Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The moment Vorlag’s axe fell, something shifted inside Khorrek.
It wasn’t the sudden absence of a hated master—he’d already broken free of Lasseran’s chains days ago. No, this was something deeper, more fundamental. Like a locked door inside his chest had been kicked open, flooding him with cool, clean air.
His Beast stirred.
But it didn’t rage. Didn’t howl. Didn’t demand blood and violence and domination.
Instead, it settled. Calm. Content. Right in a way it had never been before.
Khorrek’s breath caught as understanding crashed over him. The corruption that had twisted the Beast Curse for centuries was gone. What had been a constant battle for control, a daily fight to keep the monster leashed, was simply… peace.
He flexed his clawed hands—still partially transformed from the fight—and watched the talons retract smoothly. No struggle. No mental wrestling match. Just a thought, and his body obeyed.
Freedom.
The word tasted foreign and sweet on his tongue.
Movement drew his attention back to Thea, still standing on the altar. The golden glow around her had dimmed but not vanished, casting her features in an otherworldly light. Her grey eyes stared forward, unnaturally serene, as though she were seeing something beyond the physical world.
Khorrek’s newfound peace evaporated, replaced by a spike of worry.
“Thea?”
She didn’t respond. Didn’t even blink.
Vorlag moved with surprising efficiency for someone of his advanced years. He retrieved a long ceremonial staff from one of the attending priests—an ornate thing of dark wood and silver, topped with a wicked spike.
He watched, his jaw clenching, as the ancient priest impaled Lasseran’s severed head on the spike.
A trophy, he realized. Proof for those who need to see it with their own eyes.
The sight should have disturbed him—his former master’s pale, empty eyes staring sightlessly at the Blood Moon, silver hair matted with blood, that cruel mouth finally silenced.
But all he felt was grim satisfaction.
You made us into weapons, he thought, meeting those dead eyes. So we used what you taught us to destroy you.
Thea moved then, stepping down from the altar with the same eerie grace she’d shown since the goddess took hold of her. No stumbling, no hesitation, just fluid movement that seemed to flow rather than step.
Vorlag turned to her, inclining his head in deep respect.
“The people must witness,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of ritual. “They must see that the tyrant has fallen and a new era has begun.”
Thea’s head tilted slightly—an acknowledgment that seemed more divine than human.
Where are you? he wanted to demand. Are you still in there?
But he kept silent, moving to her side instead. Whatever happened next, wherever this strange procession led, he wouldn’t let her face it alone.
She turned her head toward him, and for just a moment, something warm flickered in those glowing eyes. Recognition. Affection. Her.
Then the mask of serene composure settled back into place, and she turned to follow Vorlag.
The ancient priest led them from the balcony, through the corridors of the Obsidian Keep, the staff with its grisly burden held high. He stayed close to Thea, one hand hovering near the small of her back—ready to catch her if the goddess’s hold faltered and she collapsed.
Behind them, a procession formed. The Veilborn priests fell into step, their white robes whispering against stone. The orc warriors who’d stood against Lasseran joined them, massive forms creating a protective barrier. Egon and Lyric appeared from somewhere, flanking the group.
Baralt and his fighters materialized as well, the golden-skinned warrior catching Khorrek’s eye and giving him a subtle nod of respect.
More people joined them with each corridor they passed. Servants who’d been cowering in alcoves. Guards who’d thrown down Lasseran’s colors. Citizens who’d somehow heard that something momentous had happened and come to see for themselves.
By the time they emerged into the cool night air, the procession had swelled to dozens.
Vorlag led them through the palace gates and into the streets of Kel’Vara itself. Word had spread faster than seemed possible—crowds lined the streets, silent and wide-eyed, watching as the strange parade passed.
He scanned faces, looking for threats. But what he saw instead was a mixture of confusion, hope, and barely contained excitement.
They knew. Somehow, they already knew Lasseran was dead.
The city itself seemed different. The oppressive weight that had hung over Kel’Vara for as long as he could remember—that constant sense of being watched, judged, found wanting—had lifted. The very air felt lighter.
Or maybe that was just his own freedom talking.
The crowd grew thicker as they approached the Plaza of Kings—the massive open square at the heart of Kel’Vara. He had been here countless times, standing silent and menacing behind Lasseran while the High King delivered pronouncements and judgments.
Now he walked through it as something else entirely.
Free, his Beast whispered, the word carrying wonder. We are free.
More Veilborn waited at the plaza’s edge, forming an honor guard that opened a path through the assembled masses. Khorrek’s orc brothers emerged from the crowd as well—Declar among them, his scarred face split in a fierce grin.
“Brother,” Declar said simply as Khorrek passed, falling into step beside him.
