Chapter 13 #2
Aeryn crouched beside one channels, watching how the water followed the carved grooves.
How many winters had carved this knowledge into them? How many near-starvations had taught them to read the mountain’s temper and coax life from its stone? Elven courts would call it crude beside their elaborate terraced gardens.
Khaeric smiled. “Folk outside think we’re all war and steel and fury. But steel rusts, blood spoils, and fury tempers. Food’s what keeps us alive. The mountain gave us that lesson early. We call these Druin’s Hands. Each is tended by a clan. Down near the forge, Clan Tarrn keeps the mushroom pits.”
His expression softened as he turned back to the statue. He sank to one knee before the small altar, his broad frame folding into the stillness. One hand pressed to the earth, the other over his chest.
He had asked for nothing, recited no memorized phrases. He was simply present, connected in a way that made the elaborate rituals of her childhood seem hollow by comparison.
She’d seen priests kneel in the cathedral back home, prostrating themselves before the altar. Their devotion had always felt like a performance: elaborate robes, incense thick enough to choke on, voices rising and falling in practiced cadence.
The elves of Thiarra had their goddess-temples too, great marble halls where priestesses wove their prayers into songs that lasted hours.
Aeryn had attended countless ceremonies as a girl—standing in silk gowns while the priestesses invoked Aeloria’s blessing on the harvest, or Thessara’s protection for travelers, or Miraeth’s wisdom for the council.
But even those ceremonies, for all their beauty and pageantry, had felt distant.
The priestesses spoke to the goddesses, not with them.
They offered gifts and entreaties, bartered devotion for favor.
And always, always, there was a hierarchy of who could enter which chamber, who could speak which prayers, who was worthy to stand closest to the altar.
Aeryn sank down beside him. The stone was cool beneath her palms, still damp from the irrigation channels.
After a moment, Khaeric lifted his head. “Ye’re welcome to speak to them, if ye wish. They’ll listen.”
She glanced at the statue, at Druin’s features and Serathen’s gentle curves. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Ye dinnae have to speak at all.” He rose, offering her his hand. “Just bein’ here is enough.”
She let him pull her to her feet, but her gaze lingered on the carved figures. The heather tucked into Serathen’s robes looked fresh, placed there recently. Someone tended this shrine not out of obligation but love.
Khaeric moved to the stone bench carved into the wall facing Serathen’s statue and sat, his elbows coming to rest on his knees. He held out a dirt-streaked hand. “Come here.”
He drew Aeryn into the curve of his arm. Then, he leaned down and pressed close to her midsection, inhaling deeply. “Khaeric!” Aeryn caught his shoulders, half-laughing, half-scandalized. “What are you doing?”
He glanced up. “Scentin’ for orc spawn,” he said, unrepentant. “Yer sister made it sound as though it might’ve taken root already.”
Aeryn smacked him lightly upside the head. “Orc child, you mountain brute!”
His laughter rumbled against her stomach as his hands steadied at her hips. “Aye, orc child,” he corrected.
Then, his body went utterly still. The humor drained from his face. His brow furrowed, and he inhaled again.
Her smile faded. “What is it?”
Khaeric pressed closer against her belly, his nostrils flaring as he drew another deep breath. His pupils widened until they nearly swallowed the amber of his eyes. When he finally looked up, awe and disbelief warred openly across his features.
“Ye’re…” His hand spread across her abdomen. “Ye’re carryin’.”
Her grip tightened on his shoulder. The stone seemed to tilt beneath her. “What?”
“I can scent the change in ye. It’s faint.” His large palm remained splayed over her belly.
Her thoughts raced. Aeryn counted backward and realized with a jolt that her courses had not come since the mating. “Are you certain? How can you tell?”
Khaeric nodded. “Aye, I’m certain. Orc seed is strong.” Pride deepened his voice. “When the mating takes, life follows. The scent changes quickly. Sweeter. Richer.”
Sinking beside him, a smile spread across her face. “Our baby.”
Khaeric searched her face. “Does this... are ye happy about it?” For all his title and ferocity, he suddenly looked uncertain, almost boyish in his apprehension.
“Yes,” she said, covering his hand with her own. “Yes, I’m happy.” Aeryn would bear a son, an orc son. Her son. “Our son.”
His laugh bellowed as he lifted her. He spun her until the garden blurred around them. “A son!” his shout echoed off the garden walls.
