"Of course it is."
The following week brings rain that turns the temple corridors damp and echoing. I find Seris struggling to prop her swollen feet on the chair's edge, her face tight with discomfort.
"Your circulation is compromised," I observe, noting how her ankles have thickened.
"Thank you for that medical assessment." She shifts restlessly, trying to find a way to ease the pressure. "Very reassuring."
I leave without explanation and return an hour later carrying something wrapped in oiled leather. Inside rests a small wooden stool, carved from solid oak and sanded smooth. Simple construction, but the proportions are perfect for elevating her feet to heart level.
Seris stares at the stool like it might bite her. "Did you make this?"
"Wood carving maintains hand dexterity. Essential for weapon maintenance." I position the stool at the optimal angle and distance. "Elevated limbs reduce swelling, prevent blood pooling."
She tests the height cautiously, then sighs as the pressure in her legs eases. "More security measures?"
"Preventative medicine. Healthy prisoners require fewer guards."
"Prisoner?" Her voice sharpens dangerously.
"Protected asset," I correct quickly. "Strategic resource under defensive custody."
The smile that curves her lips holds entirely too much satisfaction. "Keep telling yourself that, warleader."
Gargan loungesagainst my doorframe like he owns the place, that infuriating smirk spreading across his scarred features when I return from the temple.
"You're building a nursery, not a defense."
"Get out." I shoulder past him, but he doesn't budge.
"Footstools? Extra furs? What's next—a rocking chair carved from sacred heartwood?"
My fist connects with his jaw before conscious thought intervenes. He staggers back, spitting blood, but the bastard keeps grinning.
"There's the warleader I know. Thought you'd gone soft."
"I said get out!"
He raises both hands in mock surrender. "Easy, brother. Just making an observation."
"Observe somewhere else."
Gargan wipes his split lip with the back of his hand. "You know what this looks like, right? What everyone's saying?"
"I don't care what?—"
"That Vargath the Bloodthirsty has been domesticated by a pregnant human. That our warleader spends more time playing nursemaid than planning defenses."
Heat floods my vision. "One more word?—"
"What? You'll hit me again?" His voice drops, serious now. "I've stood beside you through seven campaigns. Watched you gut dark elves without blinking. But this? This is different. This is dangerous."
I storm past him out into the corridor, his words chasing me like arrows. But instead of heading to the armory or the war room, my feet carry me to my private workshop—a cramped chamber behind the forge where I maintain my weapons.
The half-finished piece sits where I left it on the workbench. Soft pine, carved into the rough shape of a child's toy. A horse, maybe. Or a wolf. My hands move without permission, selecting a fine-grain file to smooth the edges.
The rhythm soothes something jagged in my chest. Each careful stroke reveals more of the creature's form—definitely a horse, with a flowing mane and delicate legs. Something gentle. Something innocent.
Something she might hold against her belly and smile about.
