"The Plentiful God marks his chosen." She steps closer, and I catch the scent of sacred smoke clinging to her robes. "Marks them with burdens that break lesser souls."
"If you're talking about the woman?—"
"I speak of what grows within her." Maedra's eyes bore into mine. "What grows because the divine wills it so."
The words twist in my gut like poison. Divine will. As if the night I spent with Seris was anything more than weakness, anything beyond the selfish hunger of a man who forgot his duty.
"That child is no god's doing."
"Isn't it?" Her laugh sounds like dried leaves cracking. "When flame totems light themselves? When the old stones sing lullabies to unborn babes?"
My blood chills. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying the test comes whether you're ready or not." She turns toward the door, her staff clicking against the floor. "The question is whether you'll pass it."
"Wait—"
But she's already moving, her bent form disappearing into the corridor shadows. The door closes with a soft thud, leaving me alone with questions that taste like copper and fear.
I stride to where she stood, searching for some sign of her cryptic warning. The stones look the same as always, worn smooth by generations of boots and blood. Nothing seems?—
There.
Ash scattered across the floor in precise lines, forming a symbol I recognize from childhood lessons. The glyph for lineage. For blood that carries forward through time, binding past to future with chains stronger than iron.
I blink, and it's gone. Just dust and shadow where moments before divine meaning had burned itself into my floor.
5
SERIS
Hunger wakes me—sharp teeth gnawing at my insides with the persistence of winter wind. My stomach contracts, empty and demanding, while the baby responds with restless kicks against my ribs. The sensation doubles the ache, reminding me I'm feeding two now.
I blink against the dim torchlight, trying to orient myself in this stone chamber. The walls stretch up into shadow, carved from blocks that speak of human craftsmanship overlaid with cruder orc additions. Metal brackets hold flickering flames that cast dancing patterns across rough-hewn surfaces.
My hands explore the space around the bed—thick furs that smell of smoke and something wild. Beyond them, the room reveals itself in sparse detail. A wooden table pushed against one wall. A basin for washing. Stone floor worn smooth by countless feet.
No door handle.
I push myself upright, ignoring the protest from muscles still weak from whatever fever claimed me. The door looms heavy and iron-bound, secured with bolts that clearly operate from the outside. Above it, a narrow vent allows air to circulate, toosmall for escape but large enough to suggest freedom exists somewhere beyond these walls.
"Prisoner or guest?" I mutter, swinging my legs over the bed's edge.
The distinction matters less than the growing hollow in my belly. If they mean to keep me here, they'll need to feed me. The baby kicks again, more insistent this time, and I press my palm against the curve where it grows.
"I know, little one. We need to find food."
The table scrapes against stone as I drag it beneath the vent. My movements feel clumsy, weighted by pregnancy and lingering weakness, but determination overrides discomfort. I've spent months learning to rely on myself—I won't start playing helpless now.
The wood creaks under my weight as I climb onto its surface. My belly makes balance precarious, forcing me to brace one hand against the wall while reaching upward with the other. The vent sits just within reach, iron bars cool against my fingertips.
"What are you doing?"
The voice rumbles from behind me, low and dangerous as distant thunder. My heart slams against my ribs as I turn, nearly losing my footing on the unsteady table.
He fills the doorway like a force of nature contained in flesh and bone. Broad shoulders strain against leather and mail, casting shadows that seem to devour the torchlight. Dark olive skin bears the marks of countless battles—scars that catch the flame's glow like silver thread woven through bronze. His hair hangs in war braids, black as midnight and bound with metal rings that speak of rank and violence.
But it's his eyes that steal my breath. Deep brown, almost black, framed by heavy brows and holding an intensity that cuts through every defense I've built. Those eyes haunted my fever dreams, along with the memory of how they softened indarkness, how they gazed down at me as if I was something precious rather than tolerated.
