"This being the formal welcome? The feast? Or the part where they parade you around like a prize bull before the mating ceremony?"
I shoot him a look sharp enough to cut stone, but Gargan just grins. His broken tusk gives the expression a lopsided quality that would be comical if I didn't know how he'd earned that particular scar.
"Careful, Gargan. Your tongue's getting loose in your old age."
"Old age, he says. I'm two years older than you, you overgrown whelp." He scratches his jaw where a dark elf blade had carved a furrow years ago. "Besides, someone needs to remind you that scowling won't make Korrath's daughter any prettier."
The mention of Zharra sends a familiar twist of dread through my gut. Not because she's ugly—she's not—but because she represents everything I've been trained to want and nothing I actually do. A political alliance wrapped in the ceremony of mating, designed to bind two clans together with bonds stronger than steel.
"She's perfectly adequate."
"Adequate." Gargan rolls the word around like he's tasting spoiled meat. "There's the romantic spirit that'll sweep her off her feet."
Before I can respond with something appropriately cutting, voices drift up from the base of the outer wall. Harsh orc syllables, but with an edge of excitement that makes my steed's ears prick forward. I hold up a fist, and the warband draws to a halt behind us.
"What's that about?"
Gargan shades his eyes with one gauntleted hand, peering down at the cluster of figures near the gate. "Guards. Looks like they've found something."
Or someone. The figures shift, and I catch a glimpse of something small and pale crumpled against the dark stone of the wall. Too small to be an orc, too still to be moving under its own power.
"Probably another refugee." I nudge my mount forward, beginning the descent toward the gates. "The winter's been hard on the human settlements."
"Since when do refugees rate this much attention?"
He's right. The guards cluster around their discovery like carrion birds around fresh meat, and their voices carry the particular tone orcs use when discussing something that amuses them. Not the respectful wariness they'd show a genuine threat, but the cruel entertainment they find in others' misfortune.
We draw closer, and details sharpen through the falling snow. A woman, definitely human, wrapped in a cloak that might once have been brown but now looks closer to grey. She's unconscious—or worse—and her position against the wall suggests she's been there for some time.
The guards notice our approach and straighten, hands moving instinctively to weapons before they recognize my banner. One of them, a scarred veteran named Thorgak, raises his hand in salute.
"Warleader! Welcome back to Azhgar!"
I don't return the greeting. My attention fixes on the figure at their feet, and something cold that has nothing to do with the weather settles in my chest.
"What's this?"
"Just some human refuse, sir. Probably froze to death trying to find shelter." Thorgak nudges the still form with his boot, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from snarling at him. "We were about to dispose of?—"
"Don't touch her."
The words come out harsh, and every guard within hearing distance goes still. Gargan shoots me a questioning look, but I'm already dismounting, my boots hitting the frozen ground with enough force to send up small puffs of snow.
I step closer, and the world tilts sideways.
The face beneath the frost-matted hair belongs to someone I never expected to see again. Someone I'd convinced myself I'd forgotten.
"Seris."
Her name escapes like a prayer, barely audible above the wind. The human translator who'd spent three months at the winter negotiations. The woman who'd challenged my assumptions about her people with every conversation. The one who'd seen that I was more than just another orc warleader playing politics.
The one I'd left without a word.
My eyes drop to her body, and the air leaves my lungs in a rush. Her cloak has fallen open, revealing the unmistakable curve of her belly. Even through the layers of clothing, there's no mistaking what I'm seeing.
She's pregnant. Very pregnant.
"Hah! Look at that," Thorgak sneers, prodding her again with his boot. "The little human bitch was trying to sneak in and dump her bastard on us. Probably hoped we'd?—"
