours of his face, memorizing every feature as if she might lose him again at any moment. The dust settled around them in a fine gray mist, but she barely noticed it coating her skin and clothes.

“This was no accident,” Egon said, his voice rumbling against her where she pressed against his chest.

Ulric’s expression darkened. “You believe someone triggered the avalanche?”

“Look at the pattern,” Egon gestured toward the mountainside. “Too precise. Too… targeted.”

She followed his gaze, studying the ruined landscape with new understanding. The devastation had struck exactly where their camp had been, with almost surgical precision. Her warning had come just in time—not from Freja this time, but from some deeper instinct she couldn’t explain.

“Lasseran,” she whispered. The name tasted like poison on her tongue.

Ulric nodded grimly. “He’s grown bolder than I anticipated. We need to move—now. I… I must return to my queen as soon as possible.”

That hint of vulnerability crossed his face again before he turned to organize what remained of their party. He cares about Jessamin, she realized. Despite that he issued his commands with the same stern control, only the slightest harshness betraying his urgency.

She turned to look up at Egon. Blood still trickled from the cut above his eye, and she reached up to wipe it away.

“You could have been killed,” she said softly.

“I wasn’t.” His golden eyes held hers, steady and sure. “Because of you.”

“I didn’t know what was coming. I just… felt it.”

“That’s enough.” Egon brushed a strand of dust-covered hair from her face. “Sometimes feeling is all we have to guide us.”

Around them, warriors gathered what supplies had survived, preparing to continue their journey. The wounded were being tended to, their injuries mercifully minor given the scale of the destruction. She knew they should help, but for just a moment longer, she couldn’t bear to step away from him.

“We should go,” she finally said, though her hands still gripped his arms.

“Yes.” Egon nodded, but made no move to release her. Instead, he bent down and pressed his forehead against hers. “Thank you,” he whispered, “for saving me.”