"One night means nothing." Her voice drips with honeyed poison. "Orcs use humans for their pleasure all the time. It's natural. Expected, even."
Elder Thessa's eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "Expected?"
"Of course." Zharra waves a dismissive hand, as if explaining something obvious to a child. "Young warriors need outlets for their urges. Better a human than weakening our bloodlines through careless breeding."
The casual cruelty in her tone makes my jaw clench, but she continues without pause.
"One night isn't a mated bond. Neither is a bastard child." She turns toward me, her smile sharp enough to draw blood."These things can be remedied quickly. Quietly. The wedding can continue as planned."
Gorak grunts his agreement. "The female speaks sense. A moment's weakness doesn't require a lifetime of consequence."
"Remedied?" Thessa's voice carries a note I can't quite identify. "What exactly are you suggesting?"
Zharra's smile widens. "Exile serves many purposes. The human leaves. The problem disappears. Our bloodlines remain pure."
The word 'pure' tastes like ash in my mouth. I've seen what their purity produces—weak-chinned heirs and inbred madness. But I keep my expression neutral, my voice level.
"As I said, I haven't decided."
The buzzing starts immediately—whispered conversations that spread like wildfire through the chamber. I catch fragments: "...disgrace..." "...pollution..." "...what will the other clans think..."
I turn on my heel and walk toward the doors, my boots echoing against stone with each measured step. Behind me, the buzzing grows louder, more agitated. I hear Zharra's voice rising above the rest, poisoning minds with her careful words.
Let them buzz. Let them plot.
They'll learn soon enough that some decisions aren't theirs to make.
7
SERIS
The soup warms me from the inside out, each spoonful spreading heat through my chest and down into my limbs. Rich broth with chunks of meat I can't identify—probably better not to ask. The bowl feels substantial in my hands, carved from some dark wood that's been worn smooth by countless meals.
I take my time with each bite, savoring the salt and herbs that dance across my tongue. My stomach, cramped with hunger for so long, finally begins to unclench. The baby shifts inside me, settling into a more comfortable position as warmth spreads through my body.
When the last drop disappears, I set the bowl aside and eye the rickety rocking chair positioned near the brazier. Its wooden frame looks like it survived the same architectural collision as the rest of Azhgar—human craftsmanship with orc modifications. Someone welded iron reinforcements to the joints and replaced the original seat with thick leather stretched taut across the frame.
I lower myself into it carefully, testing its stability before trusting it with my full weight. The chair holds, creaking softlyas I settle back. My hand finds its familiar place on my swollen stomach, fingers tracing the curve that houses my child.
The brazier crackles beside me, flames dancing across coals that glow like tiny suns. Heat radiates against my face and arms, chasing away the last of the cold that's lived in my bones since I left the human territories. For the first time in weeks, I'm truly warm.
My thumb brushes across my belly in slow circles, and the baby responds with a gentle flutter. Not the sharp kicks that sometimes steal my breath, just a soft movement that feels like greeting.
"Hello to you too," I whisper.
The melody comes without conscious thought, rising from some deep place where childhood memories live. My mother's voice echoes in my mind as I begin to hum—soft, wordless notes that flow together like water over stones. The same lullaby she sang when fever kept me awake, when storms rattled our windows, when the world felt too big and frightening for a small girl to bear.
Hmm-mm-mm-hmm, hmm-mm-mm-hmm...
The tune drifts through the stone chamber, bouncing off walls that have heard countless secrets. My voice wavers slightly—I haven't sung in months, haven't had reason to. But the melody finds its rhythm, and my throat remembers how to shape the notes.
The baby stills completely, listening. I can feel the attention in the way the movements pause, the way my belly seems to tighten slightly as if straining to hear better.
My fingers trace slow circles on my belly, and the warmth of the brazier seems to pull memories from the depths where I've buried them. The heat against my face becomes another fire, in another place, months ago.
His fingers had found mine during the first negotiation, when Chief Gorak was bellowing about territorial boundaries and I was scribbling translations as fast as my hand could move. A simple brush of knuckles against my wrist as Vargath passed me a corrected map. Nothing more than an accident, except for how his touch lingered a heartbeat too long.
The second time, he'd reached beneath the table during a particularly heated exchange about trade routes. His palm settled against my knee—warm, steady, grounding me when voices rose to near-shouting around us. I should have pulled away. Instead, I'd pressed my leg against his hand.
