"Who opened her legs like the desperate little soft-skin she is." The second guard laughs, the sound harsh as grindingstone. "Think we don't know how humans operate? Batting your eyelashes and spreading your thighs to get what you want."
"I earned my place at those negotiations!"
"You earned a quick tumble in Vargath's furs, nothing more." The first guard points his spear at me, the tip wavering dangerously close to my throat. "Now move along before we decide to save everyone the trouble and gut you where you stand."
The threat hangs in the air between us, cold and sharp as the winter wind. I stare up at them, these warriors I once sat beside during evening meals, who praised my quick tongue and quicker mind when translations grew complex. Now they look at me like I'm something that crawled out of a sewer.
"I have nowhere else to go."
"Not our problem."
The finality in those three words breaks something inside me. Tears blur my vision, hot against my frozen cheeks, and I stumble backward from the gate. My legs shake with more than cold now, and each step sends shooting pains up my spine.
"Fine." The word comes out as barely a whisper. "Fine."
I turn away from the gates, from the warmth and safety I'd imagined waiting beyond them. The wind cuts through my cloak like it's made of cobwebs, and I wrap my arms around my belly as another contraction ripples through me. Not labor pains—not yet—but the warning aches that tell me my body grows tired of carrying this burden.
The wall stretches endlessly in both directions, broken concrete and rusted rebar creating small alcoves where the wind might not reach. I stumble toward the nearest one, my vision swimming with exhaustion and unshed tears. The baby kicks frantically, as if sensing my distress, and I press my hand against the spot where tiny feet drum against my ribs.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to my unborn child. "I'm so sorry."
The alcove provides little shelter, but it's better than standing exposed in the open. I sink down against the cold stone, my legs finally giving out completely. The ground beneath me is frozen solid, and within moments the chill seeps through my thin cloak and into my bones.
I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the wall.
"If there's anyone out there who might be listening," I murmur, my breath forming white clouds in the frigid air. "Please. I don't ask for much. Just... don't let my child die because of my mistakes."
The cold wraps around me like a shroud, and darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision. My last coherent thought before unconsciousness takes me is a prayer that someone—anyone—might find mercy for a fool who believed love could conquer the weight of tradition.
In the fevered space between waking and sleep, I hear his voice again. Deep and rough like gravel, but gentle when he spoke my name.
"Seris."
His hands had been so large against my skin, calloused from years of weapon-work but careful as they traced the curve of my spine. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I can see those dark eyes again—not the cold black of most orcs, but warm brown like river stones in sunlight.
"I found you."
2
VARGATH
The blood on my gauntlets has long since frozen, cracking like rust-colored ice with each flex of my fingers around the reins. My warg snorts beneath me, breath steaming in the bitter air as we crest the final ridge before Azhgar. Behind me, twenty warriors follow in loose formation, their mounts picking careful paths through snow that reaches past their fetlocks.
Home. The word tastes bitter as old leather.
The stronghold sprawls below us like a wound carved into the frozen earth. Smoke rises from a dozen forges, and the skeletal remains of human towers pierce the grey sky like broken bones. I can smell the familiar mixture of coal smoke, roasting meat, and the sharp tang of worked metal that marks every orc settlement.
"You're grinding your teeth again."
Gargan guides his mount alongside mine. My second-in-command has the annoying habit of reading my moods better than I read them myself.
"I don't grind my teeth."
"Right. And I don't scratch my arse when I think nobody's watching." He shifts in his saddle, leather creaking against the cold. "What's eating at you? We won."
The victory feels hollow. Twenty dead humans, their blood painting the snow red, all because Korrath wanted to test my resolve before the spring negotiations. Political theater played out with real corpses. They never posed any threat to the likes of our clan and Korrath knew it. I knew it.
"Just eager to get this over with."
