The Weaver and Her Orc Warrior

The Weaver and Her Orc Warrior THE THREE SISTERS OF FATE BOOK ONE SIRENA SONG Contents Content Warnings Prologue 1. Shaelyn 2. Lanok 3. Shaelyn 4. Lanok 5. Shaelyn 6. Shaelyn 7. Lanok 8. Lanok 9. Shaelyn 10. Shaelyn 11. Lanok 12. Lanok 13. Shaelyn 14. Lanok 15. Shaelyn 16. Lanok 17. Shaelyn 18. Shaelyn 19. Lanok Need More? Acknowledgments About Sirena To Tennyson, this is the ending I wanted for the Lady of Shallot. That her knight in shining armor is a knotting orc warrior instead of Lancelot is the best part. Copyright @ 2023 by Sirena Song Editing by: Alexis Noel Proofreading by: Pauline Harris Cover art work by: Keni Aryani All Rights Reserved. Formatting by: Vellum No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for use of brief quotations in a book review. Created with Vellum Content Warnings This book contains sexual situations, suitable only for those 18+. Spoilers below. It includes: dirty talk, light breeding talk, knotting, stretching and stuffing, marking, enhanced monster peen. It also includes instances of physical violence, curses, blood magic, scaring, ritualistic tattooing, death, ghosts, spirits, and monsters. The FMC’s history includes family abandonment, physical abuse, coercion, and captivity. Mentions of this occur in the story. If these themes are triggering for you, please protect yourself and sit this one out. If you see something you think needs to be added, please send me an email: [email protected]. Prologue The Three Sisters are earthly descendants of the Fates, with the power to make destiny. Each sister breathes her own magic. The weaver spins tomorrow. The giver siphons time. The shearstress snaps the line. Bound in soul to the heart of a warrior who can match her strength, the sisters' magic sings a siren song across the land until the heart that became two is reunited again. Chapter 1 Shaelyn The setting sun, reflected in the mirror, sends rays across the lake, making the water sparkle in the fading light, and the treetops across the outer banks of Shadowledge glow in a warm golden hue. Sunset brings the change of the guard and, along with it, reprieve. The muscles in my fingers ache from long use, my marked hands cramped and stinging, but I keep moving. On the loom, I weave the dull browns and muted greens into a tapestry that will ensure my captor’s victory in their ride tomorrow. My magic shoots in jumping sparks along my skin, intertwining with the wool. It spits and kicks, tired and angry. A flash of a wooden oar skimming the surface brings my eyes back to the mirror above my loom, which reflects my only view of the world outside my tower. The boat cuts across the lake in the dimming light, and I sigh impatiently. “Frethwebbe, the time has not yet arrived for respite. Weave our Lord’s victory, whether it be day or night. Finish the line.” The guard spits. The title of frethwebbe on my captor’s tongue causes me to flinch. I was born with the mark of a weaver, large wine patches that cover parts of my palms and hands, signaling my access to magic as a human descendant of the Fates. Human magic is rare, now. Most people have forsaken the old gods, and with it, our knowledge and practice of magic has died out. When I was born, my village believed I was a miracle, and they made a vow to the Goddess of Fate to protect me from those who would try to exploit it. There was no one in my hamlet or in the surrounding lands who had the touch, and I grew up without instruction in the ways of my gift. My magic was lulled to sleep within me, never tested or tried. By the time I was a maiden, those around me had all but forgotten the significance of my markings. When the warlord of Shadowledge began to terrorize our village in my sixteenth year, sending raiders, burning our fields, and taxing the people for protection, remembrance of my mark resurfaced. My village broke their vow to the Goddess, telling the warlord of my magic and begging him to take me as a frethwebbe or peace-bride. The warlord accepted their offering, and I was bartered in order to see peace between our lands. I will only remain a frethwebbe in name. The warlord never intended to marry and combine our people in good faith. He only ever wanted access to my magic. When I arrived in his lands, I learned that he had already wed another. On what I thought was to be my wedding night, he locked me away in this tower in front of a loom. The first weave he forced was the destruction of my village. He chained me to the loom, and when the switch on my back would not make me weave his bidding, he resorted to dark magic. His wife, a powerful dark enchantress, cursed me, binding me to this room and his plans with a spelled mirror. The curse propelled me, willing my hands to sew the victory of his battles, and I wept as my home fell. The world has forsaken me, and I it. Rolling my neck, I push myself to move faster as the boat glides along the lake's surface in the fading light, its lantern a spot of warmth in the growing dusk. I repeat the pattern, and the clack-clack-clack of the shuttle keeps time while I work. The guard changes, bringing the scent of stew with him, and my stomach gnaws in protest. Ignoring it, for food and rest only happen when the spell is complete, I spin tomorrow until darkness descends and the candles flicker. Beginning the binding, I close my eyes and chant the enchantress’s song. The serpent’s hiss of an arrow strikes my ear. Behind my eyelids is a