“Brother,” he replied, the word carrying a weight it never had before.
More joined them. Grask. Vorath. Krenna, one of the few female warriors in Lasseran’s service. All of them moving with the same barely contained energy, the same wondering realization.
The curse is broken. We are free.
The crowd in the plaza seemed impossibly vast—hundreds of people, maybe thousands, packed into the space.
Human and orc alike. Wealthy merchants in fine clothing standing shoulder to shoulder with laborers still dirty from the day’s work.
Even a handful of the People of the Plains, their golden skin and white hair marking them as foreign.
Vorlag led them to the raised dais at the plaza’s far end—another place Khorrek knew well. He’d stood on that platform countless times, a silent enforcer while Lasseran held court.
The ancient priest ascended the steps with surprising vigor, the staff held high so that all could see its burden.
Thea followed, still moving with that unnatural grace, the golden glow around her brightening as she climbed.
He went with her, unwilling to let her face this crowd alone. The other Veilborn fanned out behind them, creating a semi-circle of white-robed figures. His orc brothers positioned themselves at the edges, a wall of muscle and tusks.
Silence fell over the plaza. Thousands of eyes fixed on the dais. On Vorlag. On the staff he held.
On Lasseran’s severed head.
The ancient priest’s voice rang out, clear and strong despite his age, carrying easily across the hushed crowd.
“People of Kel’Vara! People of the Five Kingdoms! Witness!”
He raised the staff higher, turning slowly so all could see.
“High King Lasseran is dead!”
The silence that followed was absolute. No one moved. No one even seemed to breathe.
His hand moved closer to his sword, his newly calm Beast nonetheless alert for danger. This could go either way—celebration or riot.
Then someone in the back of the crowd let out a whoop of pure joy.
The sound broke the spell. A cheer erupted, starting small but building rapidly, spreading through the plaza like wildfire. People screamed, cried, embraced each other. Some fell to their knees in apparent prayer. Others simply stood with tears streaming down their faces.
The noise was deafening. Overwhelming. Jubilant.
He stared out at the sea of celebrating faces, trying to process what he was seeing. He’d known Lasseran was hated—had seen the fear in people’s eyes, the careful way they moved around the High King and his enforcers.
But this… this was something else entirely. This was years, decades, maybe centuries of oppression suddenly lifted. This was hope given form.
We did this, he realized, looking at Thea. She did this.
Vorlag let the celebration continue for several minutes before raising his free hand. Slowly, reluctantly, the noise died down to a buzz of excited whispers.
“Lasseran is dead,” Vorlag repeated, his voice solemn. “The tyrant has fallen. The curse he and his ancestors perverted has been cleansed. The balance has been restored.”
More cheers threatened to erupt, but Vorlag continued speaking, his tone commanding attention.
“But this was not accomplished by mortal hands alone!” He turned toward Thea, gesturing to her with the hand not holding the staff. “The Old Gods themselves have chosen a vessel. A champion. A queen!”
Thea stepped forward, and the golden glow around her suddenly brightened—not just a faint shimmer anymore but a blazing aura that lit up the dais like a second sun, and he had to resist the urge to shield his eyes. Instead, he watched in awe as she was transformed before him.
Her wild auburn hair seemed to catch fire with golden light. Her grey eyes blazed as if they were lit from within. Even her simple clothing appeared to shimmer, as though woven from sunlight itself.
She looked like a queen. Like a goddess. Like something out of legend.
And she was his mate.
The thought sent a fierce surge of possessiveness and pride through him. His Beast rumbled its agreement, utterly content despite the massive crowd, despite the chaos of the moment.
Mine. And I am hers.
“Behold!” Vorlag’s voice rang out. “Queen Thea! Chosen of the Gods! She who cleansed the curse! She who freed the orcs! She who will lead us into a new age!”
Another moment of stunned silence.
Then the plaza erupted.
The previous cheering was nothing compared to this. People screamed themselves hoarse. They waved whatever they had in their hands—scarves, hats, weapons. They lifted children onto their shoulders so the little ones could see.
“QUEEN THEA! QUEEN THEA! QUEEN THEA!”
The chant started somewhere in the middle of the crowd and spread like a wave, growing louder and louder until it seemed the very stones of Kel’Vara trembled with it.
He watched Thea’s face, looking for any sign of her reaction beneath the goddess’s control. Did she understand what was happening? Did she want this?
She didn’t ask for any of this, he thought, sudden uncertainty piercing his earlier pride. She was pulled from her world, captured, threatened, used as a vessel for divine power. And now they’re declaring her queen without even asking.
But what choice did they have? The ritual demanded a ruler, someone to fill the void Lasseran left, someone to anchor the restored balance.
And the goddess had chosen her.