The Orc’s Promised Bride (The Five Kingdoms #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

L othar strode out onto the hard sand of Port Cael’s newly built arena. The wooden walls rose fresh and imposing around him, the scent of sawdust still lingering in the air. A chorus of cheers greeted the announcement of his name. He’d done well in the first two weeks of the Bride Trials - simple tests of skill and endurance that had reduced the pool of candidates in half - and the crowd recognized him.

Now the real contests would begin. Two warriors would face each other in combat and the winner would move on. The loser would be eliminated. There were only two rules - don’t kill your opponent and don’t use the Beast Curse. Since the Curse was the reason the trials were necessary to begin with, it seemed only fair. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, its familiar weight a comfort against his hip, as he grinned at the crowd, anticipation humming through his veins.

More cheers followed him as he approached the canopied area at the far end of the arena and swept a flamboyant bow to Ulric, King of the Orcs of Norhaven. Ulric nodded in return, his face stern but not disapproving. He was clad in his ceremonial furs but even without them he had an air of command that left no doubt that he was king.

Command and weariness . Ulric was only a few years older than Lothar’s brother Wulf, but the strain of ruling over a dying race had left its traces on his face. The presence of Ulric’s own bride, Jessamin, one of the daughters of the Priest King of Almohad, did not appear to have lightened that burden.

Jessamin also nodded at him, her face the serene mask befitting a queen, just as it had been throughout the Trials, but Lothar had watched her closely enough to see the lines of tension in her body. Both Ulric and Jessamin had agreed to the marriage but neither of them seemed particularly happy about it.

The Brides who had accompanied Jessamin were seated in neat rows behind the king and queen - one hundred women, one hundred chances for a lucky orc to find his true mate. The two hundred males who were triumphant in the Trials would be given the chance to court those women. Given the scarcity of females in Norhaven, it was a chance well worth winning.

I don’t expect to find a mate , he reminded himself. I am simply here to test my skills.

Despite that reminder, he couldn’t help scanning the faces of the Brides. They were still cloaked as they had been since their arrival, but their hoods had been pushed down to reveal their faces - an astonishing variety of faces. Orc skin was always green, although the shade varied slightly, and their hair was always black. These women had hair in every color from silvery white to deepest black, their skin colors just as varied. He had seen a few human women in the port towns before, but he hadn’t realized how much they varied.

He paused, his eye caught by one woman who looked even paler than the usual human shade. A faint flush darkened her cheeks and her golden hair gleamed like a flame in the afternoon sun. She was attractive, but then all of the women were attractive - Jessamin’s father had kept to his part of the arrangement in sending eligible females. He remembered this woman from one of the social events where the Brides, carefully guarded, had been introduced to the candidates. He didn’t feel the pull of the mate bond but perhaps…

That’s not why I’m here , he told himself again, but he still flashed a smile at her before turning back to the arena as his opponent was announced. Garak, a burly orc from one of the northern clans. He was at least a head taller than Lothar, but Lothar’s oldest brother Egon was even larger and he’d sparred with him often enough.

The horn sounded to start the match and Garak charged like an enraged bull, his massive war axe gleaming in the sunlight.

He spun away from the first crushing blow, dirt spraying beneath his boots. The axe whooshed past his ear - close enough to stir his hair. The crowd gasped.

“Too slow, my large friend.”

His sword darted out, testing Garak’s defense. Steel rang against steel as the other male parried with the flat of his axe. The arena dissolved into a blur of motion. He danced around his opponent’s strikes, each dodge bringing a fresh roar from the spectators. His blood sang with the familiar rush of combat, every nerve alive and tingling.

Garak’s axe carved another arc through the air. This time he met it with his blade, the impact jarring his arm. The male’s strength was impressive - but not as impressive as Egon’s and he used the force of the blow to give him momentum.

The crowd erupted in cheers at the exchange. He caught glimpses of the mostly male faces alive with excitement. Whatever other reasons Ulric had for arranging the Trials, their people welcomed the spectacle.

Garak stumbled back, his footwork sloppy, and took advantage of the misstep, driving his opponent farther back. A few more blows and Garak was staggering. A final, vicious strike sent the axe flying from the other male’s hand. In the same fluid motion, his boot swept Garak’s legs from under him and the big male crashed to the sand with an impact that shook the ground. His sword point hovered at the male’s throat.

“Yield?” he asked cheerfully.

