"I don't trust you." I watch his face as I say it, noting the way his eyes flicker with hurt. "Not yet."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't argue or make excuses. Just nods once, accepting the blow like he deserves it.
"I know."
"You left me before. When I needed you most."
"I did."
"You let them convince you I wasn't real. That your own child was a lie."
His grip on my hand tightens slightly. "Yes."
The simple acknowledgment does something strange to the knot of anger in my chest. Not dissolving it, but... loosening it. Just enough to breathe.
"I won't stop trying," he says quietly. "To earn it. Your trust."
I study his face—the exhaustion carved into every line, the way his shoulders curve protectively toward me even sitting in a chair. His axe leans against the bedframe within easy reach, and I notice how his free hand never strays far from its handle.
"It's not safe for you here anymore." His voice carries a weight that wasn't there before. "In Azhgar. After what happened with Zharra, the council..."
A laugh jumps out from between my lips, surprising us both. "Safe? When exactly was I supposed to be safe here?"
His mouth quirks upward at one corner—almost a smile. "Fair point."
"Your people tried to leave me to freeze at the gates. They refused to treat me when I was bleeding. They murdered Maedra for protecting me." I shift slightly in the bed, wincing as the movement pulls at tender places. "And now you're concerned about my safety?"
"Now I know what I'm fighting for." He leans forward, and his voice drops to something fierce and low. "I'll take care of you. Both of you. Whatever it takes."
"Even if it means leaving Azhgar?"
Something flickers across his expression—surprise, maybe, that I would think so far ahead. That I would consider a future beyond these walls.
"Even then."
29
VARGATH
Iwatch Seris's breathing even out as exhaustion finally claims her. The healers assured me she needs rest more than anything now—that and time for her body to recover from what Zharra put her through. My hands clench into fists at the memory of finding them in that burial chamber, of how close I came to losing everything that matters.
The healer's wing feels too quiet, too exposed. Every footstep in the corridor makes my hand drift toward my axe. Every shadow could hide another threat. The council may have accepted Zharra's exile, but that doesn't mean they've accepted Seris. Or me, for choosing her over tradition.
I need to think. To plan. And I can't do that while watching every breath she takes, terrified it might be her last.
I brush my thumb across her knuckles one final time before releasing her hand. She doesn't stir, lost in the deep sleep of healing. Good. She needs that peace, however brief it might be.
The corridors of Azhgar feel different now—less like home, more like a trap closing around us. Guards nod respectfully as I pass, but I catch the whispers that follow in my wake. Theway conversations die when I enter rooms. They're watching me, waiting to see what I'll do next.
I find Gargan in the armory, methodically sharpening blades that don't need sharpening. It's what he does when his mind is working through problems—keeps his hands busy while his thoughts churn.
"She awake?" He doesn't look up from the whetstone's steady rhythm against steel.
"For a while. Sleeping now."
"Good. She looked like death when you carried her up from those tunnels."
I settle onto the bench across from him, watching sparks fly from the blade. "How bad is it?"
