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

CHAPTER 3

I n the foothills below the Sentinel Mountains, Egon knelt by a narrow stream. He’d made good time, covering most of the mountain pass in just a few weeks, each step taking him further from his brothers and the painful reminders of what he could never have. The sun was still high, but his eyelids felt heavy, and his steps had grown sluggish. He’d decided to stop early for the day.

He scooped up a handful of water and splashed his face, enjoying the coolness on his skin. It was crisp and clean, unlike the muddy sludge he’d so often been forced to drink in Kel’Vara, or even the musty water from his waterskin during his mercenary years. Such a simple thing, clean water, and so easily taken for granted.

Refreshed, he glanced around the small clearing and decided to push forward a little further. He’d reached the border between Norhaven and a narrow spur of land that was part of the Old Kingdom, and the forest grew denser as he descended into the ancient land. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in broken shafts, illuminating patches of ground covered in moss and fallen leaves. He moved silently beneath the trees, his warrior’s instincts never fully at rest.

He paused at the base of a massive oak, its trunk wider than three men standing shoulder to shoulder. Something glinted through the foliage ahead—stonework, weathered by time. Curious, he pushed forward.

An overgrown clearing opened before him, dominated by a crumbling stone shrine. Vines embraced the ancient structure, and moss carpeted its base. Despite the decay, he recognized the unmistakable symbols of the Old Gods carved into the weathered stone and sighed.

Wulf’s words echoed in his mind. The Old Gods are working on our behalf.

He snorted. The gods had never seemed to work on his behalf before. Why would they start now?

Despite his skepticism, he circled the shrine, studying the faded carvings. The sacred animals belonged to Wulf, but the small spring that bubbled up from the base of the central stone undoubtedly belonged to Freja.

He dropped his pack and sat heavily on a fallen column, running a calloused hand over the scar on his face. The silence of the clearing pressed in around him.

“I don’t seek what I cannot have,” he muttered to the empty air. “I’m not a fool.”

A breeze stirred the leaves overhead, whispering words he couldn’t hear, and he found his gaze drawn to the shrine again. With a resigned sigh, he approached the altar stone at the center. Clearing away debris, he knelt in front of it, his movements slow and cautious.

“I ask nothing for myself,” he said softly. “But… guide me to be useful. Let me protect what my brothers have found.” He paused, swallowing hard. “Let me be worthy of the clan that took me in when no one else would.”

The words felt strange on his tongue—prayer had never been his way. But as he spoke, something settled in his chest, like the weight of his axe in his hands before battle. Not comfort, exactly, but purpose.

He remained kneeling in front of the shrine until the sun began its descent toward the horizon. The forest had grown quieter, the daytime chorus of birds giving way to the occasional rustle of creatures preparing for evening. His muscles ached from days of travel, but he pushed on, determined to cover more ground before making camp.

The trees thinned gradually, and he slowed his pace as the valley opened before him, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. Below, nestled against a gentle slope, lay a small village—a cluster of modest dwellings with thatched roofs and gardens.

He frowned. He hadn’t intended to encounter any settlements so soon. Humans were unpredictable—Norhaven had always had an amicable relationship with the Old Kingdom but after years of Lasseran’s propaganda they might reach for their weapons rather than tolerating his presence. Best just to observe and keep moving.

He skirted along the tree line, keeping to the shadows while studying the layout of the village. Smoke rose from chimneys, and figures moved between buildings, their voices carrying faintly on the breeze. No signs of armament or soldiers. Simple folk living simple lives.

Something about one particular holding caught his eye—a small cottage on the outskirts of the village, surrounded by well-tended gardens and a cluster of fruit trees. Beehives lined the southern edge of the property, and a stone wall, low but sturdy, marked its boundaries. He couldn’t explain the draw he felt towards that particular dwelling—perhaps it was just its isolated position, so similar to that of his own cottage.

A flash of movement caught his eye, and he watched, unexpectedly mesmerized, as a woman moved gracefully between the trees, gathering fallen fruit into a basket.

“Foolishness,” he muttered to himself, yet he didn’t turn away.

The wind shifted, bringing with it the scents of the village—woodsmoke, baking bread, livestock. But underneath those familiar smells was something else—something that made him freeze in his tracks.

His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply. Sweet, like honey and summer flowers, but with an undercurrent that stirred something primal in his chest. The scent seemed to emanate from the very cottage he’d been watching.

His heart pounded suddenly, his body tensing as if preparing for battle, though no threat was visible. He’d never encountered this particular scent before, yet something about it felt achingly familiar, like a half-forgotten memory, a richer, sweeter version of something he’d once known.

His breath caught in his throat as the woman turned, basket balanced against her hip, and the last rays of sunlight illuminated her face. Recognition hit him like a physical blow.

Lyric.

Impossible.

