"She's human."
I freeze. "What did you say?"
"You heard me." Kormath crosses his arms, unmoved by the blood dripping from my burden onto his floor. "Not worth the resources. We've got real injuries to tend."
The other healers nod agreement. One actually turns back to his pestle, dismissing us entirely.
Something snaps inside my chest like a breaking bone.
I lay Seris gently on the table, her face pale as winter sky, then draw my war axe in one fluid motion. The blade whispers against leather as it clears the sheath.
Kormath's eyes go wide as I press the edge against his throat, just deep enough to draw a thin line of blood.
"That wasn't a request." My voice comes out low, deadly calm. "Save her. Or I'll start making room for replacements."
The hall goes silent except for Seris's labored breathing. The healer who'd turned away drops his pestle, the ceramic shattering against stone.
"Warleader," Kormath stammers, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. "The council won't?—"
"The council isn't here." I press the blade a fraction deeper. "I am. And I'm telling you to save her life and the child she carries. Unless you'd prefer to explain to the gods why you let an innocent die while you stood by and watched."
Kormath's Adam's apple bobs against my axe edge. "Of... of course, Warleader. Right away."
The healers scramble into motion, fear making them efficient. They gather supplies—clean cloth, steaming water, vials of herbs I can't name. I sheath my weapon but don't move from Kormath's side, making sure he understands the threat hasn't passed.
I take Seris's hand in mine, her fingers cold and trembling. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused with pain.
"You're not dying," I whisper, squeezing gently. "Neither of you are."
19
SERIS
Consciousness returns like a slow tide, pulling me up from depths where pain and terror still echo. The first thing I notice is the absence of agony—no sharp claws tearing through my belly, no fire racing down my spine. Just a dull ache that speaks of healing rather than dying.
The second thing I notice is warmth. Not the warmth of fever or blood loss, but something solid and steady pressed against my palm.
I force my eyes open, blinking against dim torchlight until the world sharpens into focus. Stone walls. A narrow bed with rough-woven blankets. The familiar smell of herbs and old incense that marks temple quarters.
And beside me, slumped in a wooden chair that looks far too small for his frame, sits Vargath.
His armor bears dark stains I recognize as blood—mine, probably—and his black hair has escaped its war braids to fall loose around his shoulders. His jaw clenches and unclenches in a rhythm that suggests he's been grinding his teeth for hours. But his hand holds mine with careful gentleness, fingers intertwined like he's afraid I might slip away if he lets go.
"You never left." My voice comes out as barely a whisper, throat raw from screaming I only half remember.
His head snaps up, dark eyes searching my face with an intensity beyond reason. Relief flickers across his features before he schools them back into that familiar mask of control.
"Couldn't." The word drops between us like a stone. "Didn't trust them not to finish what someone started."
Memory crashes back in waves—Maedra's still form beneath my robe, the terror of feeling my body betray me, blood pooling on sacred stones. My free hand flies instinctively to my belly, feeling for the familiar curve, the gentle movement that means life continues despite everything.
"The baby?"
"Safe." His thumb traces across my knuckles, the gesture so gentle it steals my breath. "The healers said you need rest. No travel. No stress."
I almost laugh at that last part, but it comes out as more of a sob. "No stress. In a place where someone murdered the only person who gave a damn about me."
His jaw tightens. "I give a damn."
