"Nothing." But her voice wavers, just slightly. "I've been here all evening, as these witnesses can attest."
"Witnesses." I laugh, the sound bitter as winter wind. "How convenient."
The rage builds in my chest like molten iron, threatening to spill over and consume everything in this chamber. My fingers tighten on the axe handle until my knuckles crack, the urge to paint these walls red nearly overwhelming my last threads of control.
"Cowards." The word drops like a stone into still water. "Every last one of you. Sitting in your warm chairs, making decisions about blood you've never spilled, lives you've never saved."
Elder Grothak's face flushes purple. "Vargath, you forget yourself?—"
"I forget nothing." I sweep the axe in a wide arc, sending more scrolls flying. "I remember every battle you sent me to fight while you counted coin. Every warrior who died following your orders while you feasted. Every promise you made and broke."
Councilor Vex pushes back from the table, chair scraping against stone. "This is madness. You threaten the very foundation?—"
"What foundation?" I laugh, the sound sharp enough to cut glass. "This crumbling monument to your own importance? These traditions that excuse murder and call it politics?"
Zharra's eyes narrow to slits. "You speak of murder as if you know?—"
"I know enough." I step closer, letting her see her death reflected in my blade. "I know Maedra died because she spoke truth. I know my woman was taken because you can't stomach the thought of change."
"Your woman?" Elder Korma's voice drips disdain. "A human broodmare who's addled your wits?"
My vision goes red around the edges, and for a heartbeat, I see myself splitting her skull like a melon. Instead, I plant the axe point-first into the stone floor between her feet, close enough to part the hem of her robes.
"She carries my child." Each word falls like a hammer blow. "Harm her, and I will raze this place to ash. I will burn every hall, every tower, every stone that bears your stench. I will salt the earth so thoroughly that nothing grows here for a thousand years."
Grothak scoffs, his weathered face twisting with contempt. "Listen to yourself. A warleader brought low by sentiment. Maedra filled your head with nonsense about divine flames and prophecy, and now you?—"
"Now I what? Care about something beyond your approval?" I yank the axe free, stone chips scattering across their feet. "You call it weakness because you've forgotten what strength looks like when it has purpose."
"Purpose?" Vex's voice cracks like a whip. "Your purpose is to this clan, to these people. Not to some human who spreads her legs and claims divine blessing."
The chamber door creaks open behind me. Gargan steps inside, his scarred face grim as he takes in the scene—the shattered table, the scattered council, the hunger for murder.
"Vargath." His tone is filled by years fighting beside me, of knowing the man that I was. "Whatever's happened, this isn't the way."
I don't turn, don't take my gaze off the council members who huddle like sheep before a wolf. "They took her, Gargan. They crept in like cowards and stole what's mine."
"Then we find out what happened." He steps closer, hand extended as if approaching a wounded animal. "But not like this. Not by threatening?—"
"Relics." I spit the word at the council table. "Traitors hiding behind ceremony and calling it honor. They murdered Maedra for speaking truth, and now they've taken Seris because they can't bear to see their precious traditions challenged."
Gargan's broken tusk catches the torchlight as he frowns. "Vargath, think. If you kill them all?—"
"My loyalty is not to tradition." I finally turn to face him, letting him see the finality in my expression. "It's to blood. To the child she carries. To the woman who trusted me to keep her safe."
And I'll be damned if these ignorant fools think they can take her away from me.
22
SERIS
Cold seeps through my bones like poison, dragging me from the blessed darkness of unconsciousness. My eyelids feel weighted with lead, and when I finally pry them open, the world swims in and out of focus. A single torch gutters in a wall sconce, casting dancing shadows that make the rough stone walls seem to breathe.
The smell hits me next—damp earth, mildew, and something else. Something that makes my stomach lurch with recognition. Fear. This place reeks of it.
I try to sit up and immediately regret it. My head pounds like a war drum, and there's a metallic taste coating my tongue. Blood. I probe my lip with my tongue and find it split, swollen. Memory crashes back in fragments—rough hands dragging me from warmth, a cloth pressed over my mouth, the world tilting sideways as consciousness fled.
"No, no, no." The words spill from my cracked lips as I struggle upright, hands instinctively covering my belly. The baby kicks weakly, and relief floods through me so powerfully I nearly sob. Still alive. Still fighting.
