Captured by the Orc King

CAPTURED BY THE ORC KINGTHE PERISHED WOODS TRACY LAUREN CONTENTS PrologueChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33Chapter 34Chapter 35Chapter 36Chapter 37Chapter 38Chapter 39Chapter 40Chapter 41Chapter 42Chapter 43Chapter 44Chapter 45Chapter 46Chapter 47Chapter 48EpilogueAuthor’s NoteAlso by Tracy Lauren © 2023 Tracy Lauren All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by U.S. copyright law. Created with Vellum PROLOGUE Petra Gunnora, The Witch-Queen of Envercress, the Eternal Princess… It began a long time ago, right in this very castle. A magical place, in the eyes of a young village girl. It was like something pulled straight from a fairytale—with rolling, green lawns and majestic spires. Manicured perfection was to be found everywhere one looked, coexisting with a vast history, an ancientness delightfully paired with the type of modern beauty that only great wealth can buy. How easy it was, to imagine that a place so wonderful could hold more than just the ordinary. The Castle at Envercress. There was a King who lived here. A widower with two children—a boy and a girl. He was a kind man, a doting father, simple in his ways, with a good heart. He found deep joy in his kingdom, but alas, he was lonely and he was a romantic. It would have been easy for this King to wed another royal. Smart even. There are people who arrange that sort of thing with the other kingdoms and if he had let them, how different our paths would have been. But this King wanted love. The real kind—love at first sight if possible, because that’s the kind of man he was: filled with good-natured hope and overflowing optimism. And when you are that sort of man, you tend to find what it is you’re looking for. His heart’s desire came in the form of a peasant seamstress, living down in the village. My mother. Beautiful and compassionate, possessing great strength of character, loved by all who knew her. She was a widow herself, and looking back, just as lonely and romantic as the King. I wasn’t there when they met, but I’ve imagined it so many times I think I can see it just as it was. The royal carriage coming up the road, my mother out on the path, arms laden with parcels, pausing to cast her gaze back at the sound of approaching horses, a look of awe crossing her face as she took in the beauty of them. Seeing her from the window, the King would have ordered the carriage to stop. I remember she was in her lavender dress that day…such a good seamstress, one of the best in the village. My mother always turned out so nicely in her dresses. With long, chestnut hair worn down—it must have been glistening in the sunshine. But I imagine it was her pale blue eyes that captivated—morning-sky eyes, I always thought. Any man would have stopped for her. Even a King. He bounded down from the carriage, hurrying to lessen my mother’s load and they laughed together as he stumbled. “I’d watch where I’m going but I find it difficult to take my eyes off of you.” “You flatter me, Your Highness.” “I speak only the truth.” And his voice was always so rich with sincerity. “Please, you must allow me to offer you a ride home.” “I couldn’t possibly.” My mother blushed. “But I insist.” “Then I must insist on offering you a cup of tea.” “I would be inclined to accept that offer.” Just like that, the King himself came to our humble cottage! It seemed as if the entire village was standing outside our gate, watching with interest. That part I remember: walking home from my lessons and seeing the crowd. There was a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach. I hadn’t seen so many people gathered together since they came to tell us about my father…about the accident. But this was different. I could see as much. The faces weren’t so solemn. No, people were smiling, they were chittering with excitement. I paused where I stood, across the road, watching them all. Little did I know that inside, my mother was serving tea to the King. She told me later that they spoke of the Queen—who had passed some years before during a miscarriage. And of my father, who was a mason. He suffered a fall during one of his building projects. His skull was crushed and he never came home. The King and my mother, they both knew loss. I imagine there’s a kinship in that. The conversation shifted to work when the King noticed my mother’s dresses lying about—her sewing projects, her mannequins. She confessed that she was a dressmaker and he asked her to come the very next day to the castle to start on a gown for Princess Meredith. That’s when I ventured inside. “This must be little Petra!” he exclaimed happily, and he was genuinely pleased to meet me. I imagine he thought it was perfect that this woman, who he was so smitten with, had a child near in age to his own. In fact, I was the same age as that baby would have been—the one his wife had lost. Yes, the King thought it was fate. Even on that first day, he envisioned us as a family just coming into fruition. “Bring Petra tomorrow,” he offered, beaming a smile at my mother. “Meredith would love a friend to play with.” The next day a carriage came for us. “Mama! Mama! It’s here!” I called—thrilled as any child