33
SERIS
Pain tears through my belly like a blade heated in forge-fire, ripping me from sleep with a gasp that echoes off the ancient stone walls. My eyes snap open to darkness broken only by the dying embers of our fire, and for a moment I think I'm still dreaming—until the agony crests again, stealing my breath entirely.
My hands fly to my stomach, finding it rigid as iron beneath my palms. The baby. Oh gods, the baby is?—
Wetness spreads beneath me, soaking through my clothes and into the furs. Cold liquid that makes the already bitter air bite deeper into my skin. I shift slightly, trying to understand what's happening, and feel more warmth trickling down my thighs.
"No." My voice comes out strangled, barely a whisper. "No, not now. Not here."
Another contraction builds like thunder rolling across mountains, starting deep in my back and wrapping around my belly until I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but ride the wave of pain. My teeth clench so hard my jaw aches.
This isn't how it's supposed to happen. Not in a freezing ruin with no healer, no supplies, no?—
"Ah!" The cry tears from my throat before I realize it, sharp and desperate in the enclosed space.
Vargath bolts upright beside me, instantly alert in that way warriors learn when death might come calling at any moment. His hand moves to where his axe should be before his eyes focus on me writhing in the furs.
"Seris?" His voice carries the rough edge of someone dragged from deep sleep. "What's wrong?"
I try to form words, but another contraction builds before the last one fully fades. This baby doesn't care about timing or safety or the fact that we're fugitives hiding in ruins. This baby has decided now is the moment to enter the world, and my body is responding whether I want it to or not.
"It's happening," I whisper through clenched teeth, reaching for his hand with fingers that shake from more than cold. "The baby—it's coming."
His eyes widen, pupils dilating in the dim light as understanding hits him. For a moment he looks as terrified as I feel—this massive warrior who's faced down armies suddenly rendered speechless by the reality of birth.
"Now?" The word comes out strangled. "Here?"
"I don't think we get a choice." Another wave of pain crashes over me, and I squeeze his hand hard enough that my knuckles go white. "My water broke. The contractions started. This is really happening."
He stares down at the spreading wetness beneath me, then back at my face. I watch him swallow hard, see the moment when training kicks in and pushes panic aside. His jaw sets in that stubborn line I've come to know so well.
Vargath moves with the efficiency of someone accustomed to battlefield triage, though his hands shake as he strips blanketsfrom our makeshift bed. The ancient stone offers no comfort, but he layers every scrap of fabric we have across the ground, creating a nest of warmth in this frozen tomb.
"Water," he mutters, more to himself than me. "Clean cloth. Something to?—"
Another contraction builds like a storm surge, and this time I can't contain the scream that rips from my throat. The sound bounces off the carved walls, multiplying until it seems like a chorus of agony echoing through the ruins.
"Fuck," he whispers, dropping to his knees beside me. His massive hand finds my forehead, surprisingly gentle as he wipes away the sweat that beads despite the cold. "Breathe with me. In... out..."
The orcish words wash over me like a lullaby, though I barely understand them. His voice carries a tenderness I've never heard before, as if he's speaking to something precious and breakable.
Blood stains the blankets beneath me now, dark against the pale wool. Too much blood. The metallic scent fills the air, mixing with the musty smell of ancient stone and the acrid smoke from our dying fire.
"Something's wrong." My voice comes out hoarse, raw from screaming. "There's too much blood, isn't there? Tell me the truth."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't lie to me. "I don't know. I've never—this isn't something they teach warriors."
Terror claws at my chest worse than any contraction. This baby, this impossible child that brought us together and tore us apart, might die here in this forgotten place. Or I might. Or both of us.
"Vargath." I grab his wrist with both hands, nails digging into his scarred skin. "Promise me something."
"Anything."
"If it comes down to choosing—me or the baby—you save the child."
His face goes white beneath the olive skin, tusks flashing as his mouth opens in immediate protest. "No. Don't ask me that."
