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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

T he ceremonial chamber that Khorrek led Jessamin to was a cathedral of darkness so complete that it was difficult to tell its actual size.

Black silk banners hung from the vaulted ceiling, whispering against each other in an unseen draft.

The only light came from the massive iron braziers that lined the walls, their flames casting long, distorted shadows across the polished obsidian floor.

In the center stood a raised dais with an altar of black marble, its surface etched with symbols that seemed to writhe and twist if she looked at them too long. The air smelled of incense and something else—something metallic and wrong.

Lasseran waited beside the altar, resplendent in ceremonial robes of midnight blue embroidered with silver. His pale hair gleamed in the firelight, and his smile held the slick coldness of a predator.

“My dear niece,” he said, his voice like silk over steel. “How good of you to join our little family reunion.”

Khorrek’s face was an impassive mask as he led her towards the altar, but his eyes—his eyes told a different story. There was conflict there, doubt.

“This is not honor,” she whispered to him as they walked, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “This is depravity. Is this the future you want for your people?”

His hand faltered on her arm for a split second, his grip loosening just enough for her to notice.

Lasseran gestured impatiently. “Bring her to the altar. The alignment will not wait.”

As they approached the dais, she saw the implements laid out with meticulous precision—silver knives, crystal vials, a copper bowl filled with a dark liquid that caught the firelight with an oily sheen. This was no symbolic ceremony. This was blood magic in its most literal form.

“The preliminary preparations are complete,” he said with a satisfied purr as he gestured to one of his guards. “Remove the body.”

Her breath caught in her throat as the black-clad guard carried a body from behind the altar and she recognized Elspeth. The woman had accompanied them on the frantic trip south but she’d stayed as far away from Jessamin as possible.

“But… she helped you,” she said, her voice shaking.

“Indeed,” Lasseran agreed. “But her assistance was… less than satisfactory. Her blood was of more use.”

Khorrek didn’t move, but she saw his mouth tighten.

A rustle of movement from the shadows drew her attention. A figure stepped forward, their dark robe pooling around their feet, their face hidden in the shadow of their robe.

“This is not wise, Lasseran.” The priest’s voice was deep and resonant but she couldn’t tell if they were male or female. “The Veil is not a thing to be toyed with. There is a reason why the Old Magic was sealed away.”

“But I have the key. I have the knowledge and the power to unlock the curse and reshape it to my will.”

The priest shook their head, their face still hidden in shadow. “You are playing with forces beyond your comprehension.”

“My comprehension is greater than yours,” Lasseran snapped. “I am not bound by your petty fears and superstitions. Now begin the ritual.”

“No.” The word seemed to echo in the dark room.

Her uncle’s face contorted with fury. “You defy me?”

“We do. We will provide no assistance in this matter.”

The hooded figure faded back into the darkness as Lasseran swore. For a moment she dared to hope for a reprieve, but then Lasseran regained his composure and turned back to her.

“No matter. I will conduct the ritual myself. Bring her to me, Khorrek. Quickly.”

Lasseran took his place at the head of the altar and began to chant in a language that made her skin crawl. The words seemed to slither through the air, heavy with malice. The flames in the braziers flickered, turning a sickly green.

Her mind raced, searching for a way to save herself. She couldn’t overpower the guards. She couldn’t outrun them. But the timing of the ritual seemed to be important. Perhaps she could disrupt it long enough for…for what? For a reprieve? For a miracle?

The rusty dagger hidden in the folds of her dress pressed against her thigh, and a desperate plan formed in her mind.

She began to scream—not a dignified protest, but a raw, animal sound of terror. She thrashed wildly in Khorrek’s grip, her movements so sudden and violent that another guard came to assist him, disrupting the solemn rhythm of the ritual.

“Hold her still!” Lasseran snapped, his perfect composure fracturing.

Jessamin continued her performance, sobbing and pleading incoherently. She let her knees buckle, forcing the guards to half-carry her. Khorrek’s face was a study in growing discomfort.

“You are an embarrassment to your bloodline,” Lasseran hissed, stepping away from the altar. “Control yourself or?—”

The floor beneath them shuddered. A distant boom echoed through the stone, followed by another, closer this time. The braziers swayed, sending shadows dancing across the walls.

Alarms began to wail throughout the fortress.

“What is happening?” Lasseran demanded as a messenger burst through the doors.

“An attack, Your Majesty! The lower levels—explosions—intruders?—”

Chaos erupted. Several of the guards started towards the door, then hesitated, clearly unsure whether to stay or go.

Lasseran started barking orders, and she saw her chance in the confusion.

She stomped hard on the foot of the guard to her left.

As he stumbled, cursing, she twisted in Khorrek’s slackened grip and drew the rusty dagger from her skirts.

She slashed wildly at the cursing guard, catching him across the forearm. It was a clumsy, desperate attack, but it bought her precious seconds. She spun away, putting distance between herself and her captors.

“Seize her!” Lasseran roared, his face contorted with fury. “The ritual cannot be interrupted!”

Khorrek hesitated, his hand on his sword hilt, conflict raging in his eyes.

She backed away from him, the dagger held before her as her heart hammered against her ribs. She would not go meekly to that altar. She would not be a sacrifice to Lasseran’s evil.

Another explosion rocked the chamber, closer this time. Dust sifted down from the ceiling.

Lasseran strode toward her, his perfect features twisted into something inhuman. “You will not ruin this, girl. Your blood is the key to controlling the Beast Curse. With it, I will have an army that cannot be defeated.”

“You’ll have to take it from me,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

He laughed, the sound like breaking glass. “Gladly.”

He reached for her just as the far wall of the chamber exploded inward in a shower of stone and dust. A massive figure stepped through the choking cloud, silhouetted against the destruction.

The dust settled enough for her to see him clearly.

Ulric stood in the breach—Ulric, but not Ulric.

His huge body was even larger than normal, his muscles straining against his skin, his eyes completely black.

His tusks were longer and sharper, his claws fully extended, and his face was a mask of primal fury.

She could see the marks of battle on his flesh, but he showed no signs of pain or exhaustion.

He looked like a god of war, a primal force of destruction unleashed.

Behind him, she could make out the shape of another orc, sword drawn.

Lasseran’s laughter died. “The beast comes for his mate,” he said, his voice cold with contempt. “How predictable.”

Ulric’s burning gaze found hers across the chamber. In that single look was everything—rage, relief, love, promise. Then his eyes shifted to Lasseran, and the raw hatred there made her shiver.

“Get away from my wife,” he growled, the words barely human.

Lasseran smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. “Your wife? Oh, I think you’ll find she belongs to me by blood and by right. And soon, beast-king, you will belong to me as well.”

Ulric snarled and stepped forward, raising his blade. The guards moved to intercept him, but they seemed hesitant, intimidated by the sheer ferocity emanating from the orc king.

She gripped her pathetic dagger tighter. She would not be a passive spectator to her own rescue. She was a queen—his queen—and she would fight.