The admission carries more pain than venom. For all her posturing, Zharra sounds genuinely bewildered—as if my very existence represents a puzzle she cannot solve.
"You'll have to ask him."
My voice emerges steadier than I expected, though something dangerous flickers in her eyes at my calm response.
"Oh, I intend to." She resumes her circling, like a wolf testing for weakness. "But first, I thought we should have a conversation. Woman to woman."
"How civilized."
"Indeed." Her smile holds all the warmth of winter steel. "I wanted to see for myself what could possibly be worth destroying an alliance that took three years to negotiate."
The mask of civility drops from Zharra's face like shed armor, revealing something far uglier beneath.
"Let's speak plainly then, shall we?" Her voice turns silky, dangerous. "You spread your legs for a single night and somehow convinced yourself it meant something. Now you've crawled here with your belly full, expecting what—protection? A place at his side?"
Heat flashes through my chest, but I make myself remain seated, hands folded in my lap. "I expect nothing."
"Liar." She leans closer, her breath hot against my ear. "You whored your way into survival, didn't you? Used your translator's tongue for more than languages. And when that wasn't enough, you manipulated the gods themselves—convinced that senile old woman to see signs that don't exist."
My teeth clack together so hard my jaw begins to ache.
"The child isn't even his, is it?" Zharra straightens, circling again with renewed venom. "You bedded half the garrison and chose the most powerful mark. Now you're here with your bastard, spinning tales about divine flames and sacred unions."
"You're wrong."
"Am I?" She stops directly in front of me, towering over my seated form. "You think because you carry some mongrel half-breed that Vargath will abandon his duty? His honor? His people?"
The word 'mongrel' slices through me like a blade. My hands instinctively curve around my belly, protective.
"He's a warleader, not some lovesick boy. When the council demands your removal, he'll hand you over without hesitation. Because that's what leaders do—they choose their clan over their cock."
My throat burns with unshed tears, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction.
"The only question is whether he'll let you leave with the child, or if he'll cut it from your belly first. Half-breeds make useful slaves, I'm told."
The cruelty in her voice steals my breath. These aren't idle threats—they're promises wrapped in silk.
Zharra signals her guards with a subtle gesture. They move toward the door like well-trained hounds responding to their master's whistle.
She pauses at the threshold, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carries more menace than her loudest shouts.
"This temple won't protect you forever."
The words settle into my bones like winter frost. Then she's gone, taking her guards and leaving only the echo of her threat hanging in the smoky air.
I sit frozen for several heartbeats, maintaining the facade of composure until I'm certain they're truly gone. Then my body betrays me completely.
I slide from the chair to the cold stone floor, my legs unable to support me any longer. The careful control I've maintained for weeks finally cracks, and I fold in on myself like paper in flame.
My shoulders shake with the effort of holding back tears that refuse to be contained. They spill down my cheeks despite my best efforts, hot and shameful and utterly beyond my control.
The baby kicks against my ribs as if sensing my distress, and I press both hands against my belly, whispering apologies to the child who never asked to be born into this mess.
16
VARGATH
"The southern patrols are stretched thin." I spread the crude map across the scarred wooden table, my finger tracing the vulnerable points along our borders. "We need to pull two squads from the eastern watch."
