Heavy tusks curve from his lower jaw, marking him as pure-blood orc, yet his features hold a refinement that speaks of intelligence alongside brutality. Ritual burn scars spiral up both arms in patterns I recognize from diplomatic texts—marks of leadership earned through trial and pain.
Vargath. The father of my child. Standing here like he stepped directly from memory into flesh.
"I asked you a question." His voice carries the authority of someone accustomed to immediate answers.
My mouth goes dry. The table wobbles beneath me as I struggle to find words that don't sound like accusations or pleas.
"I was hungry."
The simple honesty seems to catch him off guard. His dark eyes flick from my face to my swollen belly, then back again. Something shifts in his expression—too quick to name but gone before I can grasp it.
"So you decided to crawl through the ventilation?"
Heat rises in my cheeks. "I didn't know if anyone would bring food. I've been here for—how long?"
"Two days."
Two days without eating. No wonder the hunger feels like it's consuming me from the inside. I press my hand against my belly again, feeling the baby's restless movement.
"Then yes, I was going to crawl through the vent if necessary." I meet his gaze, refusing to show shame for surviving. "Pregnancy tends to make one resourceful."
He stares at me wordlessly, those dark eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. The silence stretches between us like a taut bowstring, ready to snap. My mouth goes dry under his scrutiny, and I can feel heat creeping up my neck.
I need to get down from this table before I fall and hurt the baby. My fingers tremble as I grip the edge, preparing to climb down. The added weight of pregnancy throws off my balance completely—what used to be simple movement now requires careful calculation. I turn sideways, feeling for the table's edge with one foot while my belly shifts and pulls at my center of gravity.
The baby chooses that moment to kick, hard enough to make me gasp. My hand flies to my side, and for a heartbeat I wobble precariously on the table's edge. Vargath takes a half-step forward, his warrior's reflexes engaging, but I manage to steady myself and lower my foot to the floor.
As I turn to face him fully, memories crash through my defenses like a dam bursting. His breath hot against my skin. The weight of his body pressing mine into soft furs. The way his hands traced my curves with reverent precision, like he was memorizing every inch. The sound he made when I whispered his name in the darkness—raw and desperate and completely unguarded.
I blink hard, forcing the images away, but they leave heat pooling low in my belly.
Vargath moves with predatory grace to a side table I hadn't noticed, lifting a wooden bowl and water skin. Steam rises from the bowl's contents, carrying the rich scent of meat and herbs that makes my stomach clench with need. He sets both down on the table I just vacated, the wooden surface creaking under the weight.
The silence stretches. He doesn't retreat to a safe distance or offer explanations. Just stands there, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me with unreadable eyes. The ritual burn scars along his forearms catch the torchlight, spiraling patterns that speak of pain endured for honor's sake.
My hands shake as I reach for the bowl. The soup is thick with chunks of meat and root vegetables, seasoned with herbs that taste of home and warmth. I force myself to eat slowly despite my body's demands, aware of his gaze tracking every movement.
Then, flat as a blade across stone, he asks: "Is it mine?"
The spoon freezes halfway to my mouth. My chest tightens, and for a moment I can't breathe around the weight of the question. Not because I don't know the answer, but because of how he asks it—like he's discussing the weather or troop movements rather than the child growing inside me.
I set the spoon down carefully and meet his eyes.
I nod once. "I won't stay long. I just want to give birth safely. If you don't want the child, I'll leave with it."
Vargath doesn't respond. Doesn't flinch. His expression remains carved from granite, revealing nothing of whatever thoughts churn behind those dark eyes. He stares a beat longer, as if memorizing my face or searching for lies in my features.
Then he turns and walks out without a word, leaving me alone with the soup and the echo of his silence.
6
VARGATH
Imarch from the temple quarters with purpose, my boots echoing off stone that remembers human architects. The corridors of Azhgar twist through layers of history—our crude additions grafted onto their elegant bones like scar tissue over old wounds.
The High Council chamber looms ahead, its entrance carved from what once served as a human courthouse. Massive columns support a ceiling that sags under the weight of orc modifications, iron beams welded across marble arches in patterns that speak more of function than beauty. Through the gap between ancient doors, I catch fragments of conversation that should involve troop movements and supply lines.
Instead, the air tastes wrong. Thick with tension that is far from being caused by raids.