Garak’s chest heaved as he stared up at the blade. “I yield.”

The crowd exploded in thunderous applause, and he stepped back, sheathing his sword with a flourish that drew more cheers. His heart still raced from the excitement of the fight as he raised his hand in victory, grinning at the crowd.

But amongst the sea of excited faces, one stood out. The Bride he had noticed earlier was staring at Garak with wide, horrified eyes. Her hands were clasped over her mouth, and even from this distance, he could see them trembling. The color had drained from her face.

The sweet taste of victory turned bitter in his mouth. He lowered his hand, watching as the Bride half-rose from her seat, then sank back down. Her distress was unmistakable, and when he looked over Garak, now pushing himself up from the sand, the other male looked equally shaken.

The cheers of the crowd suddenly rang hollow now. What had been exhilarating moments ago now felt… wrong.

The arena buzzed with the sounds of post-match excitement. Coins clinked as bets were settled, and snippets of animated conversation drifted down from the stands.

“Did you see that disarm-”

“Perfect footwork-”

“Worth every copper-”

But he barely registered any of it, still watching the Bride’s anguished expression as she watched Garak rise and the big male shot a despairing glance in her direction.

Fuck. They were mates.

Ulric rose from his seat, his face still stern but his hand raised in a gesture of approval.

“Congratulations, Lothar,” the king said, and the crowd cheered again.

“Thank you,” he murmured, forcing the words past numb lips.

Knowing what he needed to do didn’t make it any easier as he wound his way through the crowded passages beneath the arena. The guards at Ulric’s private box nodded him through without challenge.

Ulric and Jessamin were sitting in silence, watching the crowd, and once again he caught that feeling of tension between them. He cleared his throat.

“Your Majesty.” His usual easy charm felt forced. “A word?”

“Of course. That was a fine showing out there.”

“About that.” He looked past the king to where the Bride had moved to the railing, her attention fixed on the healers attending to Garak. He yanked his focus back to Ulric. “I’d like to withdraw from the competition.”

Ulric studied him, then followed his earlier glance toward the Bride.

“You fought well. I have no doubt you could be in the final group of candidates. Why withdraw now?”

“If I withdraw, Garak can continue. I believe he deserves the opportunity.” He crossed his arms, aiming for casual indifference. “I’ve had my fun. Proved what I needed to prove.”

“Did you?”

Ulric’s tone held a hint of challenge, but he managed to shrug and smile, although it felt brittle around the edges.

“What can I say? The arena life isn’t for me after all.”

“A noble gesture,” Jessamin murmured, her blue eyes too knowing, and his jaw clenched.

He felt uncomfortably exposed, unable to mask how much it was costing him to walk away.

“If that’s all, Your Majesty?”

He kept his voice light, refusing to acknowledge the sympathy on Jessamin’s face and the thoughtful look in Ulric’s eyes.

“One last question. Do you think Garak can make it through to the end?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. “He’s a good fighter.”

“Very well. I’ll make the announcement before the next match.”

He bowed, then left, his back straight and his heart heavy, pausing at the arena’s exit as the king’s voice rang out across the grounds. A roar went up from the crowd, a mixture of cheers and disappointed groans.

He shouldn’t have looked back. But he did.

The Bride’s face had transformed. Her brilliant smile was like a punch to his stomach. Not because it was beautiful - though it was - but because it wasn’t meant for him. Would never be meant for him.

His belongings waited in the fighters’ quarters. He’d traveled light and it took only moments to pack them into a leather satchel. He looked around at the bare room, the only trace of his presence the dark stain his sword oil had left on a wooden bench. The emptiness reflected the emptiness inside him.

He headed out, ignoring the curious glances from the other competitors. He had no desire to discuss his withdrawal.

The sounds of the arena followed him through Port Cael’s winding streets - another horn, cheers, the clash of weapons. He’d done the right thing, but the knowledge tasted of ash and emptiness. The banners snapping in the salt breeze seemed to mock him, waving him away from his chance at a mate, at a future.

But away to where? He couldn’t face the thought of returning to his clan. Wulf would be sympathetic, even approving if he told him why he’d withdrawn, but he didn’t want sympathy. And as happy as he was that his brother had found a mate, right now watching that happiness would only rub salt in his wounds.

The heavily forested peaks surrounding Port Cael rose up in front of him, and instead of heading north towards home, he turned his feet towards them and let the trees swallow him.