I push through the doors expecting to find the elders hunched over maps, debating patrol routes and weapon stores. The chamber stretches before me, its floor a patchwork of salvaged marble and rough-hewn stone. Torches burn in brackets that once held electric lights, casting dancing shadows across walls lined with trophies of war.
But the council table sits empty of charts. No reports scattered across its surface, no markers indicating enemy positions. Instead, the five elders cluster around a single figure like carrion birds circling fresh meat.
Zharra stands at their center, tall and sharp-featured, her ceremonial tattoos catching the torchlight. Her armor gleams with fresh polish, every piece positioned for maximum effect. Even her hair falls in calculated waves that frame her face like a weapon designed to cut.
"There is a human in the temple district," she says, her voice carrying the soft poison of winter honey. "Sick. Pregnant. She poses a threat."
My blood turns to ice. My fingers curl around my sword hilt without conscious thought, the leather-wrapped grip familiar as my own heartbeat. Every muscle in my body coils tight, ready for violence that I can't unleash here. Not yet.
Elder Morvak, ancient and scarred from a lifetime of battles, leans forward on his walking stick. "What manner of threat?"
"The kind that breeds weakness." Zharra's eyes sweep the gathered faces, ensuring she holds their attention. "She carries mixed blood. Bastard spawn that will corrupt our lineage if allowed to live."
Elder Thessa, the only female among the council, drums her fingers against the table's edge. "You speak of corruption, but mixed blood has strengthened other clans."
"Other clans grow soft," Zharra counters smoothly. "We are Azhgar. We are pure. We do not dilute our strength with human frailty."
My jaw clenches so hard my tusks ache. The urge to cross the chamber and silence her with steel burns in my chest, but I force myself to remain still. To listen. To learn exactly how deep this poison runs.
Elder Gorak, whose battle-axe rests against his chair like a faithful hound, grunts his approval. "The female speaks truth. Humans bring nothing but weakness."
"She brings disease," Zharra continues, warming to her theme. "I've seen her stumbling through our sacred spaces, defiling them with her presence. Who knows what sickness she carries? What curses she might spread to our young?"
Lies. Every word tastes of lies, but they fall on eager ears. I can see it in their faces—the fear that masquerades as righteousness, the hatred that calls itself tradition.
"Where did she come from?" Elder Thessa asks.
Zharra shrugs with practiced indifference. "The wasteland. Crawling to our gates like a dying animal. Some fool guard took pity and let her inside, but mercy has limits."
"Indeed it does." Elder Morvak's voice carries the weight of final judgment. "We cannot harbor threats, no matter how pathetic they appear."
My hand tightens on my sword until the metal bites through leather into my palm. They speak of Seris like she's a plague rat rather than a woman carrying life. My child. The thought roars through my skull, demanding action that I can't take without destroying everything I've built.
"What do you propose?" Gorak asks.
Zharra's smile cuts like a blade. "Exile. Cast her out before she can spread her corruption further."
"Into the wasteland? While pregnant?" Thessa's voice holds a note of doubt. "That's death by another name."
"Then she should have thought of that before coming here."
I clear my throat.
The sound cuts through their plotting like an axe through bone. Every head turns toward me, conversations dying mid-syllable. The chamber falls into the kind of silence that precedes either revelation or bloodshed.
"She carries my child."
The words drop into the quiet like stones into still water, sending ripples of shock across their faces. Elder Morvak's walking stick clatters against the floor as his grip loosens. Thessa's drumming fingers freeze mid-tap. Even Gorak's perpetual scowl deepens into something approaching disbelief.
Elder Jorvak, the youngest of the council, shoots to his feet so fast his chair scrapes against stone. His face flushes dark with outrage, tusks bared.
"You mated with a human? That's forbidden!"
I don't flinch. Don't defend. Don't explain the circumstances or the wine or the way her eyes caught torchlight like amber. The facts stand naked and brutal as winter.
"It was one night, long ago." My voice carries no shame, no regret, just the flat certainty of truth. "I haven't decided what to do with her yet."
Zharra recovers first, her shock melting into something sharper and more dangerous. She steps forward, her armor catching the light as she moves with predatory grace.
