My hands still. The file trembles in my grip.
What am I doing? Warriors don't carve toys. Leaders don't waste hours perfecting the curve of a wooden mane for a child that might not even survive birth. Men like me don't?—
The toy horse flies across the room, striking the stone wall with a sharp crack. One leg snaps off, clattering to the floor.
I follow it with my fists. Stone doesn't yield like flesh, but the impact sends lightning through my knuckles, up my arms. I hit it again. Again. Until my skin splits and blood spatters the gray blocks.
"Vargath?"
Zharra's voice cuts through the red haze. I turn, chest heaving, knuckles dripping.
She stands in the doorway wearing ceremonial robes instead of armor—deep green silk that emphasizes her height, her sharp features. The kind of woman who looks like she belongs beside a warleader. The kind the council expects to bear the next generation of Azhgar's elite.
"I heard shouting." Her gaze moves from my bloodied hands to the broken toy in the corner. Understanding flickers acrossher features, followed by something that might be pity. "Oh, Vargath."
"Don't."
She steps closer, voice gentle as poisoned honey. "This isn't you. This obsession with that human—it's beneath you. Beneath us."
"I said don't."
"Look at yourself. You're bleeding over a piece of wood. When did you become so..." She gestures vaguely. "Soft?"
I turn away, cradling my damaged hand. "Leave me alone."
"I can help you remember who you are. What you're meant for." Her fingers brush my shoulder, light as spider silk. "We have duties, Vargath. To the clan. To tradition. To each other."
The touch burns like acid. I shrug away from her, moving toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
I don't answer. Can't trust my voice not to crack.
15
SERIS
I'm attempting to braid my hair when footsteps echo through the temple corridors—too many footsteps, too purposeful. My hands still against the dark strands as voices approach. Not Maedra's shuffling gait or Vargath's measured stride. Something else entirely.
The door opens without ceremony. No knock, no announcement.
Three figures fill the doorway like storm clouds gathering. The woman in the center commands immediate attention—tall, sharp-featured, with intricate tattoos spiraling down her arms in patterns that speak of high birth and higher expectations. Her ceremonial armor gleams despite the temple's dim lighting, every piece positioned for maximum intimidation.
Zharra. Even without introduction, I know exactly who she is. The way she holds herself, the proprietary anger radiating from her stance—this is the woman who expected to bear Vargath's children.
Two guards flank her, silent as tombstones and twice as menacing. Their hands rest casually on weapon hilts, a gesture that manages to seem both relaxed and threatening.
"So." Zharra's voice carries the kind of cultured venom that takes years to perfect. "You're the famous translator."
I set down my hairbrush with deliberate calm, though my heart rattles against my ribs. "I wasn't aware I was famous."
She steps into the room without invitation, circling me with predatory grace. Her gaze catalogues every detail—my swollen belly, my simple clothes, the way I instinctively place one hand protectively over the child.
"You're not even pretty."
The words hit like a slap, but I keep my expression neutral. Years of diplomatic training taught me to weather worse insults from people far more important than an orc warleader's jealous betrothed.
Zharra continues her assessment, disappointment clear in every line of her posture. "Soft skin, unremarkable features, hair that looks like you cut it yourself with a dull blade." She pauses directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell the ceremonial oils in her elaborate braids. "I don't understand what made him risk everything."
