The admission hangs between us like incense smoke, heavy with implications I'm not sure I want to understand. A stronghold this size should house dozens of elders, shamans, keepers of tradition and wisdom. The fact that only this ancient orc remains speaks to something deeper than simple politics or territorial disputes.
"Why not?"
Maedra pauses at a cracked stone door, her gnarled hand resting on a rusted handle that looks like it might crumble at her touch. For a moment she stands perfectly still, and I wonder if she's forgotten the question or simply chosen to ignore it. When she finally speaks, her voice sounds as though she’s watching something beloved slowly die.
"Because this place is rotting. Too full of greed. Of warriors who've forgotten reverence. Who think the gods turned away."
The words settle into my bones like winter cold, confirming fears I hadn't even realized I carried. I've seen the crude runes carved over sacred symbols, felt the wrongness in the way this place breathes. But hearing it spoken aloud makes it real in a way that observation couldn't.
The baby shifts restlessly, responding to my quickened heartbeat. I place a protective hand over my belly, suddenly understanding why the guards hesitated to let me enter. It isn't just that I'm human—it's that I'm carrying something they've forgotten how to recognize as sacred.
"Didn't they?"
The question slips out as barely more than a whisper, soft enough that she could pretend not to hear if she wanted. But Maedra doesn't answer, doesn't even acknowledge that I've spoken. She just opens the door to reveal a small chamber beyond, steam rising from a deep stone basin carved into the floor.
Soft cloths rest folded on a wooden shelf, and the air carries the scent of clean water and something herbal that might once have been used for blessing ceremonies. The space feels different from the rest of the temple—untouched by the crude modifications, still holding echoes of its original purpose.
"Wash. Rest. I'll bring food."
10
VARGATH
The stone chamber feels like a cage tonight. My boots wear a path across the rough-hewn floor, back and forth between the narrow window and the iron-banded door. Each step echoes off walls that have witnessed too many sleepless nights, too many decisions that leave blood on my hands.
The fire in the hearth spits and crackles, each pop sharp as breaking bone. The sound grates against my nerves until my fists clench without conscious thought, knuckles white beneath scarred skin. The flames throw dancing shadows across the walls—shapes that shift and writhe like the whispers already spreading through Azhgar's halls.
A knock sounds once at the door. Brief, almost polite.
Then again, more insistent.
Then the door swings open without waiting for permission, because of course it does. Only one orc in this stronghold has the stones to ignore my privacy when my mood turns this dark.
Gargan fills the doorframe like he owns it, his thick shoulders blocking most of the corridor light. The scar along his jaw catches the firelight as he grins, that familiar expression that says he knows exactly how much his presence irritates me rightnow. His broken tusk gleams as he leans against the stone wall with studied casualness.
"You always pace when you're thinking of something stupid."
His voice carries that drawling tone he uses when he wants to needle me into talking. I don't turn from the window, don't give him the satisfaction of acknowledging the accuracy of his observation. The view beyond the glass shows nothing but snow-covered courtyards and the distant glow of forge fires.
"Not in the mood."
"Didn't ask."
The simple response sits between us like smoke. Gargan shifts his weight against the wall, armor creaking softly with the movement. He's still wearing his battle gear—leather and steel that's seen more fights than most orcs see in a lifetime. The pragmatic choice, always ready for whatever violence the day might bring.
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the fire's restless crackling and the distant sound of wind howling through the stronghold's ancient bones. I can feel his eyes on me, patient as a hunter waiting for prey to show itself. He's good at this—at reading the tension in my shoulders, the way my jaw works when thoughts churn too fast to process.
"Everyone's whispering. About the human. About the child."
The words land like stones thrown into still water, ripples spreading outward until they touch every corner of my awareness. Of course they're whispering. Word spreads through Azhgar faster than plague, and this particular revelation carries enough scandal to feed the gossip mills for months.
"Let them."
My voice comes out low and cold, each word precise as a blade thrust. But Gargan doesn't flinch, doesn't retreat. He's heard me use that tone on enemies who ended up decorating the walls with their blood, yet he remains unmoved.
One scarred eyebrow lifts in that expression I've learned to hate over the years we've fought together. It's the look he gets when he thinks I'm being particularly dense about something obvious.
"Clever move, putting her in the temple. But you know they won't leave it alone. You need to end this before it burns bigger."
