"Depends how you define bad." The whetstone pauses. "Council's split between those who think you handled Zharra appropriately and those who think you've lost your mind entirely. Zharra's supporters are calling for your removal as warleader."
"And the warriors?"
"Most would follow you into the depths of hell if you asked. But this?" He gestures vaguely toward the door. "This isn't a battle they understand. Love makes poor strategy."
I lean back against the stone wall, feeling the weight of leadership pressing down on my shoulders like armor made of lead. "It's not about love."
"No?" Gargan's scarred eyebrow lifts. "What's it about then?"
"Survival. Hers and the child's."
"Same thing, in the end." He sets down the blade and fixes me with that steady gaze that's gotten me through a dozen campaigns. "Question is, what are you planning to do about it?"
The words stick in my throat for a moment. Once I say them aloud, there's no taking them back. No pretending this is temporary madness that will pass with time.
"She can't stay here." I meet his eyes. "They'll try again. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but they will. And next time I might not find her in time."
Gargan nods slowly. "Probably right. So what—you send her away? Find her some safe human settlement to birth the child in?"
"No." The word is final, and maybe too fast. "I go with her."
The whetstone clatters against the bench as Gargan's hand goes still. For a long moment, the only sound is the distant clang of hammers from the forges.
"You're talking about leaving Azhgar."
"I'm talking about protecting what's mine."
"Vargath. You know what that means. The council won't just let you walk away. Not as warleader. Not with everything you know about our defenses, our strategies."
"I know."
"You'll be branded a deserter. A traitor." The words hang heavy between us. "There's no coming back from that. No redemption, no second chances. You'll be hunted."
I think of Seris lying pale and bleeding in that underground chamber. Of the way her hand trembled when she told me she didn't trust me yet. Of the child growing inside her—my child—who deserves better than a world that sees them as an abomination.
"Then brand me."
Gargan studies my face for a long moment, searching for cracks in my resolve. Finding none, he picks up the whetstone again, but doesn't resume sharpening.
"When?"
"Soon. Before the council decides to take more direct action."
"You'll need supplies. Horses. A route that avoids the main roads."
"Gargan—"
"Don't." He cuts me off with a gesture. "Don't insult me by pretending I'd let you go alone. I've followed you this far."
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, as fragments of conversations drift back to me. War councils where the elders spoke in hushed tones about troubling developments beyond our borders. Not raids or territorial disputes—something else entirely.
"There were whispers," I begin, my voice low. "In the councils, when they thought I wasn't listening. About a bonded pair building something beyond the reach of the old clans."
Gargan's whetstone pauses mid-stroke. "Go on."
"Kaela and Drokhar." The names feel strange on my tongue, like speaking of legends made flesh. "An orc who somehow traveled from the old world for a human woman. They've gathered others like them—outcasts, half-breeds, those who don't fit the old ways."
"Yes." Gargan spits into the dust. "I've heard the name whispered in taverns. Most think it's a myth."