But even as he tried to deny it, he couldn’t escape the truth. The child he remembered had fulfilled the promise of beauty that had hidden beneath the dirt and lack of food. Even from here he could tell her eyes were the same soft green, although her hair had darkened to a rich chestnut brown. Her features had sharpened into elegance, her body filled out with soft curves and long limbs. The years had transformed the girl he’d known into a woman in her prime.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to turn away, to continue down the mountain and forget what he’d seen. But the moment he did, he could see another memory—Lyric as he’d last seen her, her thin face tear-streaked and terrified, calling for him as she was dragged away, even though she couldn’t have seen him in the darkness. The image was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday, not over a decade ago, and his throat tightened at the memory.

He’d been assured that she was safe, that she would be cared for and protected—as long as he obeyed, and as long as he’d stayed away. He’d searched for her when he finally escaped the fight pits but she’d been long gone. He’s never expected to find her again, let alone in the tiny corner of the Old Kingdom.

He wanted to know what had happened to her, how she’d come to be here, safe from harm. His Beast growled approvingly as he took a half step forwards, urging him to go to her, but instead he retreated deeper into the shadows, his mind racing. What twisted game were the gods playing?

His fingers dug into the rough bark of the tree he leaned against. Why would she be here, of all places? A remote village at the edge of the Old Kingdom, far from the sprawling markets and stone walls of Kel’Vara?

He watched as she straightened, suddenly alert. She scanned the tree line, as if sensing his presence. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought their eyes met across the distance, and he shrank back instinctively. Even if she could forgive him for what she undoubtedly considered his betrayal, what would she think of him now—huge and scarred, the violent life he’d led etched on his face.

She frowned, and then returned to her work, yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Everything about her called to him, tugged at something deep in his chest. That scent—sweet and warm—filled his senses again, making his head swim.

Had the Old Gods actually heard his awkward prayer? Was there a reason he was here?

He shook his head, dismissing the foolish thought. Coincidence, nothing more.

Still, that sweet scent filled his nostrils, distracting him in ways he’d never experienced. Honey and wildflowers, with something else beneath—something that made his blood rush hot through his veins. His usual hunter’s focus scattered like leaves in a storm.

He shifted his weight, meaning to retreat deeper into the forest’s shadows. His foot moved backward, searching for solid ground, but his attention remained fixed on her slender form as she worked in her garden.

A dry branch beneath his boot gave way with a sharp crack that echoed in the air.

“Fool,” he hissed under his breath, instantly freezing in place.

Across the clearing, her head snapped up. She set down her basket and straightened slowly, eyes warily scanning the tree line.

He pressed himself back against the rough bark of the ancient oak, cursing his carelessness. Decades of warrior training, countless battles and hunts, and he’d made a mistake a first-year scout would be ashamed of. All because he couldn’t control his reaction to her.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he held his breath. The forest had gone silent around them—even the birds seemed to wait. She took a deliberate step toward the trees where he hid.

“Who’s there?” Her voice carried clearly across the distance, firm and unafraid.

He weighed his options. He could vanish into the forest—he was still skilled enough to disappear if he moved now. Or he could reveal himself and face whatever came next.

Neither option appealed to him. The first felt like cowardice, the second like madness.

He remained frozen, his muscles tense with indecision. The rational part of his mind urged him to retreat into the forest depths—to continue his mission without this complication. Yet something stronger held him in place, rooted him to the spot as surely as the ancient oak he leaned against.

She took another step toward the tree line, her eyes narrowing as she peered into the shadows.

“I know you’re there,” she called, her voice steady despite the slight tremor in her hands. “Show yourself.”

The command in her tone stirred something in him—respect, perhaps. She stood alone, facing an unknown threat without backup, without weapons. Brave or foolish, he couldn’t decide.

With a resigned grunt, he stepped forward. Sunlight spilled across his scarred face and huge body as he emerged from the forest’s edge. He straightened to his full height, knowing the intimidating picture he presented—a towering orc warrior, battle-worn and grim, his axe hanging at his side.

He braced himself for the inevitable—her scream, her terror, her flight. These days it was the way of things between their kinds, especially for a single human female encountering him alone.

But Lyric didn’t scream. She didn’t run.

Instead, she went utterly still, her eyes widening as they locked with his. The basket slipped from her fingers, forgotten as apples tumbled across the ground.

Confusion flickered across her face, followed by something that made his chest tighten—recognition.

“Egon?” His name fell from her lips in a whisper, soft and disbelieving.

She remembered him.

Before he could respond, the color drained from her cheeks, and her knees buckled beneath her.

He moved without thinking, covering the distance between them in three long strides. He caught her before she hit the ground, her slight weight nothing against his strength. She lay limp in his arms, her head falling back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat.

That scent—honey and wildflowers—enveloped him, stronger now with her pressed against his chest. It made his head swim, his senses sharpen and blur all at once.

Mate , his Beast purred, but he immediately shook his head. No, it wasn’t possible. Damn Wulf and his talk of the Old Gods. Damn his own foolishness. But kneeling there with Lyric in his arms, he couldn’t deny the effect she had on him. She was beautiful and brave, and he’d abandoned her to a fate that still haunted him.

And now she was unconscious in his arms.

He cursed himself, his past, and the tangled web he seemed to be caught in. But as he gently lifted her against his chest, as her soft hair spilled over his forearm, he couldn’t bring himself to regret this unexpected reunion.