When he finally set her down, he kept her close. His large hands spanned her waist. “The first child of true peace.” His voice caught on the last word. “The mountain will sing for him.”
Her hand drifted to her still-flat stomach. “We should tell your father and Caeryth—” The memory of her sister’s horror stopped her.
“Yer sister needs time,” Khaeric said gently. “Let her heal first.” Then, his expression brightened. “My father must ken at once.”
Khaeric took her hand, his massive palm enveloping hers, and led her from the garden. Aeryn hurried beside him, her mind still reeling.
They reached the High Chieftain’s chamber. Without hesitation, Khaeric pounded on the heavy wooden door before opening it.
Korrath sat near the hearth, a scroll unrolled across his lap.
The High Chieftain’s chambers were stark compared to her father’s lavish rooms—no gilded furniture or embroidered tapestries.
Instead, weapons etched with clan history, stone-carved maps, and a handful of personal tokens decorated his surroundings.
Even Khaeric’s study was functional, almost austere.
A place to rest, to plan, to speak with those who served under Clan Druin’s banner.
He led his clan, made decisions that affected hundreds, settled disputes, and allocated resources.
But his power ended at Clan Druin’s borders, at the invisible lines that separated one clan’s territory from another within the mountain’s halls.
Korrath ruled all of it.
Every clan. Every warrior. Every decision that touched more than a single clan’s interests passed through the High Chieftain’s seat first. Clanlords led their people. The High Chieftain kept the clans from tearing each other apart.
“Father!” Khaeric’s voice filled the chamber.
Korrath looked up from his scroll. “Must be dire indeed to bring ye both stormin’ my door like the mountain’s on fire.”
Khaeric pulled Aeryn forward until they stood before his father. “Aeryn carries my child.”
Korrath’s gaze settled on Aeryn. His nostrils flared as he tested the air between them. The silence lengthened while he scented her. His weathered features softened.
“Aye. I can smell it now. Faint, but growin’ stronger.
” He rose from his chair and stepped toward her, placing his hands on her shoulders.
His amber eyes, so like Khaeric’s, yet tempered by decades of rule, studied her face.
“The timin’ honors us.” His grip tightened.
“With the journey to Thiarra already delayed by yer sister’s arrival, this news strengthens our purpose.
” He turned to Khaeric. “Ye’ve done well, my son. The ancestors smile on this union.”
Korrath’s attention returned to Aeryn. “Ye’ve given this house a gift beyond measure, lass.
” His voice carried the resonance of ritual, as if he spoke not just to her but to something larger.
“A child born of peace, raised in it. The first orc whelp in generations who’ll never ken the taste of war. ”
Aeryn’s throat tightened. Born of peace. The phrase settled over her like a benediction, warm and terrifying all at once. She placed her hand over her stomach, feeling nothing, yet but knowing something precious was growing there.
“Thank you,” she managed, her voice steadier than she expected. “I’m honored.”
Korrath’s expression shifted, something deeper moving beneath the formal warmth. He released her shoulders but didn’t step back; his presence commanding yet strangely gentle. “Ye’ve done more than give us a child, lass. Ye’ve given us truth.”
“Ye are elf-blooded,” Korrath continued, his gaze steady on hers.
“Born of both human and elven heritage. Ye carry the blood needed to unlock what Serathen left behind.” He gestured toward the table where the orb rested in its cushioned case.
“Wi’out ye, we’d have naught but stories and stone.
Wi’ ye, we have the means to prove what our ancestors claimed. ”
“We don’t know what’s in it yet,” she said, meeting Korrath’s gaze. “Whatever Serathen left behind... it might not be what we hope.”
Korrath’s expression didn’t falter. “Aye. True enough. But whatever truth she sealed away, it was worth preservin’. Worth hidin’ from those who’d see it lost.”
He stepped closer, his weathered hand resting against her cheek. “Ye’re mated to a Clanlord now, lass. That brings duties beyond what ye’ve already shouldered. Ye’ll stand beside Khaeric when he leads, counsel him when doubt creeps in, represent Clan Druin when he cannae.”
Aeryn nodded, familiar enough with the weight of such expectations. She’d been raised for similar duties, after all—standing at her father’s side during court, learning the subtle dance of politics and power.
“And now,” he continued, his amber eyes holding hers with an intensity that made her breath catch, “ye’ve a role that reaches beyond even that. Beyond Clan Druin. Beyond even the mountain itself.”