"Praying." The word sounds foreign in his mouth. "To the Plentiful God. To whoever might be listening."
His voice drops lower, becoming a rumble I feel more than hear. "Maedra believed you were chosen. That our child carries something sacred." He presses his face against my hair. "If that's true, if any of it matters—help her. Help them both."
The firelight flickers again at the edge of my vision, but this time it feels less like hallucination and more like answer.
32
VARGATH
Iwatch Seris sway in her saddle like a reed in wind, and my jaw clenches tight enough to crack teeth. Another day of traveling, and she's worse than yesterday. Her skin carries the gray pallor of someone fighting fever, and dark circles hollow her eyes until she looks like a ghost wearing her own face.
The horses struggle through deeper snow now, their hooves punching through the crust with each step. Ice crystals cling to their manes, and steam rises from their flanks despite the bitter cold. But it's not the animals I'm worried about.
"There." I point toward a cluster of carved stones jutting from a hillside ahead. "Shelter."
Seris doesn't respond, lost in whatever fevered dream holds her now. I guide both horses toward the ancient alcove—First Age stonework, carved when humans still believed their gods walked among them. The craftsmanship puts our crude orc masonry to shame, all flowing lines and symbols that seem to shift when I'm not looking directly at them.
The shelter extends deeper into the hillside than it appeared from outside. Partially collapsed, yes, but the remaining walls still block wind and the carved ceiling keeps most of the snowout. I dismount and reach for Seris, catching her as she slides sideways from her saddle.
"Easy." Her weight settles against my chest, too light for someone carrying a child. "I've got you."
I ease her down onto my spread cloak, arranging it over the smoothest section of stone floor. She curls onto her side immediately, knees drawn up, hands pressed to her belly. Blood seeps through her boots where the leather has worn thin.
"Damn." I kneel beside her feet, working the boots off as gently as possible. The sight underneath makes my stomach clench—raw flesh, split skin, toes gone white with cold. "Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?"
She stirs slightly at my touch but doesn't wake. Just murmurs something too soft to catch.
I dig through my pack for clean cloth and the last of our medicinal supplies. The salve stings when I apply it—I know because she flinches even in sleep. But her feet need tending, and infection would kill her faster than cold or hunger.
Her lips are cracked deep enough to bleed, split from dehydration and bitter wind. I dab water onto them from my waterskin, watching it absorb into the damaged skin. She needs more than I can give her out here. Needs warmth, rest, proper food, a healer who knows how to care for pregnant women.
Memories rise unbidden as I work. Korran, my youngest brother, dying of fever after a dark elf raid. The elders refusing to waste resources on "weak blood." My father's voice:"Warriors don't weep for the fallen. They honor them by becoming stronger."
I'd believed that once. Believed strength meant cutting away anything that made you vulnerable. The irony tastes bitter now—here I am, tending wounds and whispering prayers like the softest of healers.
The council would laugh if they could see me. Zharra would call it fitting justice. Even Gargan might shake his head and mutter about warriors gone soft.
Let them. Let them all rot in their certainty while I choose what matters.
Seris stirs as I finish wrapping her feet, eyelids fluttering open. For a moment she stares at me without recognition, fever-bright and confused. Then awareness filters back.
"Vargath?" Her voice comes out cracked and raw. "Where...?"
"Shelter. Old human ruins." I settle the blanket more securely around her shoulders. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been trampled." She tries to sit up, then thinks better of it. "How long was I asleep?"
"Most of the day. You've been talking in your sleep."
A flush creeps up her neck despite the cold. "What did I say?"
"Nothing clear. Mostly just murmurs." I don't mention the times she called my name, or the way she reached for me even unconscious.
She shifts restlessly, wincing as movement pulls at her injuries. "I dreamed of you."
The admission surprises me. "Just now?"
"No. Before." Her eyes focus on something beyond the carved walls. "Before we met. Nights before the diplomatic summit where I first saw you."
