20
VARGATH
The dream clings to me like smoke from a dying fire, refusing to fade even as consciousness drags me back to the cramped temple room. Sweat beads on my forehead, cold despite the warmth radiating from Seris's sleeping form beside me.
She bears more than blood. She bears promise.
The words echo in my skull, spoken in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder. I've heard the priests describe the Plentiful God—ancient beyond measure, hands that could cradle mountains or crush armies. In the dream, he towered behind Seris like a living shadow, golden eyes burning with something between benediction and warning. Grain spilled from his massive palms, each kernel catching firelight like tiny stars.
I sit up slowly, careful not to disturb the narrow bed. The stone walls seem to press closer in the predawn darkness, and I can taste the lingering incense that never quite leaves these temple quarters. My heart still pounds against my ribs, each beat a reminder that some visions carry weight beyond sleep.
Seris breathes softly beside me, her face peaceful in a way I've rarely seen since she arrived at Azhgar's gates. The harshlines of exhaustion have smoothed, leaving behind the woman I remember from that single night—vulnerable, fierce, beautiful in ways that have nothing to do with conventional prettiness.
I turn toward her, drinking in details I've been too proud or too frightened to truly see. The way her dark hair spills across the rough pillow. The gentle curve of her shoulder beneath the healer's shift. The rise and fall of her chest, steady and alive despite everything this place has thrown at her.
My human. My heat in winter. My weakness made manifest.
The thought should shame me. Instead, it settles in my chest like an ember, warm and dangerous and mine.
Carefully, I lift the edge of the blanket. Her belly curves beneath the thin fabric, round and full with life we created. My child grows there, sheltered by her body, fed by her blood. The magnitude of it strikes me fresh—this woman carries my legacy, my future, everything I never knew I wanted until it was almost lost.
I lean down and press my lips to the swell of her stomach, feeling the warmth of her skin through the cloth. The kiss is reverent, barely a whisper of contact.
"What will you become, little one?" The words escape as a murmur, too quiet to wake her but loud enough to make the promise real. "What will you teach me?"
My father's face surfaces unbidden—all sharp angles and disappointed scowls. Koreth the Ruthless, they called him. He measured worth in scars and conquest, viewed affection as corruption that weakened the blood. I learned early that love was something to be buried, that tenderness was a luxury warriors couldn't afford.
The old bastard died believing I'd follow his path exactly. Cold. Calculating. Alone.
"You'll never feel unwanted," I whisper against Seris's belly, the vow scraping my throat raw. "Never doubt your place in this world."
But even as I speak the words, reality crashes back in. This tribe will never accept her. The council sees her as a threat to their precious traditions, a contamination that needs cleansing. Zharra circles like a vulture, waiting for any excuse to remove what she sees as competition. And somewhere in these halls, Maedra's killer walks free, probably planning their next move.
Fear grips my chest—not for myself, but for the impossible choice looming ahead. Stay, and watch them destroy her piece by piece. Leave, and abandon everything I've bled to build.
Unless I change everything.
I slip from the bed with practiced silence, my bare feet finding the cold stone without disturbing her sleep. The warmth of her body still clings to my skin as I pull on my leather breeches and tunic, each layer of clothing a barrier between me and the memory of her touch. The temple room feels smaller somehow, suffused with the scent of our coupling and the lingering sweetness of her hair.
The corridors stretch before me like the ribs of some ancient beast, torchlight flickering against carved stone that predates my grandfather's wars. My boots echo despite my efforts at stealth, the sound bouncing off walls that have heard too many secrets, witnessed too much blood.
How do I get the council to accept her? The baby?
The question gnaws at me with each step. I could offer a challenge—blade to blade, winner takes all. Half the council would accept that, the old-fashioned bastards. But the other half would see it as barbaric posturing, and Seris would still be trapped in the middle of their politics.
A trade, then? My position for their acceptance? But that leaves us powerless, vulnerable to whoever climbs into myplace. And knowing this tribe, that someone would be far less sympathetic to human blood mixing with ours.
Threaten war?
The thought tastes bitter. Split Azhgar down the middle, force every orc to choose between tradition and change. Blood would flow in the halls where children play. Brothers would raise blades against brothers. And for what? So I can keep what should have been mine from the start?
I reach the balcony overlooking the settlement, stone still warm from the day's forges despite the late hour. Azhgar spreads below me like a patchwork of old wounds and new scars—human ruins crowned with orc additions, steam rising from workshops, the distant glow of the sacred flames that burn eternal in the deepest temple.
But tonight, something's wrong.
It’s quiet. No night wind carries the usual sounds—the distant ring of hammer on anvil, the low chants from the prayer halls, the occasional bark of laughter from the guard towers. Even the sacred fires seem dimmer, their smoke rising straight up without the slightest breeze to bend it.
My skin crawls. In thirty-four years, I've learned to trust my instincts when they scream danger, and right now they're howling like wolves in winter.
