"Vargath, you will answer me!"
Zharra's hand clamps around my forearm, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who spends more time in political maneuvering than combat training. I stop, not because she forces me to, but because the alternative is dragging her through the corridors like a stubborn child. The image lacks dignity for both of us.
I turn to face her, and the fury in her dark eyes could melt steel. Her ceremonial tattoos seem to writhe in the torchlight—intricate patterns that mark her lineage, her status, her right to stand beside a warleader. Every line was earned through bloodline rather than battle, but they carry weight nonetheless.
"Why?" The word hisses between her teeth like steam from a forge. "Why did you bring her here? Why didn't you leave her to freeze in the snow where she belonged?"
The accusation hangs between us, sharp enough to draw blood. I study her face—the high cheekbones that speak of noble breeding, the perfectly arranged braids that never seem to come loose even in the heat of argument. Everything about Zharra is deliberate, calculated, designed to project power and control.
"She carries my blood."
The words emerge flat, factual. No emotion, no justification. Just truth delivered like a hammer blow to an anvil.
Zharra's laugh scrapes against my nerves like fingernails on stone. "Your blood? You don't even know that for certain. She could've bedded any orc with coin enough to buy her services. Translators travel between camps, after all. They see many warriors."
Her lips curve into something that might be called a smile if it held any warmth. Instead, it reminds me of the expression predators wear just before they strike.
"And now the whole settlement will whisper—Vargath, betrayed by his cock, taking a human mistress. The great warleader, reduced to rescuing strays from snowdrifts."
Heat rises in my chest, but I keep it leashed. Zharra feeds on reactions, grows stronger when she draws blood. Years of political training taught her to find weakness and exploit it with surgical precision.
"Our betrothal was blessed by the council," she continues, stepping closer until I can smell the expensive oils she uses to maintain her braids. "Witnessed by the elders. Approved by the ancestors themselves. And you risk all of that for what? A moment of curiosity about human flesh?"
Her voice drops to a whisper, but it carries more venom than her earlier shouts. "You're destroying your standing. Your reputation. Everything we've built together."
Everything we've built.As if our arrangement was born from mutual affection rather than political necessity. As if the contracts signed by our respective clans had anything to do with choice or desire.
The pressure behind my eyes intensifies, a steady throb that matches the rhythm of my heartbeat. Zharra's voice becomes a constant buzz, like insects circling carrion. She speaks of duty, of tradition, of the shame I'm bringing upon both our houses. Each word adds weight to the headache building in my skull.
"You're giving me a headache." I pull my arm free from her grip, the motion sharp enough to make her stumble back a step. "Leave me be."
Her mouth opens—no doubt to launch another verbal assault—but I've already turned away. My boots ring against stone as I stride toward the residential towers, leaving her standing alone in the corridor with whatever poison she'd planned to spit next.
The fortified tower that houses my personal quarters rises before me like a sanctuary. Thick walls, narrow windows, defensible positions. Everything a warrior needs to feel secure.
Everything except peace.
The heavy oak door slams shut behind me with enough force to rattle the iron hinges. The sound echoes through my quarters like a death knell, followed by silence so complete it makes my ears ring. I lean against the door for a moment, feeling the solid wood against my back—the only thing keeping Zharra's poison from seeping through the cracks.
My feet carry me across the stone floor without conscious direction. Three steps to the weapon rack. Turn. Five steps to the window. Turn again. The rhythm becomes mechanical, predictable, like the drills I ran my warband through thismorning. But those had purpose. This serves nothing except wearing grooves in the flagstones.
She carries my blood.
The words echo in my skull, mixing with the phantom sound of Zharra's laughter. I never meant to see Seris again. Never imagined that single night would grow into something that could tear apart everything I'd built. The memory surfaces despite my efforts to bury it—her soft gasp when I touched her cheek, the way she looked at me.
I stop pacing long enough to drag both hands down my face, feeling the rough texture of old scars beneath my palms. The ritual burns on my arms throb with remembered pain, each mark a testament to battles fought and won. Victories that seem hollow now, measured against the weight of what's growing in that stone room three floors below.
When the child is born, the council will want it gone. And Seris too.
The thought hits like a war hammer to the chest. I resume pacing, faster now, boots striking stone with increasing violence. Elder Thokran's voice replays in my mind—"That's forbidden"—as if speaking the words could somehow undo what's already been done. As if their disapproval could reach back through time and prevent that night from ever happening.
The clan expects me to want the same thing they do. Clean removal. Quiet disposal. A return to the proper order of things, where warleaders mate with their own kind and produce children whose bloodlines can be traced back through generations of warriors and chieftains. Where mistakes don't survive long enough to become scandals.
My fist connects with the stone wall before I realize I've thrown the punch. Pain shoots up my arm, sharp and immediate, but it does nothing to quiet the rage building in mychest. Rage which has nothing to do with duty or tradition or the good of the clan.
Just the thought of them touching her—touchingmychild—makes my vision blur red around the edges.
I look toward the firelight dancing across the floor, casting shadows that twist and writhe like living things. The flames remind me of that night, of the way firelight painted gold across her skin.
