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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

T he sight of a defiant Jessamin, a rusted dagger clutched in her small hand, her face smudged with tears but her eyes blazing with a warrior’s fire, sent a surge of fierce, savage pride through Ulric, so powerful it momentarily eclipsed his rage.

She looked every inch a queen—his queen.

Tolbrayth’s map had led him here but he hadn’t needed it.

He’d felt her terror and desperation through the bond that had grown between them.

When a wall had blocked his way to her, he’d unleashed his Beast and smashed through it. He’d never wanted her to see him like this but she wasn’t afraid. Instead she looked almost… proud. He could feel her relief, and her love, shining through their bond.

But then Lasseran dared to make a claim on her and his Beast took over once more. The power flooded his veins like liquid fire, sharpening his senses, hardening his muscles, fueling his strength, and he didn’t fight it—he used it.

The first guard died before he even registered Ulric’s movement. The second managed to raise his sword before Ulric’s blade cleaved through armor and bone. The third and fourth attacked together, and he dispatched them with a single sweeping arc that left them crumpled on the stone floor.

Wulf burst through the breach behind him, fighting with brutal efficiency, his movements economical and deadly.

“To the queen!” he yelled, cutting down another guard who lunged at him.

A flash of movement caught his eye—Khorrek, the orc commander, positioning himself between Ulric and Jessamin. He could see the conflict on the other orc’s face, but his blade was raised and he would not let anything stand between them.

“She is my mate!” he roared as he charged, his voice more beast than man.

Something shifted in Khorrek’s face—a crack in the facade of loyalty that had been beaten into him. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked across the chaos of battle. He saw the moment Khorrek’s resolve faltered, the instant when years of conditioning shattered against the instinct of their kind.

Khorrek’s blade lowered a fraction of an inch—a subtle, deliberate act of defiance.

It was all he needed. He slammed into the orc commander with the full force of his Beast, driving him back into the wall. Khorrek’s head cracked against the stone, and he slid to the floor, unconscious but alive.

He reached Jessamin in three long strides. His hand, sticky with blood but as gentle as it had been in their most intimate moments, grasped her arm and pulled her behind him, his body a shield between her and the remaining guards.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, his eyes never leaving the threats before them.

“No,” she said, her voice steadier than he’d dared hope. “You came.”

“Always,” he growled, the single word a vow.

Across the chamber, Lasseran stood by the altar, his perfect features twisted in fury.

The ritual interrupted, his carefully laid plans in ruins.

Guards lay dead or dying around him, and the three remaining guards looked uncertain, their eyes darting between their king and the blood-soaked orc warriors.

He advanced on the High King, his blade dripping crimson onto the polished stone floor.

“This ends now,” he growled, his voice a low, deadly promise.

To his surprise, Lasseran’s fury melted away. A smile spread across his face—not the practiced, charming mask he showed the world, but something colder, more genuine in its malice.

“End?” Lasseran laughed, the sound like breaking glass. “Oh, I think you’ll find this is merely a beginning.” His hand moved to his ceremonial robe. “You see, beast-king, I’ve studied your kind for decades. I know your strengths—and your weaknesses.”

He tensed, ready to lunge forward, but something in Lasseran’s confidence held him back.

“Your curse makes you strong, yes. Nearly invulnerable to conventional weapons.” The High King’s smile widened. “But there are older, darker things in this world than your curse.”

Lasseran withdrew something from within his robe in one fluid motion—a small, wicked-looking blade no longer than his palm. The metal seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it.

“Ancient Velmoran steel,” Lasseran said conversationally, as if they were discussing curiosities at a royal banquet. “Forged in blood magic older than your grandfather’s grandfather. Quite rare. Quite… effective.”

He felt Jessamin stiffen behind him. She knew what it was.

“This is the end,” Lasseran continued, his voice almost gentle now. “Because you, Ulric of Norhaven, are going to die.”

The blade left Lasseran’s hand in a blur of motion. He tried to dodge, but the knife seemed to follow him, changing its trajectory in mid-air. It struck his chest with uncanny precision, sinking deep between his ribs.

For a moment, he felt nothing. Then came the pain—not the clean, honest pain of a normal wound, but something vile and corrupted that spread through his veins like acid.

His Beast roared within him, trying to fight it, but the poison was ancient, designed specifically to counter the magic that gave him strength.

He staggered, his vision blurring. He heard Jessamin cry out behind him and felt her hands steadying him. He fought to remain standing, to keep his body between her and Lasseran, but his legs threatened to buckle.

“The blade is poisoned, of course,” Lasseran said, his voice distant through the roaring in Ulric’s ears.

“A special concoction, just for you. Don’t worry—it won’t kill you immediately.

Unfortunately, I won’t have the pleasure of watching you die.

The time for the ritual has passed and I must make other arrangements. ”

He snarled, forcing himself to straighten despite the fire spreading through his chest. He would not fall.

Not while she was in danger. Not while she needed him.

He raised his sword, the effort sending waves of agony through his body.

His vision swam, Lasseran’s face blurring and doubling before him.

“Stay behind me,” he managed to growl to Jessamin, though he could barely hear his own voice over the thundering of his heart.

Lasseran laughed again. “Always the protector. How noble. How utterly predictable.”

Wulf had dispatched the remaining guards and joined him, his face grim as he took in his condition.

“Kill them,” Lasseran ordered casually to a new wave of guards entering the chamber. “Except the girl. I need her alive… for now.”

The poison burned through his veins, weakening him with every heartbeat. But he would not yield. Not while he drew breath. His vision narrowed to a single point—Lasseran’s smug, confident face. If he were to die, he would take this monster with him.

With a roar that shook the very stones of the chamber, he summoned the last of his strength and lunged forward.