The baby shifts restlessly inside me, pressing against my ribs as if sharing my restlessness.
"I know, little one." My voice echoes back to me, hoarse from disuse. "You're getting impatient too, aren't you? Wondering when we'll see sunlight again."
Speaking aloud feels strange at first, but the sound of my own voice becomes a lifeline. Better than the alternative—the creeping silence that threatens to swallow my sanity whole.
From somewhere deeper in these tunnels comes the sound I've grown to dread: chains dragging across stone, followed by a low orcish mutter. Other prisoners exist down here, shadows I never see but always hear. Last night, someone screamed—a raw, desperate sound that cut through the darkness before being abruptly silenced.
"Don't listen to that," I whisper, hand smoothing over my belly. "We're going to be fine. Your father will come for us. He has to."
The baby kicks, a flutter of movement that makes me smile despite everything.
"Oh, you don't believe me? Well, you don't know him like I do. He's stubborn. Impossibly, infuriatingly stubborn. Once he decides something matters..." I pause, remembering the weight of his hands on my skin, the reverence in his touch. "He doesn't let go."
Footsteps approach, but these aren't the heavy boots of my masked guard. These are lighter, more purposeful. The torch flames flicker as a familiar silhouette appears in the doorway.
Zharra.
She's traded her ceremonial armor for simple leathers, but her bearing remains regal, predatory. Those sharp features twist with barely contained fury as she studies me through the iron bars.
"Still breathing, I see."
"Disappointed?"
Her lips curl into something that might charitably be called a smile. "I told them to let you starve. Let nature take its course. But no—apparently even my word carries less weight than it should."
"Poor Zharra. Must be exhausting, being so thoroughly ignored."
She steps closer to the bars, fingers wrapping around the iron with white-knuckled intensity. "You think this is amusing? You think your little jokes will save you?"
"I think you're down here talking to a chained pregnant woman instead of planning your grand political marriage. That tells me everything I need to know about how well your schemes are working."
"You don't matter." The words come out like a hiss, venom dripping from each syllable. "You never did. You're nothing but a distraction, a moment of weakness he'll forget once you're gone."
The laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest—wild, defiant, completely inappropriate for my circumstances. But I can't stop it. The sound echoes, bouncing back at us like a challenge.
Zharra recoils as if I've struck her.
"Then why are you down here?" I manage between gasps of laughter. "If I'm so insignificant, so forgettable, why aren't you upstairs planning your wedding feast? Why are you wasting time on nothing?"
Her face goes ashen, then flushes dark with rage.
Without another word, she turns and leaves. And I'm left alive… but just as alone as before.
25
VARGATH
The temple corridors blur past as I retrace my steps for the hundredth time. Every stone, every crack in the mortar, every shadow cast by flickering torchlight—I've memorized them all. The storage chambers beneath the altar. The forgotten prayer alcoves. The narrow servant passages that wind behind the walls like veins through a corpse.
Nothing. No trace of her scent. No blood. No sign of struggle beyond that broken cup and the scratches on her chamber floor.
"You've checked that passage three times today."
Gargan's voice cuts through my obsession like a blade. He leans against the entrance to the undercroft, arms crossed, watching me with the patience of someone who's seen too many friends lose their minds.
"Maybe I missed something."
"You didn't."
