Page 11 of The Princess and the Orc (Cursed Kingdoms)

Chapter Eleven

A malia rode blindly, allowing Shergar to follow the guard ahead of her, the rhythmic pounding of hooves the only sound in the eerie quiet. Another guard followed behind, a shadow at her back, while the third scouted ahead, his keen gaze sweeping the darkened landscape for threats. She barely registered their presence, lost in the storm of her own thoughts.

They worried about leaving the safety of the clan’s stronghold, even with war marching toward them. They feared being caught out in the open. Unprotected. Vulnerable. But she feared something far worse. Remaining in a place where she had been so cruelly deceived, used like a piece in a game she hadn't even known she was playing.

How could Drogath have lied to them all?

The question burned in her chest, sharp as a dagger. If he had only spoken to her father, explained the orcs' plight, her father would have listened. He would have understood. Drogath could have saved her, not trapped her with an oath that bound her to him, irrevocable and unbreakable. Her father would have granted Drogath anything if he had only asked. But now—now she was condemned to a half-life. Even if Drogath died in battle, she would never be free. No other man would marry her, not with the stain of a broken vow upon her. The throne would wither with her, barren and unclaimed.

Her hands clenched the reins.

And yet, the thought of belonging to someone else made her stomach twist with something far worse than anger.

Drogath had betrayed her. That was undeniable. But had he truly deceived her in everything? He had been fierce, yes, stern and commanding. But he had also been protective, shielding her from danger, defending her honor time and again. He had been careful with her, mindful of her comfort in ways she had never expected from a warlord.

Even when he had punished her, her face burned at the memory. He had not harmed her. And she had enjoyed it.

Mostly.

Her ladies-in-waiting had whispered of men who took no care with their wives, of nights filled with pain instead of pleasure. Not all women enjoyed the marital bed, they had said. Some endured it. Some feared it.

Drogath had made certain she enjoyed it.

More than that, he had given her something she hadn’t even realized she craved. Freedom. Power. She had not been just a princess in his arms. She had been a queen.

And then there was Frederich.

A chill ran through her. She had not wanted to believe the things her maid had said about the prince, about the frightened, tear-streaked maids who avoided his gaze, the whispers of his hands wandering where they did not belong. She had dismissed them at the time, too caught up in her own hopes for an advantageous marriage. But now, she wondered. Had Drogath saved her from more than just the brigands?

“Your Highness?”

Amalia blinked, realizing she had pulled Shergar to a stop without meaning to. The two guards flanked her, their eyes cautious.

“Do you need to rest?” Captain Crispin asked, his brow furrowed.

Rest? No. Rest was the last thing she needed. She had been running, but she was running in the wrong direction.

Drogath had lied. That was a fact. But in the most important thing, he had told the truth.

He cared for her.

Perhaps even loved her.

And she loved him.

If she left now, if she abandoned him, she would regret it for the rest of her life.

“No,” she said, her voice strong, steady. “I need to go back.” She straightened in the saddle, her resolve firm. “But you need to continue on. Go to my father. Tell him to bring the army. Muster anyone you can on the way to the castle. We must help them.”

Captain Crispin’s expression darkened. He opened his mouth to argue, but the only sound that came out was a strangled gurgle.

A wet, sickening noise.

Amalia’s stomach lurched as blood bubbled from his lips. He toppled from his horse, an arrow buried deep in his neck. His horse reared and bolted, a flash of white against the dark.

The second guard barely had time to react before another arrow pierced his chest, the impact so violent it knocked him from the saddle. He landed with a heavy thud, his body twitching once, twice, before going still.

Amalia’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her fingers trembled against the reins. She turned slowly—too slowly.

A figure emerged from the trees, stepping into the moonlight.

Prince Frederich.

He smiled, his teeth gleaming like a wolf scenting blood.

“Princess Amalia,” he purred, his voice smooth, mocking. “How fortunate to find you here. All alone.” His eyes flicked to the fallen men, then back to her. His smile widened.

“Shall we talk?”

* * *

D rogath stood on a low rise behind his warriors, his gaze sweeping over the hidden figures nestled among the trees and rocky outcroppings that lined the narrow pass. The orcs lay in wait, their breath measured, their weapons gripped tight, ready to unleash fury. The terrain was their shield, the winding, treacherous path their last advantage against an enemy that outnumbered them.

Beyond the pass, the human army stirred. The glint of metal caught the dying light, the distant rumble of marching feet vibrating through the earth. They were making their final preparations, a tide of bodies about to crash against the orc defenses. But it wasn’t just the force before them that posed a threat. Another contingent had splintered off, intending to swing around and strike from behind, trapping the orcs in a brutal pincer maneuver.

Korroth had led his warriors to intercept, but splitting their forces was a risk. One they couldn’t afford.

But what choice did they have?

Drogath’s fists clenched at his sides, his claws biting into his palms. They had to hold the pass. They had to endure. And maybe one of their scattered allies would rally in time to aid them.

He didn’t count on it.

He had learned long ago not to expect rescue. Hope was a fool’s burden, one he had cast off years ago. He trusted in his people, in their strength, in their will to survive. But in outsiders? No.

At least Amalia was safe.

She might hate him, might never forgive his deception, but she would live. If the orcs fell today, if the valley was overrun, her father would ensure her safety. She would grieve, perhaps, but in time, she would move on. She would marry again. She would forget him.

A sharp pang twisted in his chest, unexpected and unwelcome.

He had wanted more time. He had wanted to see her with his young, her belly full with the proof of their bond. He had wanted?—

No.

A shudder ran through the ground. Faint at first, then stronger. A steady, rhythmic tremor.

The army was on the move.

A young orc came barreling around the bend, his breathing ragged, his wide eyes gleaming with urgency. He skidded to a stop, his voice raw with warning.

“They come, Chief Drogath.”

Drogath gave a single nod, his gaze already turning back to the pass. The time for strategy was over. Now, there was only war.

But the young warrior didn’t leave.

Drogath frowned, shifting his attention back to him. “Was there something else?”

The young orc hesitated, his throat working as he swallowed hard. Fear flickered across his face, not for himself, but for what he was about to say.

“Chief, your mate…” His voice broke. “They have her.”

The world stilled.

The march of the human army, the rustling of wind through the trees, the weight of the impending battle, none of it mattered anymore. Everything inside Drogath went cold, a still, lethal quiet settling over him. His heart did not pound. His breath did not quicken.

A slow, merciless rage coiled in his gut.

A mistake.

A fatal mistake.

Whoever had taken Amalia had signed their own death warrant.

His voice was low, deadly calm. “Where?”