Page 83 of Bound to the Orc Renegade

“I need an empty cottage,” I say quickly, “and Gerna, now!”

“Follow me.” Dravarr takes off without asking me a single question. He has his own moon bound bride and understands exactly what I’m going through. But I’m still shocked that he takes me completely at my word. Had all of our past rivalry been one sided? Had I been the only one to feel the threat?

We pass a couple of youths, and he yells at them to go and fetch my sister. They take off at a run.

Then he swings open the door on the old Rashurr cottage, which has been empty for several months, the elderly couple having passed quietly in their sleep, holding one another. All of their personal effects have been removed to prepare for a new family, leaving the honey-colored wooden interior stripped back to the basics of the built-in furniture.

“This is where the king stayed during his visit,” Dravarr says.

I well remember. I tried to approach King Aldronn here in the village, but the moment never presented itself, hence my carefully planned idea to catch him as he left.

I hurry through the living area, ignoring both the couch and the dining room table. Whether she felt it or not, my poor bride’s ridden for two days. She deserves nothing less than the comfort of a bed.

As I push open the bedroom door, Dravarr says, “Everything’s been cleaned since then.”

I nod as I lay her on the soft furs of the bed and smooth her wild hair out of her face.

Gerna runs into the room, her medical bag in hand. Her face flashes with joy as soon as she sees me. “Krivoth!” Then her eyes immediately fall upon Taylor, and she stills, becoming coolly professional. “Tell me everything.”

“This is Taylor, my moon bound bride, and she breathed in a new type of deathsleep the sluagh made specifically to work on human witches.”

“Fuck,” Dravarr mutters, surely thinking of how many times the soul stealers attacked his bride.

I remain focused on my sister. “I have the violet trifolia in my saddlebags. Can you make the antidote?”

“I can.”

Hope blooms anew in my chest.

Dravarr sends to the closest village for their healer, and Drake, the dragon youngling, flies off to ask if any of the dragons know anything about deathsleep variations.

My sister works tirelessly into the night on the antidote, and I assist her as best I can. I often helped when she practiced making tinctures and potions during her herbalist training, and we fall back into the old rhythm of it.

Mist stays in the bedroom, and the two other human witches take turns sitting with Taylor. Ashley’s about the same height as Taylor, but far plumper, with fiery red hair and pale pink skin. Olivia’s the tallest of the three, her build somewhere between the two, though her long brown hair and tan skin are similar in color to my bride’s.

Branikk returns, stumbling into the cottage with fatigue. Yet the first words out of his mouth are, “Can I do anything?” When I convince him he can’t, he collapses onto the couch and falls asleep immediately. He must have run all the way back, so he’d indeed been on a short hunting trip without his unicorn.

The person who notably doesn’t appear is my father, and it’s a blessing.

Dawn lightens the windows by the time Gerna finishes.

“This is it, the antidote.” She holds a small glass vial up to a glow stone until the light shines through the purple liquid within. “It looks exactly as the dragons said it would.”

“So it’ll work?” I ask.

Her lips pull down in a frown. “It’ll work on regular deathsleep, so hopefully it’ll work on this new type of deathsleep, too.”

She doesn’t say anything more, but I hear the rest of her thoughts—if this doesn’t work, we don’t have anything else to try.

This is our only hope.

I follow my sister in to the bedroom, and Ashley stands up and leaves without having to be asked. She’s good at reading people—it makes her a good match for Dravarr and a good mate for a warlord.

Gerna drips the purple solution into Taylor’s mouth with the kind of patience I don’t have, massaging her throat and getting her to swallow.

Nothing happens.

“Is that it?” I want to tear out my hair. “When’s it supposed to work?”

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