The corridors of Azhgar echo with my footsteps, each sound bouncing off ancient stones that remember when humans built these walls. Before my people claimed them. Before politics and arranged marriages and the weight of expectation crushed everything that might have been simple.
The dining hall sprawls before me, mostly empty at this hour. A few warriors nurse tankards of ale, their conversations muted by exhaustion and drink. The serving fires cast everything in warm orange light, a stark contrast to the cold precision of my quarters.
I claim a seat at one of the long tables, grateful for the distance from other voices. Food might settle the churning in my gut, might give my hands something to do besides remember the curve of her body against mine.
The bench creaks as someone settles beside me. Gargan's scarred face catches the firelight, his broken tusk visible when he grimaces.
"Still thinking about that woman?"
I don't answer, focusing instead on the bread and meat a server places before me. The food tastes like nothing, but I chew anyway.
"The one from the gates," he continues, as if I might have forgotten. "Pregnant. Human. Unconscious in the snow."
"Drop it, Gargan."
"Can't do that." He takes a long pull from his ale, foam clinging to his upper lip. "Not when you're walking around like someone stole your favorite axe."
Later, after the food fails to fill the hollow space inside my chest, Gargan corners me near the armory. His bulk blocks the corridor, making it clear this conversation won't be avoided.
"You're acting like she matters."
We stare at each other, each taking the words like a challenge. My fingers find the pommel of my blade, old habit when cornered.
"I don't know what you think you saw?—"
"I saw you cradle her like she was precious." His dark eyes bore into mine, reading truths I'm not ready to speak. "I saw you check her breathing three times on the ride to the healer's quarters. I saw?—"
"You saw me help a dying woman."
"I saw you help the mother of your child. One that shouldn't exist."
The admission hits like a war hammer to the chest. No denial comes, no practiced deflection. Just the weight of truth settling between us like a stone.
The baby. Growing inside her even now, carrying my blood. My legacy.
The knock comes near midnight,soft as moth wings against stone. I sit up from where I'd been staring at the ceiling, counting heartbeats instead of sleeping. My hand finds the blade beside my bed before my feet hit the floor.
"Enter."
The door creaks open to reveal a figure I haven't seen in months. Maedra shuffles forward, her gray-green skin catching the dying torchlight. Ritual scars crisscross her weathered face like a map of forgotten wars, and the smell of ash and dried herbs follows her like incense.
My heart thumps so violently that it feels like my chest could cave in on itself. "What's wrong? Is she?—"
"The human lives." Maedra's voice rasps like wind through old bones. "For now."
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by shame at how obvious my concern must be. The last elder of Azhgar misses nothing, and her dark eyes study me with the intensity of someone reading omens in bird flight.
"Then why are you here?"
She moves deeper into my chambers, her gnarled staff tapping against the stones. Each step seems deliberate, as if she's following a path only she can see.
"Tell me, warleader—are you ready for the god's test?"
The question lands, unexpected and sharp. "What test?"
"The one that comes when blood calls to blood." Her fingers trace symbols in the air, movements too quick to follow. "When lineage demands its due."
I shake my head, frustration building. "Speak plainly, elder. I have no patience for riddles tonight."
