SERIS
The darkness has weight here. It presses against my chest with each shallow breath, thick and damp like the inside of a grave. I've lost count of how many times I've traced the rough stone walls with trembling fingers, searching for weaknesses that don't exist.
My ankles burn where the iron shackles bite into skin. The chains allow me just enough movement to pace three steps in any direction—a cruel mockery of freedom. Every shift sends metal scraping against stone, a sound that's become the rhythm of my captivity.
The torch in the corridor beyond my cell gutters and spits, casting shadows that dance like demons across the walls. Sometimes I think I hear voices echoing from somewhere deeper in this maze of tunnels, but they fade before I can make out words.
Footsteps approach—heavy, deliberate. I press myself against the far wall, hands instinctively covering my belly as a figure appears in the doorway.
The orc wears a crude leather mask that covers everything but dark eyes that glitter with something unreadable. No words.Never any words. Just that awful, patient stare as he sets down a wooden bowl and a cup of what might charitably be called water.
I don't move toward the food. The bread is green with mold, the meat rancid enough to turn my stomach even from across the cell. But he watches me anyway, head tilted like he's studying some fascinating specimen.
"What do you want from me?"
Silence. Always silence.
"I'm nobody. Just a translator. I can't give you information about defenses or?—"
He takes a step closer, and I see his hands. Thick fingers, scarred knuckles. Hands that could snap my neck without effort.
"Please." The word tastes like ash. "Whatever you're waiting for, I don't have it."
Those dark eyes shift to my belly, lingering there for long moments before returning to my face. Then he turns and walks away, leaving me alone with the smell of rotting food and my own fear.
I sink to the stone floor, pulling my knees up as much as my swollen stomach allows. The baby kicks weakly, as if protesting this place, this situation, this life I've dragged them into.
"I know," I whisper, stroking my belly. "I know you're hungry too."
Sleep comes fitfully, broken by the drip of water somewhere in the darkness and the constant ache in my back. But when it finally takes me, I dream.
I'm back in the temple, warm firelight dancing across familiar stone walls. Maedra sits across from me, her weathered hands wrapped around a cup of steaming tea. She looks exactly as she did in life—gray-green skin marked with ritual scars, eyes sharp with ancient wisdom.
"You're dead," I tell her, because dreams have their own logic.
"Death is just another room, child." She sips her tea, steam curling around her face like incense smoke. "The question is whether you have the key to leave this one."
"I don't understand."
She sets down her cup and leans forward, those knowing eyes fixed on mine. "Even stone breaks, child. But roots grow deeper."
"What does that mean?"
"You carry more than a baby. You carry possibility. Change. The old ways crumbling to make room for something new. They chain your body, but they cannot chain what grows within you."
I reach for her, desperate for comfort, for answers, but my fingers pass through smoke and shadow.
"Maedra, please?—"
"Survive, Seris. For all of us."
I wake with tears streaming down my cheeks, her voice still echoing in the darkness. My hands find my belly, feeling the steady flutter of life beneath my ribs.
"We're going to survive," I whisper to the child nestled inside me, my voice hoarse but steady. "Somehow, little one. We're going to survive this."
The baby kicks once, as if in agreement, and I almost believe it might be true.
I drag my fingernail across the gritty stone floor, carving another shallow line next to the growing collection. Seven marks now. Or is it eight? The days blur together in this tomb of dampness and shadow, but the ritual keeps me anchored. Each scratch in the dust becomes proof that time still moves forward, that I still exist.
